#thank Lord for the Read More function

[ducksido]

I need more sebek longing. Out resident Yuu human crush denier, realizing he’s headlong into a crush and needs to court/ snatch her up ASAP before any other upstarts get to her or god forbid the RSA

(YEAHHHHHHH SEBEK!!!)

Sebek Zigvolt did not have a crush on the human.

No, that flutter in his chest every time Yuu laughed? That was indigestion. Or rage. Yes—rage. Because how dare a mere human have such a sunny smile? How dare they make his duties more difficult by existing so carelessly kind and so infuriatingly resilient?

And the fact that they’d managed to best every housewarden in a crisis? Trickery. Fluke. Luck.

But then there was that day—

The day a pigeon from Royal Sword Academy showed up on campus with a letter. A letter addressed to Yuu.

Sebek had been walking by when he overheard it. Saw it. The blushing on Yuu’s face as they read it. The way they giggled—giggle—and muttered, “That’s kind of sweet.”

Sweet. Sweet?!

“Human,” he barked, storming over without thinking. “Who dares court you with such cowardly methods as letter writing? Face your suitor with dignity, not this—this avian nonsense!”

Yuu blinked. “Huh? It’s just a thank-you letter from an RSA student I helped at the interschool symposium. They’re just being polite.”

Sebek scowled. “Politeness is a gateway to romantic corruption!”

“…what?”

“Nothing! Forget I said anything!”

He stomped away, fists clenched, brain on fire.

This wouldn’t do.

If Royal Sword Academy—those peacocking, pretentious, princely pipsqueaks—were going to start sniffing around his human (NOT his human), he would have to act. Swiftly. Strategically.

He spent the next few nights writing out a “Yuu Containment & Courtship Plan” in his diary.

Step 1: Increase proximity. Become her guard. For safety. Obviously. Humans are fragile and need protection.

Step 2: Intimidate rivals. Use volume and intensity. Works on Grim. Should work on RSA pretty boys.

Step 3: Gift giving. Non-romantic. Functional gifts. Armor polish. Anti-poison herbs. Possibly a sword.

Step 4: Praise them (in code). “You’re adequate” → “You are the least incompetent student I’ve met” → “You’d make a strong foot soldier under Lord Malleus.”

Step 5: Confess feelings before anyone else does. Maybe. Eventually. If necessary. (He underlined this part five times.)

Meanwhile, Yuu had simply assumed Sebek was going through… something. He started showing up wherever they went—“by coincidence.” He handed them strange, rare monster-repellent herbs in a sack labeled “FOR YOU. NOT THAT I CARE.” and glared daggers at any boy who stood within ten feet of them.

The final straw came when Yuu caught him shouting romantic poetry (he claimed it was a “verbal training exercise”) in the woods behind Ramshackle.

“Sebek… are you okay?”

He looked at them, face redder than a Heartslabyul rose.

“I HAVE DETERMINED,” he said, voice cracking only slightly, “THAT YOU ARE WORTHY. AS A HUMAN. FOR COURTSHIP. I SHALL DEFEND YOUR HONOR UNTIL YOU DECIDE ON A SUITOR. WHICH SHOULD BE ME. EVENTUALLY. PREFERABLY NOW.”

Yuu blinked. “So… you like me?”

Sebek sputtered. “I—LIKE—I—THAT IS TO SAY—MAYBE?!”

Yuu laughed, and suddenly it wasn’t so scary. “Okay. You can court me.”

He stood still for a full minute before falling to one knee like he was being knighted.

“I ACCEPT THIS MISSION.”

BONUS: Lilia’s reaction: “Oh ho~ My little Sebek is growing up~ Planning campaigns of love now, are we?”

Silver: (Asleep in the background) “He’s been reciting love poems in his sleep. I think it’s serious.”

[mirandasidefics]

Autumn Leaves

(Late Submission for @erisweekofficial Prompt: Bonds/Bargains 👑)

Pairing(s): Eris x Archeron Sister! Reader  

Summary: Eris never anticipated to find his Mate in a former human. 

Word Count: 3.1K

Warning(s): Mention of traumatic childbirth, mentions of Beron (he’s a trigger all on his own these days). 

Author’s Note: BASED ON THIS REQUEST. I felt that this scenario fit perfectly with the prompt of Bonds/Bargains for Eris Week. I hope that this fits well with what you had wanted anon! I know the request specifically asked for Reader to be the youngest, but I felt that it would be a bit more inclusive to leave the birth order more ambiguous for those that maybe don’t relate to being the youngest sibling. My brain wasn’t functioning enough to allow me to write an understandable dance scene, so…sorry that it's not as descriptive as I would have preferred. I also didn’t go back to review any of the events that occurred in ACOWAR or ACOSF, so if it’s not exactly canon compliant just ignore that. Also, Lucien was at the Hewn City solstice ball for this because I said so. 

Special thanks to @hardcoremarvelfan for beta reading and coming up with the title for this. Also, there will very likely be a part 2.

dividers by @/tsunami-of-tears ACOTAR Masterlist

The first time Eris saw the Made female he was immediately intrigued. She was quiet and stoic, much like the two sisters she accompanied for the High Lord’s meeting. Her eyes, the same shade as her sisters, appeared cold as she took in the room. It was clear she was observing more than she let on, gaze trained forward yet keenly aware of every single one of the High Lords and their various entourages. It was apparent to Eris that she saw more than her sisters, perhaps even more than his brother’s mate who was rumored to have been gifted the powers of a Seer by the Cauldron. He could feel the power that radiated off this fourth sister and couldn’t help but wonder what gifts she may have been granted. 

The second time he saw her was at the end of the battle with Hybern on the edge of the Spring and Summer Court border. Her eyes appeared distant as if she was separated from her body and the gore that surrounded her. But his answer regarding her gift had been answered as a circle of ice forged spears surrounded her. At least a dozen bodies were skewered while she stood stock still in the center of the circle. He had been compelled to approach her, but his brother got to her first, asking if she was okay and if she had seen his mate. After a single nod and a pointed finger towards a series of tents Lucien gently guided her away from the carnage she wrought. 

The third time he saw her was at the solstice ball in the Hewn City over a year later. Dressed in a drab black gown clearly intended to prevent her from sticking out. However, it wouldn’t have mattered if she was dressed down or in the most lavish of gowns. Eris’ eyes were instantly drawn to her as soon as she processed along with the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. His youngest brother was by her side as an escort. As she approached the dias with her family, her eyes found his own, and Eris felt the world tilt on its axis. It took all of his mental will power to remain upright at the realization of what she was to him. Mate. 

Eris couldn’t remove his eyes from the female as Rhysand made his speech. Nor could he remove them when the music started and various Fae in attendance began to dance. He followed every one of her steps as she was escorted towards the dance floor, a beautiful smile spread wide across plush pink lips. He was vaguely aware of Rhysand's approach, his introduction to the High Lady’s sister. The only one that was dressed to be admired by the eyes of others. Nesta, he believed it was. But Eris wasn’t interested in the female that stood before him. He held up a hand, instantly silencing the High Lord, and simply pointed to the sister on the dance floor. 

“What is her name?” He asked, the light russet gaze never faltering. Eris could feel the tension in Nesta’s shoulders as she followed his gesture. Rhysand, always one to never give away his thoughts, supplied her name. Eris repeated it, the name tasting like honeyed wine in his mouth. Nesta attempted to redirect the conversation and offered Eris a dance, but the Autumn Heir ignored her. 

“Any bargains that you wish to make will be offered by her,” Eris’ voice was smooth as his eyes finally met purple. “Shall I introduce myself or will you make the introduction for me?” Rhysand turned his head towards the direction where Lucien spun her around as the two waltzed. His youngest brother’s head whipped in their direction, before he halted his dance and brought her over for a formal introduction. As expected, the female politely accepted Eris’ invitation for a dance. 

That first dance was all it took for Eris to know he didn’t want to be separated from her moving forward. Her demeanor was so different from what he had observed when he was only able to watch her from afar. He danced with only her for the remainder of the celebration and found himself completely enraptured by her. While he could tell that she wasn’t as strong a dancer as her sister, whom he caught out of the corner of his eye, it didn’t deter his conviction of only wanting to be by her side. Conversation flowed freely and easily as they danced. She was sharp witted, with a penchant for dry sarcasm. Her wry smile and her laugh ignited something deep within. 

Eris always had a drive to protect those he cared for, such as his Mother and Lucien, but the desire to keep her safe was stronger than anything he had experienced before. He couldn’t leave her in the Night Court, even if most of her time was spent in a city far safer than the one in which they danced. However, she couldn’t exactly join him in the Autumn lest he run the risk of her becoming one of Beron’s targets to keep Eris in line. For the first time in decades, Eris didn’t know what to do. 

“Is everything alright my Lord?” Her voice was filled with nothing but genuine gentle concern. His eyes refocused from their far away haze, taking in her sharp features. Features that were so indicative of the High Fae. Looking at her one would never guess that she used to be human. 

“Eris,” He corrected. “Please.” 

“Is everything alright, Eris?” Her cheeks flushed with the slightest tinge of pink. His own heart stirred at her reaction to the use of his name. Their dance had come to a halt, and he hadn’t even realized the musicians were taking a break. 

“Yes,” He cleared his throat. “Just a bit lost in thought.” She nodded her head, taking a slight step back from his hold on her waist. Eris had to refrain from the desire to pull her back towards his chest. 

“I’ve enjoyed our time together,” She took a look towards her sisters. All three were huddled against the edge of the dance floor. Nesta and Feyre’s sharp steel gazes attempted to pierce through the mask that Eris held in place. While the other, whose name he had sadly forgotten, had a glazed over look. Upon focusing, he noticed that the brown was nearly obscured by milky white. He heard the female in front of him gasp, her eyes trained on the Seer. Her head whipped back towards him, giving a slight nod.  

“I hope that we are able to count on your discretion about the Trove,” Her speech was rushed and she gathered the bottom of her skirts. “I’m certain that the High Lord will provide support to any claim you have to being the Heir.” With a quick second bow in parting she turned to rush over to her sisters. 

Before she got too far, Eris grasped her elbow and asked, “Would you come visit me? In Autumn?” She blinked at him. Almost as if she was surprised by his desire to see her again. 

“I must get to my sister,” She glanced back across the hall, at the High Lady trying to gain the attention of the Seer who was clearly lost in a vision. 

“I understand,” He released his grip and nodded solemnly. “I will write to you.” She blinked again. What he wouldn’t give to know what that beautiful mind was processing. She gave him a curt nod, before she quickly made her way across the hall. 

Eris couldn’t even last a week before sending his first letter. Again he asked if she would be interested in visiting his home court. She provided no answer or any acknowledgement of his question. Of course this didn’t deter Eris as they continued to exchange letters. With each one he would make his offer, enticing her with descriptions of celebrations and various traditions. He would tell her about his Hounds and his Mother. Yet she continued to not provide an answer to his offer. This same pattern went on for three months before Eris had enough of the tip-toeing around the subject. He was determined to get an answer, even if it was “No”. 

Eris arrived at what he assumed was Rhysand’s townhouse as the High Lord had instructed in his brief correspondence with the Autumn Heir.  He tapped the back of his knuckles on the large oak door. A few brief moments drifted by with no response. No movement could be heard from inside either. He peered his head towards the large bay window at the front, but the curtains were drawn shut. 

His heartbeat began to quicken with each passing moment as there continued to be no response. Eris was wholly unfamiliar with the city. He had no clue where to even begin looking for his mate. He was under the impression that he was at least expected by Rhysand. So why was no one here? 

Eris turned, prepared to winnow to the Hewn City in the hopes that Keir may have knowledge of where the High Lord could be, despite how unlikely that prospect was. Instead, he came face to face with an ethereal looking female. Skin and hair dark as shadows. A billowy white dress hugged her frame, yet appeared as if it was floating in a barrier of invisible water. It took him a minute to recognize her as one of Rhysand’s half wraith servants from Under the Mountain. 

“They are all at the High Lord and Lady’s home,” The female began to explain without preamble. “If you would follow me.” She turned, not bothering to ensure that the Autumn Lord followed. When the pair approached the near ostentatiously large home near the riverfront, screams could be heard from inside. If his heart hadn’t already been on the verge of an attack it surely was now. The half-wraith opened the front entrance, beckoning Eris to follow. 

No sooner as he stepped inside did his mate come surrying down the main staircase of the foyer. A pile of blood stained sheets spilling over her arms. Her eyes were rimmed in scarlet. Stepping onto the bottom landing she finally looked up, taking notice of the male. 

“Eris,” Her voice was no more than a whisper. Her lower lip wobbled, teeth sinking into it to prevent the tremble. Eris didn’t bother with formality, taking quick strides to meet her. As he reached her side, she dropped the pile of fabric and allowed her arms to encircle his waist. Her body shook with her sobs as her finger dug into his shoulders. 

“Feyre went into labor unexpectedly,” She cried into the elaborate brocade of his tunic. “The babe…his wings…” She couldn’t get her thoughts out in a coherent manner without the sobs overtaking her completely. “ They’re dying, Eris.” She wailed upon hearing her own words spoken aloud. He pulled her in tighter to his chest, his other hand gently rubbing in soothing circles along her shoulders. Eris had no words that could provide her with any sort of comfort, making him feel as if he was already failing her as her Mate. All the male could do was hold her and hope that she didn’t feel as alone in her grief if the High Lady of the Night Court somehow didn’t survive.  

Suddenly, Elain called out to her sister from the top of the staircase, “Come quick! Nesta she…” The warm brown eyes of the middle sister swam with unshed tears, a smile graced her features as well. Eris’ shoulders relaxed as the female's expression could only be an indication of good news. His mate quickly detached herself from his hold, racing back towards where the family convened. 

As soon as the two were out of sight, Eris looked around the foyer. He quickly found a small bench and sat down. He had never felt more awkward in his life. While he had developed a correspondence with this particular sister, he wasn’t exactly part of the family just yet. 

Eris sat in the hall, waiting for what felt like hours for his mate to return. Once she did, she escorted him into a large sitting room. 

“They’re going to live,” She smiled, sitting down in a chair across from him. She smoothed out her skirt, tucking in a corner that had somehow ended up with blood spatter staining the material. Eris merely hummed in acknowledgment. He didn’t know what to do with himself now that they had a moment alone like this. He had planned this elaborate greeting and proposal for her to come and visit, not giving her the room to ignore the request. However, that all went right out the proverbial window. His hands straightened the fabric of his shirt, then went to remove a non-existent strand of hair from his trousers, before finally resting on his lap. 

“You’re fidgeting,” She pointed out. Her smile grew as she suppressed a giggle. He was happy to see that her mood had lifted so quickly. It made the reason for his visit appear less strange, inappropriate even given the intensity of the events that occurred. She gently placed one of her hands over his. Her delicate fingers soothing and calming the rolling fire that he didn’t even notice had built up within himself. He allowed himself to grasp her hand in return, interlacing their digits. The sensation of fire against ice erupted throughout his being. Opposite yet still a perfect complement of powers. Eris couldn’t help but wonder what they would be able to achieve together. 

“Eris,” Her voice pulled him from his thoughts, his deep hues meeting her own cool gaze. “I’m happy to see you, but what are you doing here?” He swallowed, suddenly realizing that his actions were a bit sudden and perhaps not as well thought out as he intended. His arrival without notice to her would be unexpected. He only informed Rhysand that he needed to speak to Archeron female, but never explained why. 

“I,” He began, voice cracking. His pale features flushed and he was reminded of his younger days when his voice hovered between childhood and deeper timber of maturity. The female before him suppressed another giggle behind her unclasped hand. 

“I’m here because you consistently ignore a very specific question,” His gaze was steady, exuding what he hoped would be seen as confidence and not the uncertainty he felt. “I’ve come to ask one final time. If you say no, I will not burden you with asking ever again.” 

“Eris,” She pulled her hand away, eyes now unable to meet his own. 

“I acknowledge that Autumn is not always considered the most beautiful, what with the decay that can accompany the season in the mortal lands, so if you don’t like it-”

“Why would I not like the place where my mate lives?” Her perfect brows furrowed as she looked at him. Eris was at a loss for words. 

“When…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. However, it appeared that he didn’t need to as her response was a perfect correlation to what was on his mind.  

“Since the Winter Solstice,” She said. “When you first asked me to come visit.” It was Eris’ turn to blink in stunned silence. She had given no indication of being aware of who he was to her. Then again, he also hadn’t explicitly made their bond known. Perhaps he was wrong in thinking that his actions were obvious. 

“It’s not that I’m afraid that I won’t like it there,” She went on. “I’m actually afraid that I would not want to leave. But I simply can’t abandon my sisters.” She lowered her head, averting her gaze from the embarrassment. However, Eris understood the desire to be with her siblings. The same desire to ensure the well-being and safety of his younger brothers was one of his reasons for not abandoning the Autumn court. For enduring the cruelty of his Father for nearly 5 centuries. 

“I would never ask that you do,” He assured. “In fact, I wouldn’t want you to call the Autumn Court home just yet anyway. Not while my father still breathes.”

“I’m not afraid-”

“I am,” Eris admitted quietly. “I can’t risk anything happening to you.” He meant it, and was surprised at how easily the truth slipped from him. But it was just the two of them at this moment. He didn’t have to hide behind that mask when with her. He tucked a strand of (h/c) hair behind the perfectly pointed arch of her ear. He watched a shiver run through her as his flesh met hers. 

“There are some places where I can keep you safe,” He explained, all of his thoughts spewing forth as his mind raced to prove that he could keep her safe enough for short visits. “Places where my Father doesn’t have the loyalty of the subjects, but they are loyal to me. I have a cabin, just along the borders of Summer and Winter. Close enough for you to run across either should the need arise. I’d prefer Summer, there is a temple not far from the border where you could claim sanctuary until Rhysand or one of the brutes could get you.”

“Eris…” 

“Please,” He implored. “I do not wish to scare you away or force you to come. But I cannot stay separated from you much longer. My brother is the one with the endless amounts of patients when it truly matters.”  She laughed, the melodic and soft sound made him feel light. 

“How often can we meet?” She inquired. Her bright blue eyes lit with anticipation of when they could have their time. 

“I can secure a few days away every month,” He explained, almost more to himself than her as he considered the variety of excuses he would need to utilize. “Maybe up to a week at most. The time of month would need to vary as well. Any semblance of a pattern would tip my Father off. He’s just paranoid enough to assume that I’d be planning some type of conspiracy against him.” Of course, his Father’s fears were not without reason. Eris was indeed planning to usurp the High Lord. Someday. 

“Alright then,” She beamed. “I will come and visit. Every month so long as it is safe and as long as I am able to return to my sisters.” Eris felt the corners of his mouth lift up, and soon she mirrored the expression. His heart flipped, and he had to clear his throat to regain control of his senses. 

“Then I shall send word when everything is ready.” He stood, preparing to leave when she clasped his hand again. 

“Stay for a while Eris,” Her voice was soothing, making it feel like she wasn’t giving him a command. Even if she had, he would have gladly done anything she bid of him. He knew in that instant he would do anything for her. 

General Tag list: @loving-and-dreaming @samslulumelon

[generalsmemories]

sensitive

✧ sunday x gn!reader

✧ synopsis: the wings by his ears are far too sensitive for what you're both about to do to them.

✧ contents: just a lil scenario for the piercings on sunday's wings. and the hc (that has probs become every writers canon take) that his wings are oh so sensitive. established relationship, mildly suggestive cause why not, uhh, mentions of blood? sunday being utterly weak against his lover. ooc sunday cause goddamn i have NOTHING on this man.

✧ a/n: breathes in. listen i don't believe in any god but good lord i would start praying for this man if he asked me to.

jing yuan wips still in order, i just want to be on my best self mentally when writing for my eepy general so have this brainrot so i can function this week at my work and hopefully i'll write something more <3 thank you once again for your patience!

NOT BETA-READ THIS WAS WRITTEN WITHIN AN HOUR CAUSE THIS BRAINROT HAS BEEN BREWING INSIDE THE MIND FOR A MONTH, IM SORRY FOR THE ALL OVER THE PLACE WORDS - I HAVEN'T WRITTEN SINCE THE LAST JING YUAN ANGST PIECE.

Your fingertips have barely grazed the very edges of the feathers when the distinguished leader beneath you flinches in surprise. The fingers that grip your hips tightening further which causes your body that was previously hovering above him to settle down on Sunday's leg. You can hear a tiny sigh leaving his lips before you feel his head rest against your shoulder, the action causing you to chuckle.

"The longer you delay this, the more nervous you'll get, you know?" you muse, threading your fingers through his hair in an effort to coax him to lay back in the same position he previously was in. You're barely able to touch his right wing again before a gloved hand shoots up from his side and you feel a sharp nip at your neck in warning - causing you to immediately halt all of your actions.

"It would've gone a lot faster have you decided to not do it in such an orthodox method, dear." Sunday retaliates with a sigh, pecking the bite mark as some sort of apology, an apology that you knew was not sincere in the slightest.

You giggle once again, settling down comfortably on his legs whilst slightly leaning back to fully look at your lover. Your arms loop over his neck while cocking your head to the side in slight confusion, although said confusion doesn't reach your mischievous eyes or the huge grin on your face. "Why I thought this would help calm you? It was your idea to pierce these wings of yours after all," you remind him, tapping the piercing gun that you're currently holding onto on his shoulder.

The man before you sighs, seemingly in exasperation over your usual antics whilst shrugging away the piercing gun that you're continuously tapping him with. You can however clearly see the slight reddening on top of his ears, while his wings tuck a bit behind his ears - clearly a signal that he's feeling a bit embarrassed.

"You're well aware of the effect you have on me, my love." he admits, the hand on your hip moving from its spot to instead rest against your neck. "Hmm? Then I suggest that you hurry along to let me pierce your wings before said effect makes you lose your patience," you tease with a quiet laugh. "I do have a lot of experience with this lil' gun of ours after all." you cheekily say - causing Sunday to direct his gaze towards your own ears, which have a few more piercings than your average person.

"... I'm well aware." Sunday replies.

Well aware of how sensitive your own ears are, almost as sensitive as his own wings that have yet to be pierced. He could let out a breath beside them which causes you to tremble, a small peck would make you gasp softly, but if he were to use his tongue-

"You're thinking of inappropriate things again, dear." you mutter into his ears before unlooping your arms from his neck to rest against your sides, your whole weight supported by the singular hand Sunday has on your hip.

"Hardly."

For someone not of Halovian descent, you're somehow able to discern his thoughts immediately - quite a hassle to be honst.

"Well then, my dear? Why don't you relax so we can get this over with so you can return to your duties?" you whisper, moving your body to sit between his legs so that you can get a closer look on his right wing, where he preferred the piercing to be on.

"... Just- don't say anything when you're about to do- Ah!"

The single clicking noise of the needle piercing his wing before retracting back to it's original spot makes Sunday jolt in surprise, the grip on your hip increasing in pressure, but you're too busy looking at the placement in glee to care for your distraught lover right now.

You notice the edges of the piercing reddening a bit, extending your finger to gather the tiny bits of blood that had escaped from the wound. Glancing at Sunday, you notice his slightly glossy eyes that immediately diverts from your gaze.

The quiet laugh you let out makes Sunday glare at you, but his eyes widen slightly when you lick his blood away from your fingertips with closed eyes. "It wasn't that bad, was it?" you ask, opening your eyes again to lock eyes with Sunday, diverting your gaze slightly to his right wing.

You decide not to comment on his glossy eyes, deciding to instead scoot closer to peck the corner of his eyes, "Sorry that I surprised you, but as you said - Doing it this way is far more convenient for the both of us," you explain, lips pressing against Sunday's to coax him into relaxation.

"Mhm, thank you for indulging me, dove." he whispers, arms wrapping around your waist, the tension in his shoulders finally leaving.

"Although..." you murmur in between various pecks against Sunday's lips, your lover raising an eyebrow up in confusion and imploring you to continue speaking.

"I think you said you would go for 2 of the same piercings if the first one looked nice, no?" you say before pressing your lips against his once again. Sunday was barely able to understand the meaning behind your words before he could feel the same pain of the needle shoot through his already overly-sensitive wing.

The loud gasp he lets out is swallowed by your lips, his open mouth letting your tongue slip inside while the piercing gun in your hand slips away from your lips now that you've done your part of the deal. Your hands settle themselves against Sunday's cheeks now- wiping away the few tears that have now slipped down from his glossy eyes with your thumb.

There's a certain desperation in Sunday's hands by your waist. He had first bunched the material of your clothes upwards by surprise, but now he's slipping his gloved hands beneath them and quickly traveling further up - he moves in a way that you don't know if he's trying to push you away to scold you, or press you closer to him to feel your warmth.

He eventually decides to push you away. His cheeks are reddened and he's heaving for breaths while he's glaring down at you in mild disappointment and a hint of excitement - and yet the hands that's dragging the buttons of your shirt from inside to snap them open tells another desire from the esteemed leader of Penacony.

The same mischievous smile is present on your lips when you part ways, your lips are a bit swollen but it doesn't stop their journey from grazing against his now incredibly sensitive right wing, the jerk of his entire body not bothering you in the slightest as your lips glide over his feathers, your lover shuddering a bit when you let out a breath right over his newly pierced wings.

"All done now, my love," you mutter into his ear, shrugging off your now ruined shirt off of one shoulder, "Do I get any reward for doing this so smoothly and quickly?"

Sunday lets out a scoff, rolling his eyes at your triumphant expression before shoving you down onto the couch the two of you were previously resting on. "I'm thinking a punishment is more fitting for how you didn't warn me of your actions twice, no?"

[fxckn-sxck-fr]

lowk FUCKED up, butttttttttttttt would any of the comic book yanderes lobotomize their darling? we always talkin about willingness and shit saur... ya know!! just a lil off the top if ykwim

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐂 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐄𝐒…

!!! GN reader, take a wild guess (lobotomies), neurological terms used, basic delusional behaviors, unethical uses of superpowers, unethical practices in general, mentions of brain dead/vegetative/mentally handicapped reader, Hal’s part briefly describes actual lobotomy procedures, Joker jumpscare in Harvey’s, gaslighting, a small history lesson here and there, themes of forced drug abuse, Tim Drake being a good candidate for the Saw franchise.

GRRRRAAAAAAAARRRRGGGHGHHHRRR. Anon, come over here so I can give you a lil forehead smooch. I’ve always wanted to write a yan lobotomy blurb, but… I didn’t really know what direction I wanted to go. Or who to write about. The idea is was legit, “hee hee, wouldn’t it be silly if there was a yandere lobotomy fic” and that’s about it. So I guess this is my chance to get some feelings out about that, yay!!

A few of these are a bit longer than usual cuz this type of shit is my jam. I also didn’t know if you wanted me to rank them on least to most likely, so shoot me a follow up ask if that’s what you wanted. Mwah!!

Bruce Wayne: Definitely not off the table. I’m willing to bet Thomas Wayne had at least one book on lobotomies; just an antique hardback that makes for an interesting read. I can see young Bruce sitting on his father’s lap in the study, tiny hands tracing over the book’s old diagrams as Thomas lovingly describes all of the morbid things they’d do to people (you know, classic father/son bonding activities). Who knew it would actually come in handy one day? Moral repercussions be damned, my man can pull off a sick lobotomy. There are of course factors he has no control over — such as your own brain plasticity and cognitive function — but that’s not exactly his fault, now is it? What your brain decides to do post-lobotomy has nothing to do with him (jokes aside, he’d be devastated if you were totally fucked up afterwards… though he’d easily adapt).

Bucky Barnes: I think he’s had enough mind-meddling of his own to give this a hard pass. It doesn’t matter how bad you are; he’s not doing anything to your brain. You’ll learn to behave on your own accord. And thank god, cuz bro would NOT make a good brain surgeon. He’d brick you so fast. Also, fun fact, the Soviets were actually the first to ban lobotomies (if memory serves correct; Google is backing me up, so… do with that what you will). I don’t know if this carries over to the KGB and their little secret evil organization side shenanigans, but yeah. Let it be known that the chances of lobotomized Bucky went down by… like… 3%.

Clark Kent: At first, I was about to say no, but then I remembered the Justice Lords from the JL cartoon, and… you know what? Maybe. It would be a very low chance, but if it’s gotten to the point where you’re a danger to yourself, Clark would have no other choice. What else can he do? Your safety always comes first and foremost. While the two dots singed into your forehead would raise a few brows, it’s not like he lets you out much anyway. He’d spend a long time trying to cope with the guilt. He did this to save you… he just had to save you from yourself. At least his heat vision is precise enough that he wouldn’t fuck it up. Now all that’s left to do is hope that you turn out okay. He’ll consider it a job well done if you can at least still smile at him.

Dick Grayson: He really isn’t that much different from Bruce, is he? Yeah, he’d do it. Maybe with a few more reservations, but he’d still do it. I think it’s in your best interest if you don’t let him spiral this far, because he’s not against the idea of you being in a completely vegetative state. Yeah, it would suck that you aren’t as active of a participant as he’d want you to be, but having complete control over your care is good enough for him. He’ll easily let his own delusions fill that void. Honestly, a part of him might even hope you turn out with a mental capacity of a toddler. It’s the best of both worlds; while you can still respond to your environment, you also rely heavily on his care. Perfectly pliable in his hands… a dream come true! Yay!

Hal Jordan: Nah. He’s good. Last he checked, he’s not the most qualified person in the world to quite literally poke around in someone’s brain. Hell, even the thought of it makes him sick. No drilling holes into skulls, no skewering needles through eye sockets, no thanks! He’ll leave that up to the people who can stomach the grosser shit. Now, is the thought of a quick operation that theoretically fixes your bratty behavior tempting? Sure. But Hal’s not an idiot; he knows the risks, and those risks just don’t seem worth it. There’s a reason lobotomies are unethical nowadays. Unless the topic comes up in some sort of show or movie, the thought wouldn’t even cross his mind.

Harvey Dent: Neither Harvey nor Two Face are all that keen on the idea. They might’ve done some fucked up shit to you (definitely Two Face more than Harvey), but a lobotomy? That’s just a new level of fucked up. A Joker level of fucked up, even (and the thought of being compared to that piece of shit makes both sides of Dent want to light up an entire room). Besides, there’s no one on the entire planet he’d trust to pull off a procedure like that on you. While he might know a guy or two who would totally do it in this day and age, he’d sooner put a bullet in their brain than let them fuck around with yours. That being said, don’t think you’re totally out of the woods. At the end of the day, it’s all up to the coin, remember?

Jaime Reyes: Would Jaime? No. Absolutely not. It’s unethical, it’s fucked, and it’s also just gross. Anything to do with surgery makes him feel extremely squeamish, and he might actually pass out if he thinks about it too hard. But would Khaji Da? Yeah. Probably. Though it would have to be an extreme scenario, where you’re just completely beyond controlling. Khaji Da knows the risks, and while he’ll execute the technical aspects flawlessly, the results are naturally unpredictable. It would be unfortunate if the scarab lost its host’s mate. Your poor little noggin is at the mercy of Jaime’s resolve. Is he in full control? Then don’t worry, his incoherent mutterings about severing connections in your prefrontal cortex are nothing but his weird intrusive thoughts. But… if he isn’t… uh-oh.

Peter Parker: Nope. No lobotomies here. He’s quite aware of the repercussions, both morally and practically. Honestly, he doesn’t even see most of your behaviors as something in need of correcting in the first place. Maybe if you were causing yourself any sort of harm, but other than that, he can put up with a lot of your bullshit. Talking back? Name calling? Hitting and kicking? Straight-up just being abusive? As long as you don’t leave him, he’ll work with it! Peter is the exact definition of a pushover yandere. You can get away with a lot, and that includes not getting lobotomy!

Reed Richards: I can see him pulling one off. Is it the most desirable outcome? Definitely not. But there’s only so much he can put up with before he finally puts his foot down. If you’re the insubordinate type, you’ve probably given him at least 17 heart attacks by now, and it’s only natural he’d come up with a way to curb those behaviors. See, me personally, if I were to get a lobotomy from any of these men, I’m calling up Reed. He’s no neurologist, but I’m sure he can whip up something to study your brain waves and accurately predict the outcome of a lobotomy. Plus, he’d probably have the safest environment and instruments for the operation. You won’t feel a thing, trust. Now let’s hope months of collecting data and trial runs on some less-than-willing test subjects pay off!

Remy LeBeau: Yeah, no… probably not. Thanks to Sinister, he knows first hand how invasive a lobotomy is. You’d have to be really unstable for him to even consider that idea. He definitely has the means to do it — all he has to do is put a finger up to your forehead and burn through your frontal lobe — but having the resolve to do it is a different story. While he might’ve turned out semi-okay post-lobotomy, there’s no telling what would happen after yours. Way too risky. Only something to consider as a totally nuclear option. So don’t make him do something he’d rather not, okay? It’d be better for you, better for him, better for everyone.

Scott Summers: Like Gambit, he’s a victim of Sinister’s fuckery but 10 times worse. I don’t think he’d be able to stomach the thought of doing anything surgical to you no matter how disobedient you are. But… maybe we can make this a little interesting. Scott’s attracted some hella weird attention over the years… who’s to say someone like Sinister wouldn’t get his hands on you and do a little fucking around? Maybe Goblin Queen? A particularly pissed off Phoenix? While Scott himself wouldn’t dare lobotomize you, I think there’s some people out there who would. Or, hear me out: mind controlled Cyclops almost crushing your skull with an optic blast. It would be more blunt force than an actual lobotomy, but I’m willing to bet it would fuck up your cognitive function all the same. Despite the immense horror and guilt he’d feel afterwards, a small part of him can see it as a blessing in disguise (depending on how you turn out, that is).

Steve Rogers: Honestly, Cap was frozen at the funniest point in history ever. The amount of lobotomies increased exponentially from the 40s to 50s (mind you, WWII ended in 1945), and then antipsychotics were introduced as a more ethical way to treat mental illness, which Steve wouldn’t know shit about. Unfortunately for all of my fellow sickos out there, lobotomies were probably never a thing Steve liked about the 40s, but allow me to offer an alternative. Steve thinks there’s clearly something wrong with your mental health; why else would you act like you hate him? Luckily for him, this is the 21st century, where people know much more about mental illnesses and disorders. He could easily pull some strings as Captain America and get you the help you so obviously need. So, I guess the question is, how many different prescriptions of antipsychotics can one take at once? Guess you’ll find out!

Tim Drake: So… uh… y’all better pray that he doesn’t get any intrusive thoughts about this shit. And if he does, PRAY that he snaps out of his weird fit before it’s too late. DO NOT LET BRO COOK. I don’t think he’d totally fuck it up or anything, but the chances of him spiraling and performing more than one are dangerously high. You might find the out hard way just how much poking and prodding a brain can take before it shuts down. Depending on how manic he is, he might actually lobotomize you while you’re conscious. No anesthesia, no painkillers, just him pouncing on you with a hammer and pick. You will be rawdogging this lobotomy like god intended. That’s when he’d fuck your shit up. Unless you want him to brick your brain, you better fight him off and wrestle those tools out of his hands. The post-manic episode clarity would be insane. “Uh… sorry I tried to give you a lobotomy.” Cool, man. Okay.

Wally West: Wally “if you need to give someone a lobotomy, that’s honestly a skill issue” West. Who needs that shit when you’re THE master manipulator? It would take some god-tier perception (or paranoia) to see through a fraction of his act, and even so, what good will any of that do when he’s got everyone else wrapped around his finger? Fighting against him is a dangerous game. If need be, he’ll play the loving caretaker while you’re the loony one. Poor Wally… he’s trying to help you through your issues, and this is the thanks he gets? Wow. Now, for the sake of a little exploration, I think it’s important to note that Wally could theoretically go through with it (by phasing his hand through your skull and solidifying at the right angle), but that sounds way too unstable to pull off. It would probably run the risk of turning your brain into a soup, and I’m pretty sure that kills people.

[sideysvault]

𓍼ོ Ad Astra Per Aspera 𓍼ོ (PT. 1)

Consummation

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

wc: 2,200k

Tags: [sfw] Arranged marriage, mature themes, angst, coldness, enemies to lovers, eventual fluff and smut.

Full Series masterlist here. read part two.

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“Are you disappointed with the results of the arrangement?” Still not very well versed on the frail subtleties needed for a cordial marriage, the woman frowned. It if sounded sincere, she might have answered honestly. Because even her, when she was a child, had dreamt of romantic affections, great tales of familial love, mutual servitude and joy. 

But the Prince’s voice told a tale of practiced self deprecation. She wasn’t yet sure if it was to appear disarmingly inadequate, easier to ignore, or if it was to appease the King’s fragile ego. Either way, acting was not one of the Prince’s best qualities. Underneath all the loathing, layed a poorly covered,  insidious egotism. He felt pride in fulfilling his inglorious role, pride of being an outcast, he clearly thought of himself as above it all: superstitions of the weak minded, sentimentality, the passionate side of politics. She could already feel herself getting sick of it all. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but you must not go beyond the walls of the Red Keep often” Although she knew he did, as the stories of the sad little boy he turned to when attending the brothel could be heard from the mouth of the King himself. “The Gods are rarely in the mood for protection, and so common men are never left whole. The queerest thing about your appearance is not your limb eye, but rather your ghostly hair” with a smirk forming without her being able to avoid it, she quickly added “A haunting omen, perhaps.” 

Aemond hated the petulant smile that appeared on his wife’s lips. He hated seeing her biting teeth, and her self proclaimed waking martyrdom. And the wisdomless lectures? A sickening symptom of barbarian vanity. The Prince felt scandalized. He considered himself a sensible person, able to rationalize the marital arrangement, a paragon of respectability and patience. Her attitude had a way of putting it all on a thin veil. 

She felt troubled by the marriage, yes, but at night, when she could see the maidens avoid the wing of the castle where the King rested, when the Maestres ran around with mysterious teas, she felt the urge to get on her knees and thank the lords for granting her the repressed brother. Boring, tedious, and insolently over confident. But much more honorable. 

They had to consummate the marriage, of course. That was a problem that was increasingly harder to ignore. He had been kind enough to not force it upon her, and the Princess had heard stories of insemination without touch. When the bride was to be young of age, the husband —If he was respectable enough to have a soul—would set his seed on a vase of sorts, which would be introduced into the girl manually, by a maiden of choice. She heard it was rarely successful, but protective parents could demand the practice. 

She was too old for those considerations, but what was one to do? 

Prince Aemond was handsome, painfully so. If you ignored his impatience for the incompetence of his brother, or for his mother's hidden sentimentalism, his horror towards failure, the frowns he gave at any suggestion of true romantic felicity, and the egomaniac tendencies, he could look quite handsome. 

During courtship, he completely ignored his wife to be, but that is to be expected in political betrothal. Back then, he slightly frightened the Princess, but not nearly enough as everyone assumes he should have. 

The residents of Kings Landing often find him rather physically odd. Why is that? If, after all, he looks like a proper Targaryen Prince, even with one functioning eye. His childhood wound could not deny his straight silver hair, or the blue in his calculating eyes. His features were delicate, sharp, and firm, with an obnoxious royal quality. And if she knew no better, she would be excited at the prospect of consummation. 

Now the Princess’s dreams did not consist of domestic life —Although, she naturally still felt the urge, on rare occasions— But of going beyond the realms of her condition. A mind that kept itself occupied with thoughts of what may have become of her with less social opposition and more personal stimulus. Dreaming of being born a man, of being a scholar, a Maestre, to finally visit The Citadel.

Another recurring hope was that even in between the most interrelated webs of inherited resentments and southeastern superstitions one may find peace and harmony. To make the Red Keep a home worth living in. But all of these desires seemed to be equally improbable, and she had begun to come to terms with the fact that the burning desire of childhood may never go away, but it must be ignored in order to survive. 

Learning to her was similar to a  holy grace, far more powerful than any priest or God. A beautiful distraction. That’s how she had fallen into the hands of a false religious conversion. The teachings of the Seven had no real impact or meaning to her, but it was the closest, most respectable way of learning about the world around her. 

The marital chambers were spotless, in an almost obsessive manner. It went far beyond the traditional efficiency of cleaning servants. It had been done by his own hand, and everything had a designated place. And at the beginning, it had been nerve wrecking. The constant worry of leaving everything in its place, of being too messy with her presence, with her own belongings, in her own chambers. 

The only thing that demanded attention in the sad sterile room was the extensive library. It filled the space with character of its own, the books rebelling against their masters' particularities and demanding a disorderly presence of their own right. His private library exploited the fragility of her wife’s curious mind and predisposition for literature. 

After years of spiritual resignation, it was like a breeze of fresh air. She would be the first to admit the only sin she had committed against her husband —Besides being a republican, which was a shameful secret of hers—: To sneak and  borrow books from his private delectable collection. A stupid, brash decision. Especially considering Aemond's serious disposition and angsty, hostile character. But the Princess couldn't help herself when she saw the chambers unattended. Rationalizing the invasion of privacy, because they were now married, for better or for worse, those books were inside their marital chambers. 

Prince Aemond knew of his wife’s intrusion, of course. When she came back to return the innocent theft, she realized with horror that he had left a single stone where the book she had taken was. Feeling partially offended by the gesture, she had returned the volume to its place and accommodated the fatal stone on the left side of his bureau, near the candle. 

It became a routine. The wife would take a book from his collection, and he would place the rock marking the missing spot. Whenever she finished her reading, she was to accommodate the stone at the left of the candle in his bureau. A childish game, perhaps. But it was the most similar thing they had to a sense of cordiality and shared duality. Everything else remained as sterile as before, when either party tried to approach the other, they were quickly reminded of how repelled they felt towards the others flaws, perceived or not. 

It did exhaust her a good deal, the uncertainty of the marriage. Having to be sly and poise about how she managed herself, or to be met with heavy words of disapproval. Targaryen folk, seemingly closer to Gods than to men, were not to be played with, even if you were a wife to one of them.

Another cause of exhaustion and hysteria was one much more primal. She dreaded the day he finally came to claim his bride's virtue. It was not about discomfort with marital relations, but rather a feeling of vulnerability. Having to be at his mercy, his whim, it was the fact that she had to wait until the night his patient character faltered. 

There was also the matter of Larys Strong, of course. The King was like a brute, too focused on his next rush to have any sense of planning or concerned for the politics of consummation. The Dowager Queen was the one who pushed his limits when needed, and she seemingly had Larys Strong at his mercy, or the other way around, of that, the Princess was not entirely sure yet. 

Sir Strong loved not the Gods or the Crown but himself and the thrill of keeping people hostage by the bondage of secrets. He enjoyed parading around the corners, lurking, observing. He liked the authority that the Crown granted him, the preposterous work of secrecy. He translated the King’s rule into language that sounded vaguely religious, vaguely patriotic. Only to whisper it to the ears of maidens and servants. 

It may have been paranoia, but the Princess could have sworn that  the maidens took special care into looking for any red spots on the marital sheets. The Dowager Queen had been paying more attention to her, with that stern frown of hers. Real or imagined, it was dangerous to wait this long. 

Tired of the whole ordeal, she decided that the occurrence was unavoidable, and at a reasonable cost of her sexual condition if anything, she could end the anxiety and the whispered chastity by taking some kind of agency and doing the first step.

The Princess soaked in rose water the scented brazil wood chips her mother had prepared her with. Using them to brightly paint her cheeks,  nipples, and lips with an irresistible shade of contrast, and leaving her hair messy, determined to look desirable enough for it to be done tonight. 

If the Prince was surprised to see her laying in bed, naked, when he walked into the chambers, he did not show proof of it on his face. The husband quickly took off his clothes, as well. He looked tired, even under the dim, warm yellow lights of the room. She smiled upon the view, a signal of relief, upon anything else. For the first time in weeks, her husband did not seem troubled and upset, only tired. The consummation might end quickly and without any fuss. 

As soon as he laid on the sheets, she got up from the side of the bed that corresponded to her, and straddled the Prince. She wasn’t sure of what he may like, but she figured this was the safest and less degrading way to go about the night. She felt her nipples harden against the cold nightly wind, and she could also feel her husband's length hardened underneath her. Without any regard for her feelings, her core began to leak in anticipation. In that moment, she thanked the Gods for a handsome husband, and she thanked them for making him a contemporary in age. This wasn’t going to be as difficult as she initially thought. 

For a moment, his eye seemed to shine with something similar to the spark of lust. Just for a moment. 

It was gone almost as soon as she had noticed it. And with a soft but recognizably firm move, he got her off him. 

“There is no use for it. We don’t carry the duty to fulfill the royal lineage” The Prince sounded cold, and spoke in a manner similar to how one explains a simple concept to a child. It scandalized her. Had he had no consideration at all for her safety? Was he blind to the watchful eyes of the maids? Was he not a man, or is it that you were insufficient in his eyes? 

And if the offense wasn’t enough to hurt the Princess, he unknowingly added another striking statement, just for good measure “They are also an emotional lability. One that mustn’t be created recklessly taken in times of war”

Her heart seemed to sink in the depths of her stomach. The humiliation, sparked by anger washed over her head and burned her cheeks with an unbearable warmt. Without saying a word —and trying to contain the tears that this robbery of agency had caused— she left the marital chambers. 

Another brash, emotionally driven decision. A misjudgment, letting go of the calculating measure of taking care of what the court might think. The Princess needed a break from the claustrophobic room, from its cleaning, from her Husband’s cold offenses. How can he speak of children so callously? She had thought of her husband as a devout family member. Even the monster they had for the King loved his children. The Princess wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of forming a family in an arranged marriage, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that her husband was rejecting her lineage and the single act of agency that she was truly permitted:The possibility of making happiness of her own, of raising her own. Feeling rudely rejected, and more lonely than ever before, she compulsively walked into the messy physis of the garden. Tears fell on her cheeks, and went down into her neck, she had no family, no friend, no kin to confide into. For the first time since her arrival, she felt the honesty of her situation falling from her tears.

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Notes: Omg the first part of the first long form series that i have ever conceived 😭😭 if anyone is interested in proofreading or if you see any mistakes please let me know! English is not my first language and I always make so many mistakes. Take care of one another!

— Sidey xxo

[stvllioner]

Ma’am I will always ask for Dabi cuz my god he is delicious - but lowkey need some tenderness or something cuz I have cramps bro 😭🫠

             dabi/touya todoroki x [fem]reader

warning(s): sfw, mentions of period, sex related (but no sex 🙅🏽‍♀️), bodily functions, brief mention of a variety of natural pain killing solutions, established relationship.

read more: masterpost | adult masterlist | drabbles

a/n: im on my period and this is like, low-key one of the very few stories where im self-inserting ,, it might be the first. oh lord, what i would do to have Dabi next to me and holding me with his uncontrollably warm body. 🫣🥀 ugh I love him. thank you, anon!

Touya's warm hand was firmly pressed onto your tummy, the sensation accompanied by full-on unadulterated moaning and groaning from your tuckered out position.

usually, that sounds like a good time but it couldn't be further from the truth than like right now. after half a week of internal suffering you are now (forcing) cuddling with your boyfriend in an effort to soothe the pain of you menstrual cramps.

well, to be correct, you did in fact force him but he did not mind at all having you in his embrace while he gently presses his warm palm to your stomach to help make you feel better. with all things considered, he didn't care about the insecurities that seeped through every now and then. bearing the brunt of thugging it out with you meant giving you space to switch positions to let out a toot or a few, and or giving you warm, sloppy face kisses when you start getting a bit more crabby than usual. it didn't help with the fact that it seemed to be that this menstrual cycle seemed to be heavier than it normally was, and you just so happened to miss the chance to take your pain meds.

like clockwork, he feels your body tensing again, stomach not moving, taught, and a light tremble taking your over muscles. another groan sounds and he can't help but chuckle at your stubbornness. the entertainment is short lived when you move your arm back to smack his thigh, hard.

"Ow! What was that for?!"

"Fuck is you laughing for??" you start to turn around, but he quickly tries to calm you down.

"Babe, are you sure you don't want any painkillers?" Touya has that stupid laugh again; but his suggestion sounds like music to your ears. "It's like you're on your deathbed."

because you are. at least, that's what you would say if you didn't feel a crazy wave of nausea wash over you. describing your period feels like this: a little tiny gremlin in your uterus spends it's time preparing happily for a baby. setting up decorations, making room only for every month to pass when she realizes nothing is coming once again. she tears down everything, punches your organs and makes it your problem. the bitch can't even pay rent but she sure as hell can throw a tantrum.

occasionally, every other cycle or so, you always try to raw dog the experience—much to your detriment. you were so committed to the idea that you didn't need ibuprofen, or Aleve, or midol, you got you! except you did need it. and you needed it bad. you've done everything you could to tone down the pains: stretching, exercise, orgasm, consuming foods that soothe the cramping, iron pills—everything. but it wasn't cutting it this time.

no, you weren't some hotep trying to prove a point, nor did you deny modern solutions. it feels like,, sometimes you rely too much on pain pills to ease the pain. but it was torturous moments like this where you remember that not every period will you be able to thug out the pain. because inevitably, you got an ass cramp that makes you want to die, come back alive to eat and swallow yourself whole and THEN spit yourself right back out. which speaking of the devil, here one goes.

suddenly the visual of you tensing and your ass clenching impossibly hard fills Touya's cerulean eyes and he's looking at you like you're birthing an alien. and this time he's not laughing. he rolls his eyes in annoyance, body swiftly leaving yours as you call out to him to come back, pitifully still to convince him to not break your pathetic resolve. it was getting ridiculous at this point, and he wasn't in the mood to see you suffer and squirm if it wasn't from his doing.

being in your space almost 24/7 allows him to find your choice in pain relief before he finds a small snack of your choice to chase right after. when he comes back, he doesn't give you any choice but to make you open your mouth and swallow the prescribed amount, the small treat to follow. you whimper like a baby but promptly stop as he sits quietly and gives you one of his infamous stares.

"In a few hours you'll get your next round," Touya points his finger at you once to silence your bubbling protest. "I'm not arguing with you."

your glare doesn't match his as you lay in defeat, back turned to him once again and resume said position. he softly huffs in victory, leaning down to give your head a kiss and also takes his place back to where he belongs.

[hrizantemy]

Hi! Can we talk about how INSANE Nesta’s “choices” were in ACOSF. Either inprisonment or to the HUMAN LANDS??? At that point I truly wondered if Feyre really loves Nesta like she does because what kind of options is that.

It makes me feel as if Feyre couldn’t contextualize what Nesta was going through, despite going through it herself. I was discussing in your latest chapter about the fact that it is truly disturbing just how Feyre’s self centered truly dehumanizes everyone around her.

Your chapter ( beautifully written btw🥰) perfectly highlights the dangers that were potentially awaiting Nesta. Feyre and Rhysand with all the resources that are available to them, chose those options for the ‘High Lady’s’ sister. Please. Just say that you hate her and move on.

-Nadia

Hi! First of all, thank you so much for your kind words about the chapter — I’m really glad it resonated with you! Now, let’s absolutely unpack this, because you’ve touched on something that has bothered me since my first read of ACOSF — and when you view Nesta’s “choices” through a legal and rehabilitation lens, it becomes even more disturbing.

The Illusion of Choice: Legally and Ethically Corrupt

Let’s call this what it is: Feyre and Rhysand didn’t offer Nesta a choice — they issued a coerced ultimatum. From any modern legal standpoint, this is a gross abuse of power, both as family and as political rulers.

Nesta isn’t just Feyre’s sister — she’s a war veteran. She fought in the front lines during the war against Hybern. She’s someone who suffered unimaginable trauma, including sexual assault, war crimes, and the aftermath of being Made against her will. In any society with a functioning legal or ethical system, veterans are entitled to care, not punishment.

If a modern government told a returning soldier, “You can either be exiled to a hostile land where you’re hated and hunted, or be forcibly confined and monitored until you ‘behave,’” there would be international outrage. That’s a violation of human rights — or in this case, fae rights.

You cannot penalize someone for how they cope with PTSD, grief, or trauma simply because it’s “inconvenient” or doesn’t fit your image of recovery.

Exiling a War Veteran: A Legal and Moral Atrocity

Sending Nesta to the human lands wasn’t just cruel — it was negligent endangerment. Feyre and Rhys knew exactly what awaited her:

• Hostility toward Fae, especially a powerful female Fae.

• No social support, no protection, no resources.

• Essentially, a death sentence through abandonment.

If we frame this through legal terms, this would be akin to banishing a vulnerable citizen to a known dangerous environment without due process, trial, or any formal legal proceeding. There’s no council vote, no legal counsel for Nesta, no neutral party advocating for her rights. It’s pure authoritarian rule disguised as familial intervention.

And remember — this is the High Lady and High Lord using state power to punish a private citizen because they didn’t like how she was grieving.

Forced Confinement = Illegal Detention

The “rehabilitation” in the House of Wind wasn’t rehabilitation at all. There were no healers specialized in trauma, no consent-based therapy, no structured mental health program. It was:

• Isolation

• Surveillance by biased parties (Cassian & Azriel)

• Forced labor disguised as training

• Emotional manipulation framed as ‘tough love’

In legal terms? That’s unlawful detention and psychological coercion. Nesta was stripped of her autonomy under the guise of “help,” when in reality, it was about silencing her, controlling her, and making her palatable to the IC’s standards.

If this were real life, Feyre and Rhys would be facing massive lawsuits for abuse of power, unlawful imprisonment, and negligence.

The Hypocrisy of Feyre’s Trauma Response

You nailed it when you said Feyre couldn’t contextualize Nesta’s trauma — but I’d argue Feyre refused to. Feyre was allowed to process her trauma in a way that earned her praise. She became the “strong survivor,” the perfect High Lady who buried her pain to serve others.

Nesta didn’t conform to that narrative. She externalized her pain, didn’t hide it, and didn’t care to perform gratitude for surviving horrors she never asked for. That made her inconvenient.

It’s disturbing how Feyre, someone who knows what it feels like to be locked up (Spring Court), isolated, and stripped of agency, turns around and does the same to her sister. But this time, with state-sanctioned authority.

Just Say You Hate Her… Because You Do

You’re absolutely right. If Feyre and Rhysand had simply admitted:

“Nesta embarrasses us. She’s a liability to our image, and we’d rather control or discard her than actually help her,”

— it would’ve been more honest.

Because this isn’t love. Love doesn’t come with ultimatums. Love doesn’t exile you for grieving wrong. Love doesn’t imprison you until you become more “acceptable.”

Final Thoughts

From a legal, moral, and rehabilitative standpoint, Feyre and Rhysand’s treatment of Nesta is indefensible. It’s a terrifying example of how power — both political and familial — can be weaponized to erase those who don’t conform.

Nesta wasn’t given a chance to heal. She was given two forms of punishment, disguised as mercy.

Thank you so much for this ask! These are the conversations that need to be had when we critically engage with stories like ACOSF. I’m always here to dive deeper into these dynamics — and again, I truly appreciate your support and thoughtful insight!

[scribbleseas]

in love & in war, drabble 5: the one where he begins to understand you

Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica—your father’s vast shipping empire.

Warnings: none!

Author’s Note: hi! i have nothing to say for myself except, i'm trying my best lol. i'm so sorry for the delay, this ended up being so much longer than i expected. i hope you all like this one! i had a lot of fun writing it. next stop (hopefully): wanted dead or alive, chapter 1! assuming i don’t change my mind and premiere the other new fic i’m working on and surprise ya’ll. who knows, right?? suspense is fun lol. anyway, thank you for reading!!

Happy Reading!

Dan <3

⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒

MASTERLIST

Regent’s Park, London, 1895

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Ciel arrived at Regent’s Park far earlier than he should have, but he would have otherwise been a fool to risk arriving after Adam Kingston did.

He had to be in control. It was imperative to maintain Lady Y/n’s attention, and he was decently assured that they would both be in attendance today. No one with an exclusive invite would miss an Edward Sutton exhibition—the grossly affluent man picked a new engineering project to sponsor every year. He accepted applications from engineers and funded the fruits of their imagination and labor into reality, oftentimes developing these innovations into businesses. Each year, he’d host these outdoor exhibitions, turning them into social functions to make the most of his publicity.

This time, Ciel supposed Sutton chose some engineer who made an advancement with hot air balloons. Something about changing the burners that fueled them. Ciel didn’t particularly care for engineering—Sebastian suggested he allow Y/n explain it to him, anyway, it made her feel confident—but there was something to be said about annual sponsorship programs. TransAtlantica was nothing without its charitable pursuits, and Lord Richmond and Edward Sutton were old friends. 

Nevertheless, it was another tiring, unfortunate outdoor social gathering that Ciel had to grit his way through. Even worse, this event came just on the heels of that cursed Grand National race a little less than a week ago. He hadn’t seen Lady Y/n since—he’d failed to secure another invitation from her at the end of the race because he’d been so livid. Her face had been overshadowed with something between pity and regret, smoothed over by a smile that would have fooled anyone unacquainted with her. Ciel had to make a quick escape to avoid making an ass of himself.

Kingston’s appearance wasn’t her doing, it seemed to have been at her mother’s hand, Ciel reminded himself. He took a long drink out of his sherry cobbler cocktail, the sour wine undercut by hints of orange. Ciel needed the beverage’s cold reprise before she showed. It was going to be soon, and he needed his mood to improve before that happened. 

Ciel settled next to a high table, one of many near Sutton’s outside bar and banquet table crowded with hors d'oeuvres. It was an open cocktail bar; therefore, bound to get busier as more guests joined, so he thought to request one for Lady Y/n, too. She might appreciate the thought—Sebastian did say she liked fruity wine selections. 

The sun was beating down on the Earl hard, and he was positive his dark hair absorbed the light and made him warmer. At least there was a notable breeze, a strong one that pushed through his heated hair and dried up the beginnings of perspiration on his face. Ciel’s nose wrinkled at the scent of freshly cut grass and the lingering scent of gasoline. Down the field, Sutton’s engineering team fussed with the giant hot air balloon. The massive balloon bobbed, but each person held a rope to tether it into the ground. 

“Everyone is arrivin’ early! Hurry up and secure it already!” One of the workers snapped, hurriedly looking up as more guests entered the field. It was just about time for the prompt noble families to start showing up: in tandem with the exact time printed on their invitation. 

Ciel could handle this. He’d planned and prepared for this event. Adam Kingston was no one but a husk of an entirely prosaic man. It didn’t matter that he was more acquainted with the Y/l/n family than Ciel was. Once Y/n spent longer than a moment or so with Kingston now, she would realize he was no conversationalist. She and Ciel were intellectuals. He was a soldier. A cocky, over confident son of a—

“Lord Phantomhive, good afternoon.” Lady Y/n sounded nervous behind him.

The moment he heard her voice, Ciel urged his scowl to fall from his face. Sebastian had condescendingly coached him about the abrasive expression he wore time and time again. Apparently, Ciel’s frustrated glare and impatient purse of his lips made him appear dour and sanctimonious. So he took a long drink out of his chilled cocktail before he turned around, urging the tension out of his shoulders.

A man Y/n would want to love was patient and understanding. Not dour and sanctimonious. The future chairman of the foremost shipping country in the United Kingdom, and perhaps most of Europe, thought before he acted.

Y/N Y/L/N

Lord Phantomhive was slow to face you, likely occupied with the sight of Edward Sutton’s group of sponsored engineers struggling to re-tether their giant gas balloon to the ground. It was quite a sight, though you hoped the engineers didn’t rush the important process of reliably securing it down.

“My Lady,” Lord Phantomhive answered easily, meeting your gaze confidently in spite of the discourteousness that perspired the week before. He was nursing a cocktail, just as most of the young men at the gathering were. It was hot enough outside to justify it, you supposed. An untouched cocktail stood on the high table next to the Earl. “How do you do?”

“Quite well, thank you,” your answer came out more hurried than you wished. Unladylike. You pursed and released your lips, they slid easily from the light lip rouge on them. Your gloved hand tucked a stray strand of hair back behind your ear, it fell free from the braided bun Daphne twisted your hair into. “I apologize for last week…I—” your breath stalled, unsure how to verbalize that your mother hijacked the outing without your consent. As a young girl, your etiquette master never covered a situation like this.  

Speak with intent. “I was not as informed as I would have liked to have been. And I apologize because…” I should have been.

It was your fourth time meeting the Earl in any official capacity, and yet your mouth still felt dry with unspoken words, embarrassment. He drew such wariness and uncertainty from you—not at all like most eligible men your age. You’d never felt so unsure of yourself in front of someone, but you simply couldn’t know what to make of him. 

“My Lady…” Lord Phantomhive acknowledged your apology, but he didn’t entertain it. He seemed to accept it with a diminutive shake of his head, dismissing your guilt. He offered you the untouched cocktail to his right, and you took it with thanks. Your fingers brushed against Lord Phantomhive’s bare hand in the exchange. The drink was a peace offering and an invitation to talk longer, you hoped, so you stepped forward to stand at his side and watch the engineers secure the balloon. 

He must have thought to request a drink for you. And a tasteful sherry wine selection, at that. You could tell by the smell of its fruity fragrance—you adored sherry wine. 

“Here to see Sutton’s new toy?” Lord Phantomhive asked, a ghost of a smile lifted the side of his mouth. “I certainly am.”

“Of course. My father reviews Mr. Sutton’s applicants with him every cycle,” you answered with a thankful smile, appreciating the way the cold glass felt through your lace gloves. You turned to gesture at your parents engaged in a vibrant conversation with Edward and his wife, Maria. 

“Right,” Lord Phantomhive nodded. “This hot air balloon has an adapted burner or–” he stopped himself, immediately catching the way your eyebrows drew together. Your mouth opened and closed because you wanted to interject, but immediately thought better of it. “You may correct me, please,” he told you with false exhaustion. He took a purposeful drink out of his cocktail, gesturing at you to explain the project’s significance.

You laughed, ice in your drink clattering against your glass as your shoulders bounced. “Come. I can show you,” you guided Lord Phantomhive down the green field. As you walked together, you explained, “Mr. Sutton’s team devised a gas balloon filled with hydrogen. Hot air powered balloons are unreliable because there is no device that can efficiently regulate the heat, which controls the balloon’s altitude. Hydrogen gas, meanwhile, is easily adjustable and eliminates the need to maintain a steady fire.”

“How would they manage to get the hydrogen inside?” the Earl asked you, indicating that he was actively listening. So few truly listened to you…it was considered unladylike for you to jabber on, but he asked! He asked you. He could have asked one of the engineers—they were each answering questions and engaging with other guests—or even Sutton himself...but he waited. For you. With a drink—a selection you liked.

Most of the guests stood around the balloon, a few too many people close to its swaying tethers. You pointed to the balloon’s open bottom, “they fill it with pipes that funnel the hydrogen through—they make the hydrogen with sulphuric acid and iron filaments.”

“Fascinating. The gas inside is lighter than the material outside, so it rises…” Lord Phantomhive mumbled, looking intently at the craftsmanship. The balloon itself was red, blue, and white, the colors of the British flag. 

“Did you know that they used hot air balloons in the Civil War? In the States?” you asked, taking a drink out of your cocktail. Your throat seized uncomfortably when a familiar blond inserted himself between the gas balloon and you and Lord Phantomhive.

“Indeed they did, Lady Y/n. Indeed they did,” Lord Kingston’s voice made you pause.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Ciel’s first mistake was allowing Lady Y/n to relocate them closer to the heart of the event. If Adam Kingston was going to be anywhere, it would be working the room. Or the lavishly decorated field, in this bloody case. 

“Hello, Y/n. You look breathtaking on this fine and flawless day,” Kingston greeted disingenuously, pointedly ignoring Ciel. He seemed to have just stepped out of a conversation with Leonardo Sutton, Edward’s son, and a few other heirs Ciel didn’t care to identify. “I was hoping to see you here. We never got to speak the other day.”

Ciel had just opened his mouth to tell Y/n that no, he hadn’t known that, and the slimy bastard took the opportunity to insert himself in the middle of their conversation. Shameless. Shameless. Instead, Ciel merely watched Adam Kingston, his snake-like green eyes illuminated in the sunlight, the glare making them appear paler. He dressed plainly in a white shirt, brown trousers. A ruby family ring sparkled on his finger and another gold signet ring on his other hand with the number 32, his regiment number from South Africa, or something like that. Sebastian took Ciel through a decent two hours of reconnaissance about the guy.

A man like Kingston will aim to get a rise out of you my Lord. You must not allow him to make you a fool, Sebastian had reminded Ciel when he stepped out of the carriage that afternoon. 

He will not make me into something I am not, Ciel had insisted.

“Thank you, Lord Kingston,” Y/n answered sheepishly, red blooming in her cheeks. Adam’s compliment seemed to land, and Ciel wasn’t blind to the way his gaze risked downwards, certainly not interested in her simple diamond necklace, but most definitely the way her light sage gown looked on her body. The subtle floral print on it was a delicate shade of baby pink. Her neckline dipped slightly down, leading to a small bow towards the bottom of her sternum. The shape of this particular gown hugged the curve of her waist and fell down her legs in ruffles. The wind made her skirts hike up slightly, exposing hints of her matching pink heels and pushing her hair about. She had it arranged in an elegant bun typical of her, but much like the beachy wind on the pier, the gusts on the field pushed strands out. 

She did look good, objectively. 

Y/N Y/L/N

Your etiquette master certainly never covered this type of social crisis—Lord Kingston watching you as if Lord Phantomhive wasn’t even there, and Lord Phantomhive examining you as if Lord Kingston’s comment suddenly gave him something to consider.

Facing each other, they were an artistic sight, too. Lord Phantomhive’s dark and intense look directly contrasted by Lord Kingston’s traditional princely charisma made for such a marvel. Particularly as their gazes met—stern and unforgiving blue against easygoing, mischievous chartreuse. 

Kingston crossed his arms over his chest casually, lifting his chin and staring down his nose. 

Each man was silent too, expecting the other to introduce himself first. They were unwilling to take the introductory step because it was a vulnerable position, and they were of the same peerage rank, Earls. Had one of them been lower, the burden of introduction would have been yours. But judging by the tense silence…it was yours regardless. 

It would be worse to hold two separate conversations concurrently, you decided. You presumed your etiquette book would agree. So you would introduce them.

“Lord Phantomhive, this is Lord Adam Kingston,” you urged yourself to sound calm. Perfectly well—not as if you were wishing to escape. Not as if your throat was threatening to close. “Lord Kingston, this is Lord Ciel Phantomhive,” you said.

“Good to meet you,” Lord Phantomhive said first, extending his free hand to shake Adam’s. He took a slight step forward, but Lord Kingston did not step back as anyone else would have. “You’re the fellow who took the Grand National home, aren’t you? What impeccable luck for a soldier.”

Luck. From the way Lord Kingston’s seafoam eyes hardened, the word and its implications were far from lost on him. His fingers intertwined with Lord Phantomhive's in a single terse shake before releasing. A tad too hasty.

“Guilty,” Kingston said with a dry laugh, one you could tell he didn’t mean. “And you sell children’s toys and confectionery. How delightful,” Lord Kingston simpered. Your eyes immediately darted to Lord Phantomhive’s face. You held your breath, your grip on your glass tightening. 

You were sweating. You wanted to use your panic signal with Daphne, but there was no good that would do. It wasn’t a dangerous situation. It was only…excruciating. 

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

So Adam did his research about Ciel, too. Good to know.

“Quite. Funtom has been rather fortunate to have outperformed in every quarter this year,” he answered seamlessly. Adam Kingston was not going to attack his company and flirt with the woman Ciel was clearly courting right in front of him. For the second time. Over his mutilated, dismembered, corpse.   

“God forbid the little boys and girls go without their stuffies, right?” Adam teased. It would have appeared good natured to anyone else, but Ciel knew better. Lord Kingston was the worst type of man—-too immature to obey proper courtship ordinances and wait his bloody turn. 

He will try to make you look uncaring and aloof. That is his game, Sebastian had insisted. Make him look childish when his jabs fail to land. Remember who you are there for.

Ciel could handle a catty, flirtatious nobody. He was here for himself and his future prospects. TransAtlantica was not an option; it was an inevitability. 

So Ciel, with his own dry laugh…that was also clearly, far from genuine, let Adam’s comment roll off his back. There was no use in another retort. It’d be too inflammatory and juvenile. 

“My Lady, you were saying that the Americans used gas balloons in their Civil War? You were just about to tell me,” Ciel reminded her. He didn’t even cast a glance at Adam. Although he was truly there for himself, everyone else had to believe he was there for her. This was a clever display of partnership. He would help Y/n diffuse the situation and seemingly set his pride aside in doing so.

But, this decision would favor him in the end. She would appreciate it—he could see it in the way her shoulders dropped. 

Y/N Y/L/N

Immediately, your shoulders relaxed. Your next smile was easier to construct because Lord Phantomhive had given you such a seamless transition. Your chest had felt tight from the moment Adam interrupted you. Lord Phantomhive had understood exactly what you needed—just by reading the situation. 

“I was,” you confirmed, attempting to hide the full extent of your relief. You didn’t want your old friend to assume that you didn’t want to talk to him. And you did not have the luxury of speaking without consequence, Leonardo Sutton and that group was not shy about their presence. You could hear Leonardo making some crass joke to his circle somewhere behind your back. This affair, much like most of your outings, was populated with your peers. And those of your parents. 

You couldn’t appear vapid and indecisive. 

Your father dedicated too much time to cultivating your knowledge for polite society to believe you were catty. What would he say to you right now? You had to fight the urge to look back at the tables situated near the bar in search of him. 

 “…Shall we return to our table? I can bore you with facts about reconnaissance and artillery hot air balloons, if you wish, Lord Phantomhive,” you attempted to quip, turning to him. 

The transition was far from subtle, but Adam hadn’t been either in his objectives. And he had stolen your attention at the last outing. You hadn’t been fair to Lord Phantomhive, and you had to repay that. Adam Kingston could not break the standard for proper courtship processes; if he wished to declare his interest in your hand, he needed to do so properly. If you continued like this, the three of you would make a scene.

“That would be delightful,” he answered, meeting your gaze. Understanding was clear in his face, amusement curving his mouth yet again. You took a step back, indicating that you were finished with the interaction. Adam’s face fell and he took another short step closer.  

“Lord Kingston, it has been lovely speaking to you, but we should be going—”

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“To your table? I would love to try one of—whatever it is you’ve got there, they look divine,” Adam interjected, gesturing to his and Y/n’s identical cocktails. “And of course, to hear about the hot air balloons, and all. I forgot how much you like to…read,” he said, the last word flat and disdainful to his ears, but Y/n didn’t seem to notice.

Kingston wasn’t going down without a fight, but it was only to his detriment. He was maddening, but the worse he acted, the more Lady Y/n would wish him away. The gentlemanly action would have been to let them leave; both she and TransAtlantica desired someone diplomatic and rational. Socially adept.   

Ciel could see Lady Y/n’s dissent in the way her eyebrows furrowed together and her mouth pressed into a politely frustrated line for a moment. If Kingston noticed, he made a persuasive effort in acting as if he hadn’t.

“I always have,” she answered as pleasantly as she could manage, observant eyes swiftly gathering that the rest of the party was invested in this exchange. Ciel could feel eyes on them. Craning necks were ever-present in this life of gilded luxury, always. If he could feel the interest of interlopers, so could Lady Y/n.

“Though…” the noblewoman started to say. Her gaze met Ciel’s, somehow asking, fretting, and apologizing all at once. Her resolve crumbled under the scrutiny around them.

The rest of the aristocracy wanted to know if Lady Y/n would truly tell her old friend to leave her be after such a grand gesture last week. Fine. Let her see how he and Kingston compared intellectually, if she wished. Fine!

“They are sherry cobbler cocktails,” Ciel interrupted seamlessly, his voice polite, verging on unctuous. The same subtly impertinent tone Sebastian took with him. From experience, he knew it was enraging. “I chose them from today’s selection. You ought to join us back at our table, Kingston. You may just learn another thing or two,” Ciel challenged as politely as his select words could manage. He made eye contact with Adam, their sight lines meeting. Ciel refused to break eye contact—even if it was to risk a look at Y/n’s reaction. He and Adam were the same height, just about, but their physical similarities seemed to end there. 

Unable to deny Ciel’s confrontation, Adam reflected his chilling smile. He laughed a little, broad shoulders jumping. “With Lady Y/n? I always expect to learn something new. Ever since we were small.”

Ciel fought his urge to roll his eyes. And his urge to bury his face—now beading with sweat from the infernal sun in the damn sky—in his hands. 

Y/N Y/L/N

The exchange was painful, but a surprisingly genuine show of understanding on Lord Phantomhive’s part. The Earl had caught onto your fears and made conclusions based on your microexpressions, a silent language that you’d thought only Daphne would ever know. Was this what it was like to feel the beginnings of the connection you so craved? 

There was something traitorous about the hope you felt. You’d never thought girlish giddiness would feel so scandalous. 

The three of you stood at the same high table. A server brought Adam a drink and with the full utilization of your charisma and social awareness, you managed to hold one terse conversation between the three of you. Lord Phantomhive even helped you navigate it, somehow simultaneously fending off Lord Kingston’s disguised slights without making a scene.

He encouraged you to speak the most, to be the focus of the interaction because the animosity between them would never improve. Everyone knew why that was: they each wanted a chance at your hand. Two of your social class’ most eligible bachelors had their sights set on you. 

Or your family name and business. 

You managed to rebuild your confidence by talking through the intricacies of ballooning, their history, the science. After all, you’d only fostered that knowledge in light of Mr. Sutton’s project. Although you didn’t see every application your father looked at, he did show you some of the standout pitches. Lofty businessmen approached him and TransAtlantica with new ideas nearly every day—you had to know a good idea when you saw one. 

Once you found your stride, you nodded at Daphne. The maid had been sending you increasingly worried faces, but as you settled into a new topic, you knew you had this under control. You would not flail, you would not retreat. 

If you couldn’t do this much, how could you ever hope to have an executive spot in your family business?

Before you knew it, the sun started to set and dinner was served with a champagne toast led by Edward Sutton and your father. 

You knocked your flute of champagne with both Lord Phantomhive and Lord Kingston individually, the three of you taking a drink in tandem. Each nobleman made a point of not knocking his glass with the other. 

“Interesting selection,” Lord Phantomhive commented, taking another curious drink of the champagne. “Vintage?” He asked you, lifting an eyebrow. You couldn’t discern if he was truly curious or bidding to make conversation. 

“It seems so,” you answered with uncertainty, unsure without seeing the specific bottle. The champagne was strong on your tongue. The taste was complex: somewhere between honey, spice, and brioche.

“It’s rich enough to be. Not very acidic and rich on the palette,” Adam said. “I know Mr. Sutton likes 1800 Grande Cognac. He would certainly break it out for a celebration like this. Oh, Leo! Perfect. What selection is this?” He gave a bright smile to Leonardo Sutton as he approached your table, flute of champagne in hand.

The event only had about an hour or two left before it reached its natural conclusion. In theory, there might have been a way for you to complete it without another major social upset.

But unfortunately, that estimation would have required you to overestimate Leonardo Sutton. At least, he had the good sense to leave the rest of his and Adam’s friends back at their table. 

Most of them disliked you, and the feeling was mutual. They’d each struck out on courtship-intended outings with you—particularly Leonardo.

“1800 Grande Cognac, why? We’re liking this selection?” Leonardo grinned at the three of you bumping his flute with Adam and drinking, the latter laughing because his guess was correct. “How are you, Lady Y/n? Lord Phantomhive?” He extended his flute to you and Lord Phantomhive.

“Just lovely, Leonardo,” you replied dismissively. 

“You know I prefer Leo,” the young man smarted, as if you weren’t a noblewoman who outranked him. The Sutton family was not ennobled; they were the start of an fabulously wealthy lineage. If you married a man like Leonardo, you’d never see TransAtlantica’s boardroom ever again, much less a contract or a revenue summary…or…the thought was too horrible to bear. But that was why you would find a suitable man who loved you enough to throw social norms to the wind and honor your and your father’s wishes. The ones he fought such a long, legal battle to secure as a potential reality for you. Most women were never to engage in business or bookkeeping, but if you married a man who was the Chairman in name, you were meticulously trained to handle any of the responsibilities associated with it. 

All you had to do was find a man competent and modest enough to let you. If a man courted you for the business, he would surely ignore you.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The light in Y/n’s eyes died when Leonardo Sutton invited himself into the conversation. Ciel’s own mood dipped lower than he thought possible, too. Leonardo was not a malicious man, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t bothersome. Like a troublesome fly buzzing around his head. The man’s voice was irritating enough to equate to that frustrating noise.

Clearing his throat, Leonardo spoke again, disliking the silence that permeated when Lady Y/n refused to engage with his tired nickname quip. He primarily drank and rode comfortably on his father’s coattails; Ciel couldn’t help his amusement at Y/n’s (evident, to him) disdain. 

“They’re letting people go in it, two at a time. Not to ride—it’s too windy today—just to take a closer look inside,” he said, well aware of the implications of his words. He was attempting to imply that Lady Y/n would have to choose between Ciel and Adam, and trying to make another scene. 

Did Adam put his friend up to this stunt? Ciel wouldn’t put it past Adam—not after his cattiness thus far. 

“That sounds fantastic,” Kingston replied, a terrible actor. His snake eyes cut to Y/n purposefully as she lifted her glass to her lips. “They do seem like they’re...learning quite a lot in there,” he suggested, referring to the guests climbing in and out of the balloon’s wicker basket. The balloon levitated a few feet up in the air, bobbing in its fixed position through its tethers and ballast weights keeping it from floating away.

Adam’s statement was a flailing attempt to appeal to Y/n, Ciel felt. The awkward smile Adam gave to Y/n was just charming enough to make the trying statement seem thoughtful.

When he shifted in his seat at the dinner table—Sutton’s staff converted some of the casual high tables for dining tables—Ciel recalled he had a knife tucked into his trousers. All he honestly needed was ten minutes alone with Kingston, a change of clothing, and a shovel to hide the evidence. 

The Earl’s fingers pressed hard around the stem of his glass, instead, longing to wrap around something much larger, and warmer. Like Kingston’s neck, for instance.

“I’ve already studied the diagrams so much I’ve practically memorized them,” Y/n explained with a short laugh, one that was completely faux to Ciel, but he doubted Adam and Leonardo noticed. 

Knowing her, she was burning to take a look at the real mechanism and compare it to the diagrams from the proposal, but there was no graceful way to choose between Ciel and Adam. “I would hate to take up the time in there when someone could truly learn something,” she explained smartly, reasoning her way out of the affront. 

“I feel that studying the diagrams is entirely different than seeing them up close,” Kingston tried again. 

Before Ciel could help himself, he chimed in. “Some can grasp a new concept faster than others, I reckon, Lady Y/n.”

Y/N Y/L/N

Not even you could conceal the laugh that Lord Phantomhive tore out of you.

You felt a guilty sense of relief when the conversation’s focus shifted from your bemusement to Leonardo’s startling exclamation of worry, the curses that followed it. His brown eyes widened in shock, “No! Secure it, secure it!” Leonardo yelled, causing your head to jerk, looking behind your seat as two attendants struggled to pull the floating gas balloon back towards the ground… with a young boy inside, screaming and crying as the balloon ascended in the orange sky. The attendants around scrambled frantically, crying out for help to pull the balloon down by the ropes. 

“We must help!” Lord Kingston insisted. He, Lord Phantomhive, and Leonardo didn’t wait another moment before charging towards the balloon. Most of the men around you did, whereas you jumped to your feet, hands covering your mouth in worry. 

“This is horrible!’ You exclaimed at Daphne, breath labored as you lifted your skirts to run closer, joining onlookers as young men helped the attendants wrestle with the balloon against the wind. In the front of the crowd, a woman—-presumably the boy’s mother—-sobbed in the arms of another woman you didn’t know. 

“They’re going to get him back down, Elizabeth, they’ve got him. See? Look at all the strong young men,” the woman insisted, her voice thin with worry. 

You wracked your mind for an explanation. The tethering certainly seemed more than stable…the gas balloon had a number of weights on it. The wind was stronger than usual, but certainly not enough to make the balloon break free of its restrictions, surely. None of the ropes seemed to have snapped, either….what happened?

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

There was a silent, stiff understanding between himself and Lord Kingston: neither one of them was interested in fumbling this accident and appearing like halfwits in front of polite society. And Y/n Y/l/n. 

“Kingston, take this! Pull!” Ciel shouted over the overlapping yells around them. He took hold of the last rope without anyone to pull it down. He offered Adam the tail of the rope as he pulled from slightly further up the rope, the rough texture making his palms red and raw. The Earl dug the short heels of his boots into the grass, engaging every bit of his strength in urging the balloon down in one of the world’s most intensive games of tug of war.

“All right, all right,” Kingston said, gaze darting between the rope in Ciel’s hand and meeting his stare, as if he couldn’t believe Ciel would let him help. Not even the Earl of Phantomhive’s ego was large enough to refuse help in saving a child. The notion was nearly offensive.

Behind him, Adam started pulling as well, slightly lessening the resistance Ciel encountered.

“Heave, men, heave!” Edward Sutton grunted, pulling a rope with Leonardo and another engineer. There were six ropes with a few men to each one, gradually tugging the balloon back down to avoid tipping it or scaring the boy even more. 

Ciel gritted his teeth, his arms and the rest of his body shaking with effort. Sweat ran down his neck and the side of his spine. Ridiculous, this was, and he had a decent idea as to why it was happening, too. There was no doubt a smug demon butler in the vicinity watching his master put all of his mental and physical capabilities into romancing a young woman, and using any excuse to challenge him further. 

What is your point, Sebastian? Ciel wanted to yell out.

Y/N Y/L/N

As you watched the assortment between engineers, Sutton’s help, and noblemen work in tandem to re-tether the gas balloon’s restraints, you couldn’t help but feel drawn to watching Lord Phantomhive work. His royal blue eye and raven hair were even more striking against his light grey vest and white undershirt. When the Earl focused, he seemed unstoppable. You held your breath.

You’d never seen him move so dynamically, either, save from when he pulled you out of the way of a moving carriage. 

“My Lady…” Daphne reminded you gently, placing a sisterly hand on your shoulder. “You are staring at the Earl Phantomhive,” she reminded you quietly, close to your ear. The blond gestured to your mother at the front of the crowd, carefully watching your father. 

Flushing, you immediately stared at the blades of grass below you. You squeezed your eyes closed, releasing the breath you were holding. How shameful. There was a child in peril and you were….

Control yourself, Y/n. Mother and father are here.

“Thank you, Daphne,” you sighed. The young woman squeezed your shoulder affectionately and released you. 

Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the group to gain control of the balloon, the attendants successfully re-tying it down. Lord Kingston helped the young boy down the short ladder and into his mother’s waiting arms. She kneeled in the grass, sobbing with her child close to her chest. “My baby, my baby,” she mumbled into his hair, gentle fingers running through it. Her husband, one of those pulling the ropes, embraced his wife and child on his knees, a scene that made your throat feel tight. Your eyes stung, tears threatening to run down your face. You blinked rapidly to regain control. 

Love. It was love.

“You should tell him he did a lovely job, my Lady,” Daphne suggested, a little more impishly than she’d typically risk. The blonde giggled at you.

You swallowed around your dry throat, nodding twice in agreement so hard that you could feel your teardrop earrings sway. 

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

Ciel’s right arm crossed his chest in a deep stretch. He was sweating more than a pig, it was miserable. He was in pain, and he would be for the next couple of days to a week for this strenuous exercise in—

“Lord Phantomhive,” Lady Y/n approached him rather than Adam, who masked his mortification by turning to Leonardo. “That was incredible.”

“It was an effort that required all of our participation,” Ciel answered as diplomatically as he could manage. He immediately dropped his right arm, disinterested in appearing weak or in pain before the noblewoman. Instead, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, certain his hair was disheveled along with the rest of him. The new pair of boots he sported had to be caked in dirt, too. 

“Of course, though it couldn’t have been easy,” Y/n insisted, likely taking in how disorderly and piggish Ciel looked. There was no way his appearance was appealing in any way, and yet, she’d never had such awe in her face when she regarded him before this. Save for perhaps the first few seconds after he pulled her out of the way of that carriage—before he misspoke.

It wasn’t easy. It’s a miracle I’m still in one piece, damn it. 

“I’m simply relieved we managed to help the boy,” Ciel told her, motioning towards the embracing family with his chin. The mother had yet to let go of their child or even stop crying. “And that we were there in time—what a strange accident.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Y/n agreed ponderously. “I cannot understand why the tethers would just…fail so suddenly,” she said, frowning as she looked back at the balloon. Edward Sutton, Lord Y/l/n, and the engineering team asked for the guests to return to the tables to allow them to inspect it for technical faults. 

They wouldn’t find any, Ciel presumed. His butler had to have taken some creative measures to…raise the stakes. Literally. 

“I’m sure they will find the cause and correct the issue,” he lied seamlessly as they started back towards their table. For all intents and purposes, the event was over. Most of the guests were too unsettled and worried to sustain the atmosphere and company. 

“Absolutely,” Lady Y/n agreed. “...Lord Phantomhive? Would you perhaps consider…tea? At my home? This week?”

TAGLIST: @theblueslytherin, @luckyladylottie, @yuzu-ku, @zyrixal, @mylostleftfootsock @nanaloverz

If you would like to join the taglist, feel free to drop a comment or an ask!

[moeswriting]

mine | 1. wondering why we bother with love

pairing: young!no-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

chapter summary: a regular day at work turns into the beginning of something joel never thought would happen to him again.

chapter warnings: joel is 22 and reader is 20, mentions of a bad marriage and teenage pregnancy, reader is described a small amount (has hair, able-bodied, wears feminine clothing, is going to school for secondary english education, has a heavily-detailed background), joel being the single dad™, southern banter and teasing, fluff, joel being a flirt, baby sarah being her dad's favorite, if i missed anything let me know

word count: 3.6k (future chapters will be longer)

a/n: good lord, this got some attention!!! i'm so fucking grateful for it. really excited for you guys to read this. hope you like it. lemme know what you think. any reblogs and likes are appreciated <3

series masterlist | next chapter ->

read this chapter on ao3

You were in college, working part-time waiting tables

Left a small town, never looked back

I was a flight risk, with a fear of fallin'

Wondering why we bother with love, if it never lasts

✦ ✦ ✦

October 1994

At seventeen-years-old, Joel Miller found out that his girlfriend was pregnant. It was startling and overbearing and horrifying and it made him want to scream at the sky, at God or whatever was up there and curse them for fucking up his life. He told Amanda that he was there for her, would do anything for her, but he was scared shitless.

At eighteen, he was holding a baby in the hospital with a ring on his left hand and thanking whatever was up there for bringing him a healthy baby girl to hold for the rest of his life. Maybe it was too soon, but as soon as he laid eyes on her, he knew. He knew he would love Sarah for the rest of his life and even beyond that. But, Amanda held her for a second and gave her back to him. He knew that she resented him– could tell by the way she fidgeted with the ring on her finger, pulling it off and then putting it back on, scowling at it when she thought he wasn’t looking. They moved into a small apartment near the college campus in Austin right before the baby was born. He could tell she hated that too. He knew he could grin and bear it, as long as Sarah got to have two parents.

At twenty, he came home from his job at the small diner across the street to their small apartment where his little girl was crying in her crib and a note sat on the counter that read, “I’m just not built to be a mother or a wife, Joel.” All of her things were gone. It was like she’d never been there at all.

That night, he held Sarah in his arms and cried. He watched her big, curious eyes as his tears ran down her face and soaked into her pink pajamas. He thinks maybe she knew what was going on– the toddler was always more ahead than he ever was. It only took a day for her to start begging for her mother, sobbing in Joel’s arms as he held her tight to his chest, hushing in her ear, trying to sing any lullaby he could think of. It took her two months to stop bringing her up at all.

By twenty-two, he’s a fully-functioning single dad. He has a stable job at the diner and does some contracting with his brother on the side. His mom helps him watch Sarah while he’s working– shows him pictures of her on her digital camera she insists on bringing with her everywhere when he gets back from work. There’s a wall in his kitchen dedicated to his favorites. He never stops thanking her for everything she does for him.

Sarah is growing beautifully. Her curly hair is a mess, but he’s trying his best to learn how to do it right. Amanda had always done it before– pigtails and braids perfectly set on her tiny head. But he finds that her thick hair is hard to tame on his own. He takes her to the salon downtown for them to do her braids whenever he can afford it. Her big brown eyes could make him do anything– she knows just how to work him with her wet, puppy dog stare and pouty lips. She’s up to his knees now. Everytime he comes home from work, she’ll run to him and crash into his calves and he can’t help but smile everytime she does it.

She’s his world, his everything.

It’s a Sunday morning. He always works Sunday mornings because the church crowd always tips well and today is no different. Sweat is dripping down his back from running around, and his brain feels like it’s split in half with all the orders stuffed in his head. The diner’s small enough that he’s only one of two servers working, despite how ridiculously busy it is, but he doesn’t mind. He can’t mind, really.

“Donald! Where’s my pancakes?”

The owner of the establishment’s balding head peaks out of the kitchen, as he yells back at him, “In your ass, Miller!”

“Hilarious,” he deadpans, pushing an order sheet back into the kitchen for Donald to grab, “Hurry it up, please. Mr. Cassini is starting to get hangry again.”

Donald laughs boisterously, “Oh, that old man is always angry!”

Joel waves him off, “Just do it, Don.”

“No problem, kid!”

He turns around and there’s a new patron sitting at one of his tables. A woman, body guarded, eyes on alert, evaluating the diner for the closest exits. You look scared, but only in the way that prey does when it knows it’s safe– waiting for the next predator to flash its teeth at your trembling form. Your hair is wet, as well as the tops of your shoulders, which are tucked into a large hoodie that swallows you. He didn’t realize it was raining. Your sneaker-clad feet are tucked under your legs, criss-cross-applesauce on the soft leather of the booth beneath you.

You’re beautiful.

Tapping his pencil against his order pad, he approaches you carefully. You look like you’ll run for the hills if he takes you by surprise. But, his tapping seems to alert you of his presence, as your head turns towards him. You watch him with a discerning look and fold your hands on your lap.

He pulls out the Southern charm his momma taught him, smile and all, hoping it might ease your cautiousness, “Hello, ma’am. Can I get you something to drink?”

You look surprised– eyebrows raised and eyes wide, like you didn’t expect him to talk. It’s odd, he thinks.

“Oh– uh–” you look down to the menu he placed in front of you upon his approach– “Iced tea?”

Just from your voice alone– and piled onto the fact that he knows everyone around here, and he’s damn sure he’s never seen a woman as pretty as you before– he knows you aren’t from around here. He has the sudden and all-consuming need to know everything about you. Why are you here? Who the hell are you?

“You need a lemon with that, sweetheart?” He can’t keep his eyes off you.

“Oh, no, no. Sugar is good enough for me.” As if to prove your point, you pull a couple packets of Sweet ‘N Low out of the small container at the end of the table and toss them next to the menu splayed out in front of you.

“Alright, darlin’. One iced tea comin’ up.” He pulls out a wink for you and walks away. He isn’t prepared to see the aftermath of his overconfidence. He really hopes you don’t run.

And he finds that you haven’t when he comes back with your iced tea in his hand. He places it down in front of you with a, Here you go, hon, and asks if you want anything to eat, and you decline. He rushes to get to his other customers. Tips are more important than the beautiful woman, he has to tell himself, but he finds that his eyes drift to you as you dump three pink packets of the sweetener into your tea and swirl it around. He shakes his head in amusement when you pull a book out of the backpack sitting next to you and start to read.

✦ ✦ ✦

When he comes back to check on you again, you’ve downed your glass of tea and you’re squinting your eyes as you write on the page of the book in front of you, underlining a passage you determine is worthy of note, not once, not twice, but three times. He thinks he sees the words ‘idealized love’ as he pours more tea from the pitcher he brought with him into your plastic cup.

“Whatcha readin’?”

Your eyes don’t even leave the page, pencil doesn’t cease writing as you reply, “The Great Gatsby.”

“Huh. Read that in high school. Kinda sad, ain’t it?”

You place your pencil down in the crease of your paperback, still reading, “I suppose so.”

It’s gone quiet in the diner now that the Church crowd has left, the sound of the jukebox in the corner the only background noise remaining. Only people here now are you and Mr. Cassini, but he’s preoccupied with Doreen, the other waitress on duty today. They’re flirting in the way that old people do, with shy smiles and boisterous laughter. He thinks he can take a quick break.

He sits down on the booth across from you and you look up at him for the first time since he came back to fill your tea.

“What’re you doing,” you ask– not in anger or annoyance, but just genuine confusion.

“Sittin’. This book for pleasure or school?”

You seem to accept his presence here with you as your new, temporary situation and put your bookmark– a pressed leaf– back in your book and close it shut. “School.”

He hums, disappointment dripping down his back, “You in high school then?”

Your eyebrows furrow before you seem to realize where he is drawing his conclusion from, “Oh! No, no. I’m studying to be an English teacher. We’re supposed to read this and come up with a fake lesson plan.”

Relief replaces the disappointment just as quickly as it had come.

“Huh. Interesting.”

You shrug, “I’d like to think so.”

He shuffles in his seat, pressing the cold leather against his sweltering back. “So, what– you gonna be a high school teacher?”

“I’m trying to. It’s hard work.” You pull out a few more packets of sweetener and pour them into your new cup of tea. He tries his best not to smile, but he can feel the corners of his lips pulling at his skin.

“Hard work is good for the soul– shows you got guts. That’s what my momma always says, anyways.”

You grin, “She sounds real smart, your mamma.” He hears you emulating his accent, teasing him for being so incredibly cliché, but he’s so focused on your blinding smile that he can’t even fight back.

“She is. She’s the best I could ask for.”

“Good. Everyone deserves a good mom,” you say, your smile almost turns sad as you say it. He wants to grab your face and beg you to tell him why what you said makes you sad, where’s your good mom that you deserve?

“Joel Miller, what are you doin’, sittin’ down? Get your ass up and clean some tables,” Donald yells from across the diner. Joel doesn’t even flinch– used to his sour attitude from almost four years of working here. But he watches you flinch, eyes going wide. You look warily over to Donald, assessing the situation, before you look back over to him.

You clear your throat, “It seems like you need to be getting to work, Joel Miller.”

You're teasing him again, but he can tell you’re nervous. He smiles, trying to calm your nerves as much as he can, and he thinks it works as he watches your shoulders relax slightly.

He chuckles, muttering to you conspiratorially, “Bitter old man, can’t see I’m trying to get myself a date over here.”

Your eyes flick down to your book and back up to him. Biting your lip, trying to suppress the smile he can see taking over your face, you reply, “Get back to work.”

“Alright, alright, sugar. I’m going,” he concedes, hands flying up in surrender.

The grin finally takes over your lips again and he swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful– besides his own baby girl’s smile. 

A name falls from your upturned lips.

“Huh?”

You laugh, opening your book back up and pulling yourself back into the story, “My name, Joel Miller.”

He repeats it back to you. It tastes like honey and sweetener on his tongue.

He wonders what you would taste like on his tongue.

“I’m getting off in 30 minutes.” An invitation.

You look back up at him. “Well, then, I guess I got another thirty minutes to read before you’re bothering me again.” You accept.

“I suppose you do.” He turns back to the counter and walks away. He can feel the pull to go back to you, to indulge himself in you further, but he needs the money and the extra $3 for the next thirty minutes could be the difference between his baby girl getting a full meal or not, and Donald has a nasty habit of not paying the full amount if he ain’t working, so he picks up a rag and gets back to work.

✦ ✦ ✦

Thirty minutes later, he’s pulling off his apron and bounding out of the backroom towards the table you’ve made a home of. He finds that you’ve packed up your things into your lavender bookbag, like you’re ready for whatever he throws at you– to go wherever he’s going to take you.

He wastes no time; he doesn’t want to be here anymore. “You wanna go on a walk?”

You nod your head eagerly. It seems you’re in agreement.

The pavement is a dark gray beneath your purple sneakers and his steel-toed boots, a pair his momma gave him for his 18th birthday. They’re good for work– sturdy, not too sweaty or uncomfortable. He wears them everyday. He wonders if you like cowboy boots, hopes you don’t find them tacky.

It’s still light out, around six in the afternoon. It stopped raining an hour ago, but the humidity still lies heavy in the air as the two of you make your way outside. It’s hot, but only in the way that Texas is in the middle of October. It’s comforting, like laying in front of a fire on a cold day.

He stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. He wants to take your hand, can feel his fingers twitching with the exertion of forcing himself to stop. You don’t even know him– he doesn’t want to scare you off yet.

You look to him for directions and he tilts his head forward and down the street, starting your walk at a slow, but steady, pace.

Austin is busy this time of year, what with all the college students a month or so into their return for the fall semester. The bars they pass are full of drunk students on  full-weekend benders and loud music. Stupid decisions and disco lighting. Sometimes he’s glad he was able to avoid all that. Sometimes he misses having the option of making mistakes.

He clears his throat, “Where you from, darlin’?”

You smile, kicking a rock with the edge of your sneaker, “Oh, is it that obvious that I’m not a Texas girl?”

If the lack of the local accent and not recognizing you wasn’t enough, the way you held yourself would be the obvious give away to him– nervous, on-guard. He finds that people around here aren’t scared of being too loud or in the way of anyone or anything. It was plain to him that you couldn’t stand the idea of getting in anyone’s way.

“Kinda,” he chuckles.

You hesitate, looking away from him and to the uneven sidewalk below you both, like you’re trying to decide if you should lie to him or not.

“Seattle.”

That takes him by surprise, but he hopes it doesn’t show too much. What in the hell were you doing all the way down here?

So many questions left unanswered in the aftermath of you.

“Woah– long way from home, aren’t we?”

Your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah— yeah, I am.”

Home, family seem to be sore topics for you. He makes a note to avoid it.

“Never been to Seattle. In fact, I’ve never left Texas.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Really? Washington’s beautiful.”

“Lotsa rain, I hear.”

You let out a breath of amusement, “You hear correctly. It's one of the only things I miss about it. Texas isn’t exactly known for its rain.”

He snorts, “No, it ain’t. But, you got yourself some today. Bet that was nice.”

You nod. It’s a few moments of comfortable silence before you speak again.

“You from around here?”

He nods once, pushing his hands even further into his pockets in embarrassment, “Lived in Austin my whole life.”

“Joel Miller, you’ve gotta get out of Texas,” you laugh.

You’re beautiful when you laugh. Your smile lights up your whole face like the sun as you throw your head back towards the dreary sky, eyes crinkled by the pull of your cheeks.

He sighs lightly, “Yeah, ‘spose I do.”

You seem to realize something as you do a quick scan of your surroundings before you look back at him with narrowed eyes and a playful smirk.

“Miller, where are we going,” you draw out.

“Nowhere,” he mimics your drawn out syllables, “Just walkin’.”

You hum, “Hm, and I don’t suppose that nowhere is in the general direction of my college campus and that you may be ‘just walkin’ ‘ me to my dorm like the Southern gentleman you are?”

He chuckles, bashfully scratching the back of his neck, “Maybe.”

You pause, look him up and down, and then sigh, “Thank you, Joel.”

“It’s no problem, sugar.”

He lets you take the lead now that you’re approaching the campus, slowing his steps so he could keep up with you. You scrunch your eyebrows at the ground below you and pucker your lips, opening your mouth and then closing it again. When Sarah does that, he calls her ‘fishy’. He desperately wants to tell you about her, but he finds himself once again fighting the urge so he doesn’t scare you off. Not yet, he tells himself.

You look up at him again, eyes wide and biting your bottom lip, “Why do you keep calling me that?”

He’s staring. He knows he’s staring at your mouth, but he can’t help it. They’re like a siren song he can’t resist. He can’t think straight when you’re next to him. 

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts like an Etch-A-Sketch, “What?”

“‘Sugar’. Why do you keep calling me that?” You glance over at him, but quickly look back at the ground when you catch him staring at you. He can tell you’re flustered.

“Oh, well, I watched you pour three packets of sweetener in your tea like a maniac. So, I figured that was an appropriate nickname.”

You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air, a grin growing on your face, “Hey, that is a very appropriate amount of sweetener, thank you very much! I thought you Southerners adored your sweet tea.”

“Darlin’, if all us ‘Southerners’ drank three packets of sweetener with our iced tea, we would all be dying at a very young age.”

“Well then, I’ll die a very sugar-high and happy, young woman.”

He laughs– one of those real laughs that only his family can bring out of him. He can’t remember the last time he laughed like this in public.

“Y’know, if you’re gonna die young, sugar, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea that I do what I was about to do.”

You stop in front of the tall brick building in front of you, clicking your heels together, and playfully furrow your eyebrows again. You’ve reached your destination. This is goodbye. He doesn’t want it to be.

“And what were you about to do, Joel Miller?”

“Ask you on a date,” he smiles and you smirk, “But… if you’re planning on an early demise, darlin’, I don’t wanna get my heart broken.”

“And if I promised to cut back?” You’re approaching him quietly– two feet turning into almost chest-to-chest in a few agonizing seconds.

“Then, I’ll have to take you out to make sure you keep your promise– now, won’t I?”

He watches from the corner of his eye as you pull a piece of paper out of your hoodie pocket and stuff it in his own. The soft, fleeting feeling of your hand brushing his makes a shiver run down his spine. Your hand quickly retreats.

You look up at him with mischief in your eyes, “I guess you will.”

Before he can even blink or think or process, you're kissing his cheek with a tenderness he hasn’t felt in years– eyes closed and big grin plastered on your face. He knows he’s blushing; the heat is crawling up his face ruthlessly.

You pull away and start to walk toward your building. He lifts a hand to his face in hopes that you left something there, evidence that you were real, evidence that what just happened wasn’t a figment of his imagination. But all he can feel is his own stubble. He hopes it didn’t hurt your lips. Maybe he should shave when he gets home.

“Call me, Joel Miller,” you shout over your shoulder, grinning brightly.

“How,” he shouts back.

“Look in your pocket!” You point to your own in emphasis.

His eyebrows pull together as he pulls the paper out of his pocket and reads it. Ten digits sitting pretty in red at the top with your name sitting on the bottom, a heart colored in with purple highlighter drawn next to it.

He goes to tell you thank you, or declare something he’s not even sure of himself, but when he looks back up to the doors of your building, you’re gone. The only evidence that you were ever real sits in his hands like a promise.

He rushes home before his mom starts to worry about where he went. He can’t wait to tell her all about you.

series masterlist | masterlist of all masterlists

[moirindeclermont]

5+ things I love about the Mirror Scene

also know as horny edition, reprise, again I decline every responsability if "feelings" arise during the reading of this thread. I'll be tempted of discussing the scene frame by frame, but I shall restrain myself to the most important points maybe

1) Words. This is not just about the speech at the beginning of the scene but also throughout the entire piece. I'm a writer, ofc I love when people use words well. Pleas don't make me say how many times I though about Mr Colin "I love dirty talking" Bridgerton (a couple of people actually knows) because it could become uncomfortable very quick.

2) Consent. Consent. Consent. I'll repeat every time because it's the sexiest thing I've seen. What do you mean it ruins the mood? Your partner is checking in with you and it builds trust connection and intimacy. It's not apart from the act. It's a fundamental part of the act.

3) Boobs. I'm sorry to report that, even as a fellow member of the perfect breasts club, I'm absolutely not immune. Not even one bit. I'm not even sorry I'm not immune. Thank you, Nicola, your service was wildly appreciated. (But seriously, did I buy a more revealing dress because I was a bit more confident of my own because of this bit? Yes! So, jokes aside thank you Nicola for your service)

4) Guidance. Gentle Dom Colin is my favorite Colin and I will never be able to hear the word "lie down" without thinking of him. But also, the tenderness displayed, the softness, the attention to the partner's needs, it's all part of a pattern of Colin being the most attentive partner.

5) "You are so beautiful", I'm not going to lie, I'm still walking 5 feet taller because of that. It healed something in me. It doesn't magically cure all the self issues problems, but it hit me the first time and it hit me again everytime. And if it was healing for you as much as it was for me, let me give you a hug. You are so beautiful!

(I can't believe I can't find the gif, if someone knows where to find it, please tell me, i'll edit the post)

6) "Not there. Not yet." Colin Bridgerton, Master of Edging. I see you Sir. I approve you wanted to wait for round 2 for that. But don't hide you did say that because you would finish in 0.1 second if she would arrive that. Still, even just for the cutest expression on Pen's face, it was worth it.

7) "Is there more?", Pen I want to hug you (respectfully and dressed, of course). His nod. Her blinding smile. Lord (don't) forgive me, I do not care about sinning when it never looked and felt better.

Gif by @polinsated

8) All the moments where you can see the lust and the pleasure in Pen's eyes. I will never shut up about it. They send me always into the stratosphere because it feels real. I don't know they do it, but it just feel real.

9) "Can we do it again?" What can I tell you? It's always the quiet one (I should know, I'm also a quiet one 😏) I'm not sure Colin realize what he did awake but he will become aware soon. I'm sure he doesn't mind.

(it's not my gif, stupid Tumblr, it's from @polinsated )

10) Let's be honest. All the above are real, but what really sell this scene is trust, connection and intimacy. It's not an easy thing to communicate but somehow they do it perfectly. And the nudity is functional to this goal. It adds another layer.

I love this scene but the me I was some years ago might have hated it because it is a mirror indeed for me. The me I am now is grateful that this scene exist. Because it's kind of the goal, to have that trust, intimacy and connection. So maybe it's a sign from the Universe. Maybe it's a sign of things to come. I certainly do hope so.

Maybe one day I might be able to talk about this scene without tearing up, but today is not that day.

[cloveroctobers]

GRANDMA’S HOUSE — ARMANDO ARETAS x BLACK! READER [Summer Randoms]

A/N: this was honestly inspired by typical family functions + a vid I saw on Instagram (possibly belonging to Tiktok) where we all have that universal experience where we spend the night at grandma’s lol.

SYNOPSIS: your grandmother’s always been in your business, you had a good job? Great! That job got on your nerves? Just be thankful that you have a job when there’s plenty that can’t even find one. You finally moved out of your parent’s house? Good for you, it’s about damn time. Now when you upgraded even more, hearing that you have finally got yourself a boyfriend after being single for only the lord knows how long…she opens up her home for you and Armando to crash instead of spending money (you both had it) out of the kindness of her heart—mostly.

<- read my previous anthology piece here.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Your grandmother smelled like fresh baked cookies with a hint of peppermint, Armando thinks as the smaller woman embraces him at the front door. The ranch styled house is more fitting than the coastal one she offered you two to stay in last summer out in The Hamptons. From what Armando’s learned about the elderly woman is that she may have the sweetest face but her lip was more deadly than anything. He would have never guessed that Granny Bessie would ever want to be bothered with the folks out there but it was evident that she held her own.

He shouldn’t have suspected anything less.

“Oh you’re so handsome,” Granny Bessie pats Armando’s cheek before staring up at his hair, “You got Indian in you? Looking like you got that Arabian grade of hair.”

Armando casted a glance at you who deeply sighed at the slight ignorance in the entry way of the home. He kept a smile on his face, finding this humorous more than anything, “No, ma’am. I’m Hispanic: Mexican…and black. I used to get Guyanese all the time though.”

The woman nods in agreement as she waves him into the home, “I thought your daddy was coming too?”

Armando inhaled at the mention of the man, who your granny had no issue inviting to her home as well for the upcoming festivities, “Detective Lowrey’s flight got delayed, probably won’t be here until early morning.”

The woman raised a brow at Armando as she closes the door behind him, “You call your father by his profession?”

“Well he hasn’t been much of a father so, yeah.”

“Hold on now, that’s still your blood—

“Granny! How’s the garden been treating you?”

“Oh, It’s flourishin’, baby.” She grins as you slip an arm across her shoulders and sent an apologetic look at your boyfriend, “your cousin Saleema and I went out to the Lowe’s and picked up a bunch of flowers. She helped me plant half of them but I know you’ll help me do the rest.”

She had a whole lot planned it seemed, considering you two came up for a couple of days for the upcoming family reunion at her house. You honestly thought about not attending, since you didn’t feel like socializing with half of your father’s side (1. they were either in your business to make sure you weren’t doing better than them—it wasn’t a competition in the first place but apparently it was in their eyes, 2. acted like they didn’t know you and expected you to roll out the red carpet for them—meaning if you didn’t speak to them first then that automatically became a problem, or 3. simply weren’t wrapped too tight in the head) but pushed through it since your granny got sensitive about not seeing her grand babies as often now that you were all adults.

Armando chuckled to himself at that, you knew your granny would bring this up since your cousin wouldn’t stop boasting about their outing in the: first cousins group chat. Saleema was older, just touched forty and was single living in her condo with her funny looking cat. She was always your granny’s favorite—perhaps it had to do with her being the first grandchild since your aunt had her young—although Saleema was a true hell raiser throughout her teenage and college years apparently, she hardly got shit on out of the grandchildren and it showed.

“Sure thing…anything you want me to help with on the inside first? You know I’m not built for this type of heat.” You whistled, fanning at the back of your neck after swiping some of the braids to your boho Bob to the side.

Granny Bessie scoffs, “stop that lyin’ baby, you chose to live out there with them gators and those strange Florida folks so you have to be built for some of it.”

Armando laughs as he follows you two into the living room, spotting old photos of: Granny Bessie during her bowling tournaments with her voluminous hair, various of family members, and childhood photos of yourself and many more cousins from previous family reunions.

“Oh you should see her Granny.” Armando speaks up after putting a picture back above the piano, “I think she got bougie on you, she even walks outside with umbrellas.”

Not this man snitching on you?

Granny side eyes you, hand still latched on your waist, “…you not one of them demonic people now are you?”

Now it was your turn to send a dark stare to Armando, who bit down on his bottom lip trying to hide his laughter. He knew what he had started, knowing that your grandmother was religious and always had something to say about other aesthetics? The goths and the emos received no love from Granny Bessie.

“No, grandma!”

You only ever called her by that to show that you were serious.

“Good,” she states with a pat to your hip before adding, “you haven’t contracted high blood pressure yet have you? I just knew it would hit you like it hit your father and me.”

Shaking your head you reply, “Nope, still dealing with low blood pressure actually.”

“That’s why I told you to up your vitamins and eat better foods. Good thing you’re here with me for a few days, I’ll send you on your way brand new,” she dusts her hands off with a clap, “your doctor will be thanking me.”

“As he should, granny Bessie knows all!” You rested your head against the shorter woman.

“Damn straight, now y’all come on in here and get you something to eat.” The elderly woman with the Mother Nature braids waves you two along.

Armando starts to squeeze his way by at the news of eating, hands rubbing together in excitement as his stomach rumbled before he steps to the side to continue letting you two go ahead.

“…ah a gentleman! I think I like him so far.” Granny Bessie whispers up at you, carrying into the kitchen.

It was 7pm by the time Granny Bessie was packing it up and getting ready for bed. She made the arrangements, sticking Armando in the back room while it left herself and you on opposite sides of the home. She of course let the home be open to you two but you knew not to stay up too late since the woman liked to be up early and active. Granny Bessie was in her seventies and still moved quickly even when her Arthritis was acting up. Everyone told her to slow down but granny Bessie has proven that she was always going to what she damn well wanted to.

Which definitely stood when she sent her last warning to you two of where you two would be sleeping for the night.

The both of you stood at the entry way of the ranch home, lips attached and battling each others as Armando swung you towards the wall, hand going to your waist then down the side of your ass to hook your leg over his hip.

“You said Granny Bessie was a snorer didn’t you?” Armando breathed against your neck.

You nod as you lick your lips, “yeah but she’s still a light sleeper and I’m not in the mood to get cussed out when we get caught.”

“When?” Armando quirked up his brows to look up at you, “All you have to do is keep quiet, mami.”

“And you think you’re going to help me do that?” You question while Armando thinks about it, “Yeah no.”

You pecked his lips while running your fingers over his facial hair, “just call me on FaceTime if the night gets too bad.”

For as long as you’ve been dating Armando, you weren’t completely oblivious. You knew that he didn’t adapt well to new spaces and it only got worse at night. The nightmares kept him up and anxiety was a bitch, he was trying to get through it on his own and even tried to hide it from you plenty of times before he moved in but there wouldn’t be any secrets in your relationship.

And you wouldn’t disrespect your granny’s home—never did and never will.

“Alright,” Armando sighed as he kissed your forehead, “better keep your phone charged, we both know how you are.”

You scowl as he pushes the creaking door back that led down the narrow hallway, “that was only a few times and I had valid reasons.”

“Uh huh,” Armando holds his hand out back for you to interlock your fingers before stopping in the middle of the hallway, “…goodnight baby.”

“Sleep tight, don’t let the dolls bite.”

Armando halts at kissing the back of your hand as he steps towards you, head dipped as he quizzes with a soft whisper, “…what fucken dolls?”

You’re trying to silence your cackling at the deadpan angle of Armando’s face on your phone screen as you settle into bed. There’s no cable in this room so you’re stuck leaving the tv on some court show that’ll help you fall asleep. It only took maybe a minute or two for Armando to start calling you, you on your side and arms tucked underneath the comfy blankets that made you feel like you were back in your childhood.

Granny Bessie had all sorts of trinkets decorating the dresser drawer by the side of the door and you had to remind yourself that if you needed to get up during the night to not stub your toe.

“It’s not that bad is it?” You ask while Armando just simply blinks at you, which said enough.

Eventually you’re the one that falls asleep on Armando although you promise that you wouldn’t. He knew that was a lost cause after you decided to shut the tv off, welcoming the pitch black and snuggle deeper into the sheets without him. You were closer to the opposite end of the hallway with your granny right across the hall but her bed sat deep in her own room yet that didn’t stop you from hearing her lawn mowing snores. You even popped an earphone in one ear to drawn out the noise and just enjoyed the company of your man on charge.

He ends up falling asleep after you but it takes him much longer, browsing social media, checking up on his side business, ignoring a text from Marcus, and simply sending a thumbs up to Mike’s text that he was finally boarding. Armando managed to keep himself busy, fighting the urge to snatch up all the weird looking dolls, rip their heads off and shove them in the closet.

He guessed this was a thing with Grandma’s having obsessions with odd items?

He makes sure his own phone in on charge, bringing it back to the FaceTime call of your closed eyes before completely covering his head underneath the covers then dozed off himself.

That doesn’t last long being woken up out of his sleep. There’s a loud booming noise in the distance and he’s tempted to find his piece just to make sure no one was breaking in. Granny Bessie had an alarm system and that didn’t seem to be going off but that didn’t stop Armando from sitting up in bed. He looks at the dolls and it suddenly feels as if their soulless eyes are still watching him.

He tossed the covers back, feet on the carpet, eyes finding a random blue light that he couldn’t find the source of as he passed by the edge of the bed. This room was suffocating and he feels like he’s been sweating underneath the sheets. The house was cool before the both of you went to bed and now it felt like being inside of a sauna.

Armando pulls the door back, peeking out into the abyss of a hallway and he just hopes there’s no one else in the house but you three. Leaving the door open a crack he moves back into the bedroom to grab his phone to use the flashlight since he can’t remember where exactly the hallway light is.

The floor creaks underneath his feet as he moves from the back of the house. As he gets to the middle of the hallway, he picks up on Granny Bessie’s snoring and stops at your room. His fingers rack against the door and he gets no response so he moves forth with twisting the door knob. Your back is to the door now, phone abandoned on the floor but still charging.

He picks it up for you and steps back out.

Armando lets you sleep, heading towards the front of the house. He’s in the entry way and the home feels much bigger in the dark, more eerie but knows he’ll find comfort in the dining room or kitchen—where the snacks are.

It’s 3 in the morning when you get the violent urge to use the bathroom. You try to fight it but the pressure in your belly isn’t pleasant so you throw the covers back in annoyance. It was your own fault chugging that ice cold water before you started making out with Armando but you didn’t need to acknowledge that. Shoving your fuzzy socks on, you pull the door open and head out into the dark hallway. Eyes half lidded as you use the wall for guidance to the bathroom, your head turns to the left to see the hallway door is left open just a crack but you carry into the bathroom.

Leaning against the door after doing your business, you feel a pull to head out into the main areas of the home. You see a light from the right of the dining room and walk through the sitting room towards it. Turning to the right you spot Armando immediately, snacking as you plop down beside him in another chair.

Balling your arms up on the table, you rest your head against them as you ask, “Can’t sleep?”

“You didn’t hear that big ass noise?” He says around the dried fruit he’s chewing on, “Sounded like a whole bomb.”

You hum, “yeah we’re near the military base…I thought I mentioned that.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“My grandad was a vet. They moved here in the early 2000’s, it’s a whole community.” You yawn.

Armando shakes his head, “that sounds like nothing but triggers. I don’t know if that’s worst or the creepy ass dolls following me with their laser blue beams as I snuck out of the room.”

Frowning you sigh, “did you take an edible before bed?”

Armando feels his eye twitch, “no I didn’t take a fucken edible—I’m for real. Is this supposed to be normal? The dolls? The random lights? The bombs? The clicking and buzzing?”

You shrug, “…I didn’t hear any of that…or maybe I just learned to tune it out.”

“I see you didn’t get the light sleeping from your granny then.” Armando mumbles while you snort, moving one arm to latch onto his wrist.

Slowly lifting your head you say, “…well we can’t stay out here for the rest of the morning. Granny gets up at six and probably will let us rest until eight if we’re lucky so…”

Waking up early had no effect on Armando since he barely slept anyways. He already scoped out the area once the two of you got closer to Granny’s home from the airport for a good workout.

You just didn’t know it yet.

Working out with Armando in the gym was a death sentence and you’ll be damned if you do it out in this heat too? You rather go to hell in a pretty hand basket and Armando was willing to take you there honestly.

No pain, no gain.

*Cue the eye roll*

“That’s cool,” Armando shrugged, “but I’m not goin’ back in that room.”

Sitting back against the chair you huff, “fine you big baby…set the timer to 5:45 so you can go back to your room. Don’t think she won’t check once she’s up for the day.”

Armando scowls as you scrape back from the kitchen table, reaching over to slap your backside, “I’ll show you a baby if you keep getting smart.”

Rubbing the sting on your back side, you fan your hand back at him, which he snatched to hold while setting a timer as you both make your way to the hallway. Too tired to give him any lip, you were just ready to get back into bed and cuddling with your man didn’t hurt.

Your back is to Armando, he tucks himself right into you, feet intertwined, his hairy legs prickling your shaven ones, chin buried into the space of your neck and shoulder while cradling your stomach.

“…how long were your grandparents together?”

You heard him but take a minute to respond as you fight sleep, “They’ve been married since the early 60s…all the way up until pa’s passing in 2019.”

Armando breathes you in, “how’d they do it for so long?”

“That’s something you’ll have to ask Granny but they were everything good you can imagine—nothings perfect but they felt like it you know?”

“…Think he was used to all the noises here?”

You snort, “he’s always been a night owl so if any of us couldn’t sleep, he was always up in the living room in his chair, eating that a disgusting banana ice cream just waiting for any of us to talk. If we had a nightmare, he’d do anything to make us laugh until we forgot it.”

“Sounds like a special man.”

“He was.”

“…I want that you know? With you. The kids and the gran’s. The creaks and the strange, a loving home. A place where anybody can stay and feel like life’s worth revisiting, like it was nothing but a breeze once you see who you’re surrounded by. A less lonely life.”

You shuffle to face him now, resting your head underneath his chin, not finding this conversation to be new. Most nights when Armando couldn’t sleep, he would ramble about what a future could look like with you.

It warmed your heart just as much as how warm your granny kept the back of the house.

“Then let’s do it.” You mumble into the night as Armando squeezes you, placing a kiss right on top of your bonnet.

That sealed the deal.

“Morning, dear. How did you sleep?” Granny Bessie asks with a mug of coffee as Armando makes his presence known.

Armando glances at you who sips at your own mug with a hidden small smile, “Good. Thanks, Granny Bessie. I’m actually about to head out for my daily run…would you like to join us?”

That gets you to cast a glance at the man over your shoulder who softly squeezes your shoulders with a grin, “us?” You whisper.

Granny Bessie laughs, “oh no. I need to tend to some things around the house but make sure you eat something because the heat will rise by the time you’re out there. Also did you speak to your daddy about what time we should be expecting him?”

“He probably should have landed by now.” Armando shrugs, trying to ignore the feeling that he felt when Granny Bessie labeled the man as such.

You say, “He texted me about twenty minutes ago. He was heading to baggage claim, maybe in the next hour he should be here.”

“Alright, well you two best be going and stay away from the houses from the next two streets over…nothing but confederates on that side.”

The woman wags her finger in warning.

Armando nods, “Thanks Granny,” he pops a red grape into his mouth, “these are delicious.”

“Take as much as you want, darling.” The woman squeezes his elbow on her way by, “Now I’m going to go get fully ready for Mr. Lowrey.”

Frowning you ask, “now what do you mean by that granny?”

“Just that I need to be presentable in my own home.”

“Uh huh. I know you’ve been on Facebook and know what Mike looks like.”

“I am a woman of God, do not sass me.”

Armando snickers while you raise your hands in surrender, finishing off your morning juice.

“I see you Granny Bessie.” Armando teases while the woman fans her hands at him.

“Hush! Don’t make my bad list, Herman.”

You gently reminded, “It’s Armando, granny.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Okay! love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” She grins.

As you’re locking up the screen door, you and Armando walk around the path to the driveway to exit the home. He silently stops you, encouraging you to stretch while you send him an unimpressed look.

Armando was lucky you didn’t go into hiding around the house and shouldn’t be so bossy but you knew better.

“When did Granny see a pic of Mike?”

You switch to bending to the other toe, “when she wanted to see a picture of you. Then she proceeded to rate you, Dorn, Rafe, and of course…”

Armando laughs as he finishes, “Mike. your granny is a trip.”

“Tell me about it.” You try to prolong this morning exercise but he picks up pretty quick and isn’t having it.

He stops jogging in place, hand going out to slap your ass before pulling you along by the hand.

You’re wheezing, ready to throw a whole tantrum, legs stinging, wrists limp as you drag yourself up Granny’s driveway. There’s a Porsche parked to the right in the driveway by the rental you picked up from the airport. Mike’s already out of the car, at the trunk as he’s pulling out his luggage.

“Hey y’all! uh oh, Armando what did you do to my girl?” The smile vanishes from Mike’s face as his son glances back at you.

If the ground wasn’t so damn hot, if the air, if everything wasn’t on temperature hell you would have face planted right on the gravel.

Armando also looks back at you, hands on your knees as you give a wave to Mike, whose brows are deeply furrowed before he raises them to the twenty-eight year old closest to him.

“She’s aight.” He shrugs, “we needed to get our cardio in and she’s the one who wanted to tone that hot girl body up—her words not mine but I don’t disagree.” Armando looks at you again, biting down on his bottom lip, “she’s lucky I didn’t strap any weights to her ankles.”

Raising your hands above your head, you actually feel yourself sway doing that movement over touching your knees and Mike actually takes a step toward you but Armando presses the back of his knuckles against his bio dad’s chest. Mike takes his eyes off you for a second and sizes Armando’s hand as he’s now analyzing you closely himself.

“I don’t know how many serious girlfriends you done had in your life man but I’m telling you right now, if that girl ends up in the hospital with heat stroke because of you pushing her too hard, that’s your ass.” Mike warns Armando, who glares up at him.

He didn’t need Mike to tell him about you.

He was the one who took the time to get to know you mind body and soul.

Mike’s missed out on twenty-something years and didn’t get to give Armando any advice.

And that’s on Kanye!

Armando does move over to you the moment you feel your stomach clench, ready to upchuck any light breakfast you had. He doesn’t waste time picking you up and over his shoulder, you resting limply against him before he’s walking by Mike.

He pauses, “your room is the last room at the back of the house, padre.”

And with that Armando continues towards the house, ready to cater to you because what Mike Lowrey didn’t know was that Armando would die for you.

Mike is mumbling to himself, trying to control his temper since it felt like he was building a connection with Armando one minute and then in the next he was pulling ten steps back. The kid didn’t even offer to come back and help him bring his things in—not that Mike needed it but it was a decent thing to do.

Respect was earned and the duo had a long way to go.

So Mike lets it go, slamming the trunk shut before meeting a very excited Granny Bessie at the front door.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

More Armando content here.

[theoryofthemultiverse]

hehe its okay I understand:D thank you for the stuff u put out though they're really good

And because of that, I’ll gladly continue to make more stuff :>

Always makes me happy when I see all the likes in the morning, you guys help me start my day!

Hoyo‘s Doctors Love Languages ♥️

Synopsis: What’s likely to be their love language?

Characters: Baizhu, Dr.Ratio, Il Dottore

A.N: I hope we can fundamentally agree that the Bordeaux heart in the title is one of the prettiest. Also keep in mind that these are just assumptions what I have on them, and what they are more likely to have than the other love languages :)!

•:--•:♥️:•--•:♥️:•--•:♥️:•--•:♥️:•--•:♥️:•--•:♥️:•—:•

Baizhu 🐍

Quality time and acts of service

Loveable man spends long hours in the pharmacy every day, sees patients tends to their problems, looks for function of certain limbs so I believe he gets a lot of general human contact through his job. So therefore I feel like he would still enjoy cuddling for sure, but it would be his priority.

Same goes for giving gifts and words of affirmation. He surely likes giving you gifts and telling you how good you’re doing at something, but to him personally, there are just things he values so much more!

Like when the two of you spend the evening or morning together simply talking while drinking tea. Or if you decide to join him for meditation before the pharmacy opens up in the morning. If you listen to him telling you about some patients he encountered today, it all adds to his liking for quality time with you.

And if you connect it with little acts of service, like helping him sort herbs, or bringing him something he needs while in an examination with a patient, he will be in love.

Dr. Ratio 🎓

Physical Touch and Quality time

I honestly wished he could give words of affirmation but I feel like he is bad at it. (Please teach him a few vocabularies on that part) Because it might be a little too obvious, but even though you’re not his student, he still has a hard time finding things affirm them with. So all in all, a rare occurrence to hear very affirming words from him, but at least you can be sure you’re one of the only ones that ever got them then :,)

When it comes to gifts and acts of service I can see him liking it to some point. He sees meaning in a gift that comes from you if you put your thoughts and heart into it. As well as he likes you doing some acts of service for him, but acts of service are likely able to go into the ‚could you solve that equation for me‘ which he would know is something he can’t ask, so he is good about it.

But physical affection and quality time? Oh lord.

It might just be my thinking, but I believe this man is touch deprived. (I mean the only touch he really gets is the book and the chalk- which definitely don’t do the job) So when you offer to cuddle him or take a bath with him, he is over the moon.

And if you connect that with quality time as well then you even manage 2 things in one go! Cuddling while talking, listening to each other, or simply staying silent while reading a book. It really helps him recharge with you by his side.

Il Dottore🧪

Gift giving and Acts of service

Wouldn’t find much use for physical touch and words of affirmation. If you want to cuddle and get a little bit of affirmative words he’s not going to deny your wish but it’s visibly hard for him to come up with something to say that is not making you feel worse, so personally i advise against that :,)

When it comes to quality time though he is unsure, because if you come into his lab and ask him about everything he is doing and what this and that machine does he can��t help but enjoy that time spent with you and proudly show you everything around the room.

But that’s still nothing against gift giving and acts of service. Let’s say you’re out and about and suddenly stumble upon an ancient relic in one of Sumerus markets. You take it back to him and he’s going to be all over it and love you for bringing (gifting) it to him. Basically like you brought a new toy he can tinker on home with you which also connects to acts of service.

Let’s say you know your way around his lab and the way he likes to work, so when he is gone somewhere to maybe conduct an experiment, you already put out a few papers and a pen to spare him of the action upon his return, and while it may be just a small action, he really greatly appreciates you for it.

[gay-dorito-dust]

thank you for answering me so quickly :’) could i request that comfort for recovering from drug addiction (maybe like *nearly* relapsing/having a generally bad day with quitting) with one of the batboys? tim’s always been a favourite of mine but i will happily read any of them

Topic of drug addiction is in this fic, I hope this brings you comfort or something to read when you need to.

Tim knew that your journey to recovery wasn’t going to be an smooth sailing one, he wasn’t one to sugar coat it either as he knew it would do you no good in the end, and yet Tim never wavered or faked his faith in you for getting better because he knew you could do it; even if it would take you awhile to get there.

So when Tim had caught you on a particularly bad day, one where where you’ve missed appointments with therapists and support groups, the very groups that he had helped you get in touch with when you didn’t wish to rely on drugs and opioids to get though the day. Drug addiction was a massive problem within Gotham, reportedly the highest rates in history in terms of the statistics Tim has read, so it was highly likely that most of the population would rely on such just to get through the town that god forgotten or condemned.

Corrupt government, corrupt authoritarians, anyone with any ounce of power was inherent corrupt in Gotham and their actions of poisoning Gotham only proved that, this and their seemingly ineffective and half hearted attempts in protecting the youth who were being offered street drugs, and while Jason was cracking down on that and more but it didn’t change the fact that nothing was being done prior until red hood stepped in. Only to paint him as the crime lord who was behind the crime -which was a load of bullshit especially those whom Jason helped- but the people in power were more concerned with their own stained images then the countless lives being destroyed due to their negligence and incompetence.

They’ll push a story that’ll paint them in a good light while blurring out the important details, considering them not worth knowing, in hopes of reframing from others to becoming curious and look into it themselves; not that anyone ever does as Gotham was forever known as the devils town or the incurable town and thus contributing to what the people in power want, to keep Gotham in a perpetual state of decay.

‘Hey.’ Tim says softly as he sits down next to you.

‘Hi.’ You reply.

Tim then rests a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly as he watched your face carefully. ‘You’re doing amazing you know. You’re very brave for reaching out to me when you did and I’m so, so, so proud of you.’

‘Even when I feel like relapsing? Falling back into old habits when things get too hard to bear, making it feel like I can’t properly function unless I’ve got something within my system to cope with the shithole we live in?’ You asked, looking over at him with eyes brimming with unshed tears, ‘even if I feel weak and wanting to go back to an old comfort?’

Tim smiles softly as he brings you into his arms, letting you rest your head on his chest, holding you there tight as he could while rubbing your back to bring you some semblance of comfort. ‘I’m especially proud of you for admitting that too because I can’t imagine it being easy for you, not in the slightest and you feel like your nothing without it, but I can assure you that you are more without it then you’ve ever known and I’ll be with you every step of the way.’ Tim promises you before tenderly kissing your forehead, whispering further promises of not going anywhere during your most important moment of your life.

‘You mean it, really mean that you’ll stay with me even if I make it difficult to stay?’ You asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Even if I fall into a relapse?’ You add, clinging onto him now.

‘Then I’ll catch you and bring you back to your feet.’ Tim reassured as he presses another kiss to your forehead, making you swallow the lump in your throat as a thousand thoughts swarmed your head.

‘Even when I feel like a lost cause, not worth your help and undivided love and kindness that you’ve given me without me having to beg you for.’ You poetically whispered now as you burrowed your head further against his chest, trying your hardest to fully focus on his warmth and comforting presence, in hopes to finding your grounding within your overcrowded, overworking brain that never seemed to stop tormenting you.

Tim moved so that your foreheads were touching and his hands were holding your face, switching from caressing your cheeks and your temples that he knew were aching. ‘No matter what we face I will always be here, there’s nowhere I want to be other then here, for you need me and I want to be here for you and be your support wherever you may need. I don’t ever want you to think I won’t want to be here during the ugly moments of recovery and be here if you ever felt as though you couldn’t stabilise yourself.’ He kisses your nose and the tear stained cheeks before kissing you on the lip lightly. ‘I want to be here for you, whether it’d be to go to support groups and or therapy appointments with you, no matter what I want to be here for you and see you shine like I know you can, and I know you can shine brighter than the stars themselves grow envious.’

You smile softly as you felt Tim hold you against his chest again, but he didn’t hold you like you were fragile and could break. No, he held you like he didn’t want to let you go with how tight his hold on you was, but it was also comforting and grounding you in the midst of a uncertain and difficult time, and you couldn’t help but melt into him as you felt him rub up and down your back; which only served to make you relax within his arms and allow yourself to close your eyes happily in knowing that you’ve got a strong support system like Tim to remind you of who you are.

[lucky-clover-gazette]

captive prince short stories highlights & annotations

pet

(takes place during book 1: captive prince)

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

Ancel was a virgin the first twelve times he had sex. The thirteenth time, it lacked all plausibility.

‘You could buy out my contract.’ ‘How much?’ He made up a figure. There was no Lord Arten. Ancel landed his first contract that day: three months of his time, signed over to the merchant’s son.

‘I’ve never done it in public before,’ said Ancel. ‘You’d be my first.’

ancel leveraging subcategories of his virginity. smart

‘You’re not going to take him away from me, you slut,’ said the boy sweetly, murmuring the words too quietly for anyone else to hear. ‘Too late,’ said Ancel.

vere sucks. but i think ancel is playing the system more effectively than like anyone else there

Was this how men felt fucking him? No wonder they paid a fortune for it.

Fucking Lord Rouart, fucking every lord here. Being watched by everyone while he did it was like a blinding white light.

veretian society fucks ancel, ancel fucks veretian society harder

The room exploded in approval, cheers, calls of his name. He could hear shouts of suggestions, ribald calls to Lord Rouart in the thick excitement of the crowd.

there have to be at least a few people in vere who are not into this, but just kind of playing along to keep their—wait isn’t that the other guy in this short story

He was going to meet his new owner, and his new owner was going to fuck him.

ancel does not understand how cs pacat writes sex and power dynamics. nobody ever gets what they think they’re going to get

‘So, you saw me in the ring, and decided that you just had to have me,’ said Ancel. Berenger looked up. ‘No. I hate the ring.’ The words were matter-of-fact. ‘Parsins, hand me my jacket.’

i think i am going to really like berenger.

‘How old are you?’ As if Ancel hadn’t spoken. ‘Sixteen.’ Berenger gave him a flat look. ‘Twenty,’ said Ancel, the truth coming out with a flash of annoyance that he had to work hard to keep out of his voice.

He tried to recover. ‘And you?’ said Ancel, in his most velvet voice. ‘Now that you have me, what are you going to do with me?’ ‘I’m riding to Ladehors.’ Berenger was walking right past him, he was—was he leaving?

most normal guy in vere

Ancel had seen with his own eyes that Berenger owned six identical copies of the same brown jacket.

oh i love this character

He was dressed in a loose shirt of simple white linen and plain trousers, his red hair tied back in a casual tail with a single leather tie. He looked up when he heard footsteps, and then stood quickly, closing the book. An unaffected young man, rising startled to greet his friend. ‘My lord,’ said Ancel. ‘I’m sorry, I—you took me by surprise.’

this is so funny. ancel pretending to be what he thinks berenger wants him to be, which is just like another normal guy

'Oh this?’ A hand to his mussily tied back hair. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back so early. I can change into something more—’ ‘No. You look handsome.’ Berenger stopped and shook his head. ‘That is, when we’re not at functions, you should feel free to wear whatever you like.’ ‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Ancel. It was Berenger who took a step forward. ‘You’re reading Isagoras?’ Berenger was looking at the discarded book with its scrollwork pages. He looked up at Ancel in surprise. ‘What do you think of him?’

i like how ancel is doing a reversal of the makeover trope. he was hot and glamorous before, and now he’s trying to make himself look like a boring nerd

Ancel couldn’t read, but he had planned all this from the moment Parsins had pointed the book out to him.

LMAOOOOOO

Ancel ate the plain food with the good manners of a merchant’s son, and none of the teasing flirtation that marked his own profession.

what are you talking about, there’s never been a mention of homoerotic bread eating in this series before

It happened in the library one night several weeks later, as Berenger was talking about politics. Ancel nodded and half listened while Berenger said—blah blah the Prince, blah blah the alliance with Akielos—

‘In the end, aren’t we all looking for someone to be loyal to?’ said Ancel, softly.

ancel really just went down the checklist of things he was told berenger likes (loyalty in friendship in this case)

also, a note from post-reading the entire story sam: YES YOU ARE, ANCEL.

‘Is that what you want?’ said Berenger. ‘It’s what I never thought I’d find,’ said Ancel, ‘until I met you,’ and it was happening, finally, it was finally happening, the two of them drawing closer in the firelight, Ancel’s arms sliding around Berenger’s neck, leaning in to— ‘Ancel—no.’

‘You may have made assumptions,’ Berenger spoke first, not looking at him, ‘after I bid for you in the ring, but I—’ For a moment, Ancel didn’t understand. And then suddenly the rejections and the refusals made sense. ‘It doesn’t have to be like it was in the ring,’ Ancel said in rush, relieved to have discovered the root of the problem. He hastened to reassure Berenger. ‘I don’t have to be the one who does that.’

ancel i don’t think this is a top/bottom thing, i think berenger isn’t drinking whatever horny flouride they have in the water in vere and is just disinterested in the pet stuff

He waited for Berenger to get it. Berenger didn’t seem to get it.

because that’s not what berenger meant!! this dynamic is very fun. extremely self-assured and aspirational guy who only knows how to leverage sex and schmooze, vs chill-ass guy who is not really trying to get anything out of anyone and therefore not thinking or trying too hard

‘You can fuck me,’ Ancel explained. Berenger’s eyes went wide. Was that the wrong thing to say? ‘I’ve always done it that way before. It’s what I’m good at.’ That was the wrong thing to say, too. ‘I mean, I want you.’ That was better. He should have said that first. ‘I want you.’ He moved a step closer, made it personal. ‘The way you want me.’ ‘Ancel, you don’t have to—’ ‘I want you to fuck me.’ ‘That isn’t what I want.’ ‘Then what do you want?’ Ancel said, in pure frustration.

world’s first reverse beard has been invented

‘In six weeks,’ began Berenger, ‘I’m attending court. As a single man, I need a pet to attend dinners and functions with me. For propriety’s sake. That is all. I don’t expect intimacy in private. In fact I prefer in private that you—that you and I—’ ‘Court?’ Like a flower inclining towards sunlight, Ancel’s whole attention swung to the thought. He barely heard the rest. ‘You’re taking me to court?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘The royal court. At Arles.’ ‘Yes.’

such a fun premise for this story. ancel has a reason to stay (social climbing), berenger has a reason to need ancel (appearing to follow customs). surely they can help each other accomplish their goals while keeping this impersonal and professional, with no eventual mutual understanding or friendship or romance.

‘Well, I’m going to need a lot more jewels,’ Ancel said, his annoyance returning with a snap. ‘I know you like boring young men in cotton shirts, but I can’t wander around the palace looking like this.’ Berenger was staring at him again, like Ancel was a stranger he was meeting for the first time. Ancel lifted his chin. ‘What? I intend to make the most of our time at court. I am incredibly good at my chosen profession. Not that you’d know that.’ ‘It’s possible I didn’t realise how good until now.’ Berenger was still gazing at him with that new look in his eyes. After a long moment, ‘Do you even like horses?’ ‘I can’t read,’ said Ancel. ‘I see,’ said Berenger.

okay yeah i LOVE this. mask off for ancel, meanwhile berenger hadn’t even bothered to pretend in the first place. i mean he’s pretending in front of the court, but not ancel. it’s just nice that they’re on the same team, unlike SOME PEOPLE i’ve read about during this rough period of time in vere

The next morning, Ancel threw away the plain white shirt and the simple leather hair tie, and came down to breakfast in the clothes that he liked: exquisite silks and velvets that felt good against his skin, wearing his hair pampered and long and out. Berenger didn’t say, ‘I see,’ but the implication was there in the heavy weight of his regard as he looked at Ancel across the table. Ancel lifted his chin, ignoring all the uninspired foods that Berenger liked and biting into a fruit tart.

this story has done a great job of making me like ancel and berenger in a short amount of time. strong moments of characterization (the fruit tart, the jackets, etc), more simple and less subtle than damen and laurent, but still very fun to notice and appreciate

‘The horse I chose for you has arrived,’ said Berenger. ‘She’s a strawberry roan named Ruby. I wonder if you’ll like her.’

berenger and ancel’s first official date is a chappell roan concert. red hair and horses.

For his part, Ancel stopped trying to seduce Berenger, and started enjoying himself.

Perhaps Berenger preferred women.

i don’t think this is where the story goes, but i would actually kinda like if they were just friends, and that was in fact the case. or even better, ancel assumes berenger is straight and that’s why he’s not interested, but berenger is eventually like “no i like men, i’m just not attracted to you” or "i don't like my partners being 10 years younger than i am"

Every commoner in the province had a story about Lord Berenger: Berenger had remembered the name of their child; Berenger had stayed with them through the birth of their prize colt; Berenger had helped them with the purchase of equipment when they had none, saving the harvest.

berenger could not have been involved in the main series. i think he’d break the reader’s brain compared to laurent because he’s just like. a normal and decent person despite the horrors, and not trying to hide it beneath a million layers of complicated bullshit

‘No. I meant that the court has changed,’ said Berenger, shaking his head, ‘since the King died. The Regent’s influence—’

hate that guy

‘What?’ said Ancel. ‘Luxury suits you,’ remarked Berenger.

god i wish this could stay platonic. THAT would be the true subversion!

note from post-reading the entire story sam: with the full image we eventually get of ancel, i actually think it's even better that berenger admits that he desires him. it would feel kind of like a cop-out for the answer to ancel's unspoken question of "would anyone like me for who i am, if my attractiveness was not a factor?" to be "yeah this guy does, but he never would have been into you in the first place." it's even more effective, and even more a subversion of what ancel thinks of himself, for berenger to find ALL of him attractive—his ambition and talent and intelligence, in addition to his looks and performance—and not want to reduce ancel to the sex object that he (ancel) thinks he has to be.

Who was the new pet? How had he come to serve Berenger?

i’m getting the impression that the previous king of vere had not required people like berenger to have pets, but the regent does. which is why berenger hired ancel

Berenger then knelt for the Prince, who was standing to the left of the throne, a severe young man in harsh clothing.

GOD i hope i get to see a little bit of laurent being a withdrawn dryly comedic sitcom side character before damen arrives and it sends him into joker mode

Lady Egere had a horse program Berenger was interested in, so Ancel made her feel like the most important person in the world.

berenger not beating the normal person allegations. like yeah, that is what people do at dinner parties. they talk to other people about shared interests. good job, berenger.

And when everyone was talking about the Prince, and the conversation swerved uncomfortably towards the new Akielon alliance, Ancel stepped in and told the whole table a risqué story he’d heard about Akielon bed practices, diverting attention.

laurent sighs and makes a mental note to be slightly less hostile to ancel for that accidental favor

Even Berenger laughed when he got to the punchline.

‘I love them,’ said Ancel. ‘I’d sleep with you right now. I might even enjoy it for once.’ He stopped. ‘High praise,’ said Berenger, dryly. ‘Of course, with you, I’d—’ ‘Oh, of course,’ said Berenger.

oh NICE moment. ancel admitting that he doesn’t actually like any of this shit he’s doing. and berenger implying that he’s always understood that.

Another day, another brown jacket.

i love the brown jacket as a means of characterization and comedy

‘In blue or red, you could look quite handsome.’ It was something Ancel had noticed on the third morning, in the early light from the window. Berenger had a strong profile, good bone structure, and warm eyes. His waist, where Ancel was lacing, was trim, his body fit from riding. ‘Let me pick your jacket.’ Berenger sounded amused. ‘You don’t like my jacket?’

you don’t like his jacket????

He didn’t let Ancel pick his jacket.

good to know he has his hard limits

They had a good system in which Ancel filched the delicious confectionaries and special sweets and left Berenger all the plain stuff he preferred.

i love this for them!!!

‘I can’t believe you’ve never visited the coupling gardens. Do you feel no desires at all? Come on.’ ‘Ancel, I don’t think that—’ ‘Look, it’s those flowers from that boring poem that you like,’ Ancel announced proudly. He stood in front of the spray of white flowers. Berenger had stopped. The flowers were night blooming, filling the air with a delicate scent.

ancel please don’t talk about poetry in the mindfuck blowjob garden

‘You’re right,’ said Berenger. ‘They’re very beautiful. And rare. In the poem, the lover is given only a single flower.’ ‘What a terrible gift. I’d much rather have jewellery,’ said Ancel, wrinkling his nose. ‘Or clothes. Even the horse was better.’ Berenger’s mouth quirked, his eyes shifting from the flowers, amused and warm. ‘Yes, you’re a little more expensive.’

THEY SHOULD STAY FRIENDSSSS please!!! i want to see their odd couple not a couple adventures as neither of them actually falls in love bc they’re married to the grind (literally for ancel, figuratively for berenger). then again, we know that ancel doesn’t actually like being a pet, so i can see how this ends up a romance that works. but STILL

'I like feeling—’ Like part of it. Like the master of it. Like he had power over the men, like if they wanted him they had to pay a fortune for it. Like he was more valuable than the wine goblet Berenger held, or the silver pitcher a servant had poured from. Like he mattered.

ancel understands exactly how this stronger man/weaker man thing works, in that the weakest man is the one who forces others to the bottom so he can be on top. but berenger doesn’t do that, except for appearances. and he’s very clear that he knows it’s all bullshit too.

‘Perhaps I ought to think of it more like that.’ ‘How do you think of it?’ ‘I think,’ said Berenger, ‘that the only person in this place who shows me their real face is you.’

berenger: i’d probably be happier if i just allowed myself to enjoy the luxury and debauchery ancel: wait so what do you think instead berenger: that this is all fake and stupid as hell, and you’re the only one with the awareness to understand that and use it

‘I can make everyone look at me.’ There was the familiar frown, like an old friend. ‘Ancel, I told you I don’t want—’

“like an old friend” because he IS your friend, because he appreciates you for who you are, not for the ways you can perform

Gasps as they burst into flame, and Ancel tossed the stick high, a spinning wheel of dangerous light.

how did he like. learn how to do this. this isn’t something you can just do on a whim. although i guess it does suit ancel to play with fire

That was part of the thrill, sensuality and danger. He had everyone’s attention now. He tossed and twirled, and it was easy, all of it coming back to him, his childhood days before his profession had changed, before the escalating series of favours, until the moment he had finally agreed to it. You have to pay me extra. It’s my first time.

very effective way to give backstory: he was a performer, and then someone propositioned him for sex, and then he realized the possibilities of going into that kind of work full-time. it put the power in his hands, and people did in fact pay him more when he asked.

‘You’re full of talents, aren’t you,’ said a boy’s voice, and Ancel turned. The boy was very lovely and very young, with huge blue eyes and a tumble of brown curls.

my heart hurts

‘Since you like to play with fire,’ said Nicaise.

extremely bittersweet to have nicaise say one of my own thoughts

‘I’ve heard that Berenger likes women, and that he disappears sometimes from court, so that he can—’ Ancel flushed. He left the main hall and made straight for Berenger, who was sitting in an adjoining antechamber, on one of the long reclining couches, amid a handful of acquaintances, talking in small relaxed groups. ‘Kiss me,’ said Ancel as he settled, one knee on the couch on either side of Berenger’s thighs, his hands linked behind Berenger’s neck. ‘What?’ said Berenger. ‘On the mouth,’ said Ancel.

yeah they invented reverse bearding

Berenger was beginning to frown. Ancel thought, with a burst of irritation, I know you don’t want to, but can’t you just pretend? How hard was it? Ancel pretended all the time. Berenger had a reputation to maintain. But if Ancel said that, Berenger would probably reply with something idiotic like his own reputation didn’t matter to him.

ancel is so perceptive, compared to damen it’s like. jarring

It didn’t feel impersonal. He was instead extremely conscious that it was Berenger that he was kissing.

uh oh

His lips were tingling from kissing Berenger, and that didn’t seem to make sense.

UH OH

‘Like you mean it,’ said Ancel, and kissed him again.

UH OH!!!!

‘My lord,’ he said, and he sounded turned on, which was how he was supposed to sound. ‘Berenger.’

love ancel being in denial about having feelings

Ancel closed his eyes. He could imagine exactly what Berenger liked, lovemaking in the dark with a young man in a plain shirt. If they ever—Ancel would have to feign at least a degree of innocence, physically experienced but emotionally unprepared, looking up at Berenger and saying it’s never been like this before. He imagined that: imagined Berenger kissing him in private. A strange shaky feeling grew in him. Berenger would kiss with the same seriousness as he was now, he probably fucked like that too, strong and steady. Berenger’s voice in his ear, roughened. ‘You’re so good at faking it.’ ‘I know,’ Ancel said. ‘I know I’m good.’

ancel is down BAD for this brown jacket man, holy shit

‘How long do we have to stay here?’ Berenger said. ‘What?’ said Ancel. ‘How long do you normally take?’ said Berenger.

wait. so ancel in the garden scene. was half trying to make berenger jealous and half trying to convince himself that he’s better off doing what anyone else but berenger would ask him to do. and failing to convince himself entirely. LOVE that alternate perspective, so cool!!

It took a moment before he understood the words, and their meaning. But the way Berenger was standing off from him, like a man who has had his evening interrupted for a charade in which he has little interest, made everything clear. Ancel pushed down the feelings in his chest, closing his eyes briefly.

ouch

‘All right,’ said Berenger, and stood there, awkwardly. Ancel heard himself say, ‘Unless, do you want—’ Me. Do you want me.

i love how free will continues to be a theme in this series, even when we’re not discussing damen and laurent. specifically regarding desire and attachment, romantic and sexual. ancel doesn’t actually want to be the person he pretends he is, lowering himself beneath his masters and helping them get off on the power they have over him; he wants to be understood and wanted for his whole self. and berenger is like the only person he’s ever met who has wished to see him as something other than a sex object or performance piece, the only person who doesn’t wish to intimately possess or control him. berenger seems to want to experience love on even footing, which in vere is highly unusual. no wonder ancel is desperate for his interest, when his interest is actually REAL.

He thought, he could make Berenger like it.

free will theme again! he made berenger like it, it wouldn’t be real. and ancel wouldn’t like it either.

‘I think we both know this isn’t working,’ Berenger said in a low voice. ‘This,’ said Ancel. Berenger wasn’t looking at him. ‘I’ll pay out your time in full. We can separate after you perform for the Patran delegation. You can tell people your contract simply came to the end of its time.’ ‘You’re ending our contract,’ said Ancel.

BRUTAL. and the thing is, berenger is being kind and selfless here. ancel has told him with words and actions that he only cares about upward social mobility, and has made it seem like berenger is holding him back. berenger is putting himself at a huge disadvantage in the regent’s court by letting ancel find another employer, but probably feels like this is the best way he can genuinely honor ancel’s stated wishes. sad little miscommunication moment, although i don’t think it’s fully that trope because ancel only subconsciously realized how he feels like five minutes ago

‘Everyone will want you after your performance. You won’t have trouble finding men to bid for you—’ ‘I know,’ said Ancel. ‘I’m the best pet at this court.’

ancel does his fire dance to “my kink is karma” by chappell roan as he desperately tries to repress his feelings

He didn’t know why, but the next day when Ancel saw Berenger talking in a low voice to Lord Droet’s pet, it made him angry, and he stalked out of the stuffy, overlit rooms, into the cool shade of the gardens.

oh, captive prince chapter 5 dubcon (and that’s generous) scene that damen took way less seriously than myself or even laurent because he (damen) grew up with sex slaves so this is kinda normal to him. oh, captive prince chapter 5 dubcon scene that, despite its problematic nature, was and still is extremely compelling to me, by which i mean unfairly hot

It was the Ambassador to Vask, her face familiar to him from a dozen evening entertainments. Ancel knew her sculptured style of dress well, the Vaskian elements she incorporated into her clothing. She had the straight-backed posture and poise of a woman used to power.

VANNES HIIIII VANNES

Vannes spoke. ‘You and Berenger are utterly mismatched. And you’re clearly ambitious. I hope you won’t hurt him too badly when you move on.’

she sees the version of ancel that he knows is wrong for himself, but he’s leaning into it because berenger’s kinda-rejection hurt so bad

Everyone would think what Vannes thought, that Berenger couldn’t hold Ancel and Ancel was moving on to someone better.

i like how this is so high stakes to ancel, for good reason, but we know that there are way higher stakes batshit insane things happening with damen and laurent right now. but ancel doesn’t care about damen and laurent. he cares about himself and berenger. just a really cool way of showing another pov for the same story!

Ancel thought of the impossible. For pets, it was epitomised by one man. The Prince. The Prince, who had never taken a pet. The Prince, who had never taken anyone, or been taken, so they said. They said he was frigid, that he had ice in his veins, that pets failed to interest him. But there was one person who had the Prince’s complete attention.

YHRWYOEGRUYWEGRUYWERHBFSDF

By the time Berenger and the others arrived, Ancel knew exactly what he was going to do.

i LOVE having this context, wow! it doesn’t really change the nature of the original scene, but adds dimension in a super satisfying way. i also really like how this works with the general vibe of book 1—it feels so isolated and depraved to read, you’re wondering “holy shit is everyone here besides damen just a terrible person?” and that’s the point, but with this addition from another perspective it’s like, hey, berenger was there the whole time. normal nice decent guy, caught up in the same shit as everyone else. who had only been trying to be kind to ancel and give him what he wanted, and most certainly did not want him to do what he does here. it reminds me of loyse, and the way she’s incorporated into the main series—so much of damen and laurent’s experiences early on are defined by struggling alone, but they’re both less alone than they thought, both in terms of sympathetic company and people dealing with the same problems they have. this is seen both in the way they are with each other, especially with the slow burn of 'Laurent is Not As Bad As Damen Thought He Was With More Context,' and the way people like loyse are slowly revealed by the narrative. it's just neat. if i ever re-read captive prince, i’ll be like, “oh it’s berenger!!!” and the scene will, in some small way, feel less isolated.

Physically imposing, and dripping with disdainful pride, he looked as though he could break any handlers in half.

love this description of damen as having “disdainful pride,” because so much of his internal narrative is considering himself a victim, which he is. but also, he is very disdainful towards this society, and prideful about his own. damen himself admits that he had prejudices and misjudgments towards vere and blind spots regarding his own society at the end of king’s rising, and it’s cool to see ancel get that impression immediately.

The younger blond slave pressed his forehead submissively to the floor, a pose that seemed designed to make you want to step on his head. Ancel found himself unaccountably irritated by the passivity.

obviously both systems are bad, but if you read my main series annotations you know i’m very much in agreement with ancel here

Berenger was frowning.

normal! reaction!

He looked scornful and unimpressed when his eyes passed briefly over Ancel, Berenger and Vannes. His only movement was to shift slightly, a rearrangement of muscle.

i looooove seeing damen from the outside, wow

Arriving in the bower, the Prince of Vere was instantly commanding, with nothing soft or yielding in him. A young man with golden hair, cold blue eyes and an arresting profile, he had a pet’s looks and a Prince’s bearing, laced up tighter than Berenger, in dark, severe clothing. He looked capable of mastering the slave through force of will, as though the slave’s discomfort was his pleasure.

good to see, in this case, that laurent is very much perceived exactly how he is trying to be perceived. we know that this is for his own safety, and it isn’t harming ancel at all. unlike in captive prince book 1, where damen is being directly harmed by laurent and his rancid vibes, albeit for stronger reasons (he knows who damen is) than either damen or the reader understand.

‘Ancel, no. He could hurt you.’ Ancel ignored Berenger, and spoke to the shoulders and back of the Prince.

this is so cool. when i read the original scene, it seemed like berenger said this out of like, petty distate for akelions and maybe jealousy. but now we know it’s because berenger thinks that this is all fucked up, and doesn’t want ancel to get hurt by his own ambition

‘Would you like that?’ Berenger frowned. ‘No. I wouldn’t.’

“would you like that [i get hurt]?” oh ancel :( and you know that he thinks berenger would, or at least wouldn’t care either way. because ancel is just 20 and emotionally undeveloped and seems not to have been truly cared for in his life

again, i assumed originally in this scene that unnamed berenger said “no i wouldn’t” because of jealousy. but that isn’t true! berenger already told ancel that he can leave! he just actually cares about ancel!

The Prince turned, and Ancel found himself the sole subject of the Prince’s attention.

i like that we know he isn’t, because the only living people capable of completely hijacking and consuming laurent’s large capacity for thought are the regent and damen

‘I think your master would prefer you intact,’ said the Prince.

in captive prince, it adds, “said laurent, dryly.” but it’s not dry to ancel, he doesn't want to acknowledge the fact that laurent is deeply unamused

‘You could tie the slave up.’ He saw the moment the Prince took in the idea. There was something more in the Prince’s eyes, something private, though it was only there for a moment, before the Prince’s expression hardened.

well yeah, but he’s not thinking about you, ancel.

Ancel looked Berenger right in the eyes. ‘Tell me how you want me to fuck him.’ ‘I don’t want you to fuck him,’ said Berenger. ‘I do,’ said Ancel. ‘I want to do it with you watching.’

new dialogue, things damen didn’t hear! i think i kinda explored what’s going on here in previous annotations

You mean with the Prince watching, Berenger didn’t say.

this is strange. at first it seems like uncharacteristic pov head jumping, but then it’s like no, this is what ancel THINKS berenger isn’t saying. ancel cannot imagine that berenger’s reluctance here could be for any other reason than, like, petty jealousy of the prince. when in reality berenger just cares about ancel and doesn’t want him to get caught up with insane terrible people

Instead, Berenger frowned in that way that he had, turned to the handlers, and gave some instructions about safety.

so they DO have safe words in vere. although maybe berenger just invented them, that sounds like something he would do

Drawn by the rarity of the spectacle, a few other courtiers had drifted over, and then a few more, a small audience gathering.

love the mention of rarity, since damen assumes that this is totally normal

Ancel didn’t need Berenger. He was going to do it with the Prince’s slave, in front of everyone. No other pet had ever won the Prince’s attention.

ancel i know you were just dumped for the first time but this is not the slay you think it is

The slave’s eyes lifted to meet Ancel’s for a moment, radiating fury, before he turned the full force of it on the Prince, who just stared back at him coldly.

don’t worry about it. they’re fine

He wasn’t a court pet, or a brothel client. He was an Akielon, named for the Akielon prince-killer.

oh my god. imagine ancel’s reaction when he learns that he had unknowingly given the future king of akielos a bj

Ancel could see, as he put his hands on those thighs, that the slave disliked him. That was irritating. Did he think Ancel was salivating to suck his cock? Pets had to do things they didn’t like all the time.

obsessed with the way ancel is projecting berenger onto this. a really neat subversion of the way he intentionally and performatively projected that other guy in order to win his favor. also fun because in the scene from damen’s perspective, ancel is very literally a projection of laurent. neither ancel nor damen are imagining this with the person actually doing it with them. is this what the “mutually unrequited sex” ao3 tag is for

It had been a long time since Ancel had given head, thanks to Berenger’s prudery. It was disconcerting, uncomfortable at first, like he didn’t want to be this close, or put his mouth on it. He pushed past the feeling. He was good at this. He knew what to do and how to do it. The uncomfortable feeling grew. The slave was too stupid to realise he was supposed to be performing.

the way it’s almost a good thing that ancel is uncomfortable right now, because it means that he’s in some small way breaking out of the fucked-up mentality he’s grown up with

love damen and ancel as foils, in terms of pride. ancel takes pride in his willingness to get his hands dirty and perform submission for social clout, damen takes pride in his unwillingness to get his hands dirty (compromise his morals) and give his submission to those who don’t deserve it. but while damen's pride is held up by honor and integrity, ancel's is held up by his own degradation.

How had he ever achieved a court position, with skills this poor? Wasn’t he trying at all?

if you really think about it, damen was a nepo hire

Ancel felt the slave jerk, his cock hardening as the Prince settled himself on the bower seat alongside them.

well, damen, i guess someone noticed how you feel about laurent

i don’t even think laurent fully notices how down bad damen is for him at this point. i think laurent just believes damen is a depraved pervert ruled by his base urges who uses sex slaves and finds him hot just like everyone else and also KILLED HIS BROTHER

‘Like this?’ The wait was deliberate, to make the Prince say it. ‘Like that.’

5d three-way dirty talk happening here. it’s not four ways because berenger definitely has clocked out by now

‘Take it all the way down,’ said the Prince, and Ancel took it deep into his throat.

i like how laurent’s dialogue is slightly different between the two scenes, and damen doesn’t register some of it, and ancel doesn’t register some of it. cool way of writing the different perspectives and showing the things that are distracting both of them, causing them to think about things other than laurent’s words. ancel is mostly thinking about how he can do this in a way that gets him noticed and hired, while damen is mostly thinking about how absurdly turned on he is by laurent being insane

Ancel half expected the Prince’s hand on his head, pushing him down the last inch, but when he glanced up, neither of the men were paying him any attention, their eyes locked on one another.

sorry ancel, they gaze a lot. it’s kind of their thing

He came up without coughing or needing a breath, a cultivated skill that was often admired.

not by damen or laurent, at the moment

It didn’t matter that the Prince didn’t seem pay him any attention, or that he was only a conduit. The slave wasn’t even looking at him. It was what he wanted.

ancel when he lies

The two of them were locked together, Ancel utterly forgotten as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

god that sucks ancel but it’s also so fucking funny (as i said in the capri chapter 5 notes, i am not taking the dubcon as seriously as i could because the book doesn’t take it seriously in this scene. damen’s rage isn’t at the lack of consent, because this is actually pretty normal to him, and not seen as demeaning in his society for a slave to do. i think more than anything else he’s mad at himself for being into this, which means that he’s mad at laurent and ancel for making him confront the fact that he’s into this)

Courtiers crowded around with accolades, comments, and congratulations. ‘You really are the perfect pet,’ and ‘I’ve never seen anyone take it like that,’ and, ‘I’d pay a fortune for you.’

but it doesn’t matter, because they’re not berenger

Berenger had a hand on his shoulder and was staring into his face. Ancel lifted his chin. ‘Did he hurt you?’ The words were short.

😭 😭 😭 😭

‘I liked it,’ said Ancel. ‘I like sucking cock. I’m a pet.’

ancel when he continues to lie

Torveld, Prince of Patras

oh i hate that guy

It was the blond slave from the bower. The insipid, spineless creature who made you want to pinch his skin, or shake him to wake up. Like a useless doe in a forest. Expecting someone else to help him. With looks like that, the blond slave could have owned this court if he’d put any work into it. Instead he was trembling and helpless and waiting for a rescue that was never going to come. It was irritating.

yeah. if not for my distance from both of these worlds, and the fact that i can afford to be more empathetic and thoughtful than ancel, this is about where i’d land too re: akelion slaves. (if you read my previous annotations of the series, i probably don’t have to tell you that.) i just like how strongly and disdainfully this is written, while still within itself being flawed. like he’s right, but it’s a sad kind of right. it’s pointing out the problem but disinterested in a solution. but it isn’t ancel’s job to have a solution, it’s the narrative’s job. and we see that happen, in a very careful slow burn from damen’s pov, during the main series.

i can’t believe people think that this series is slavery apologism. 99% of the time, this series is DETERMINED to hold itself painfully and uncomfortably responsible for the problematic content it contains. and that 1% is different for every person who reads it, based on their personal tastes and values. and that’s good, because even our favorite fiction should be something we engage with critically, rather than passively accept.

‘A whole night with the Regent?’ Ancel twirled the stick. ‘Aren’t you jealous?’ ‘I’m not jealous,’ said Nicaise. ‘You’re old.’

‘Then the Regent will call you to attend him. Everyone will see you sitting with him. That’s what you want, isn’t it? The bids for your contract will go up.’

i’m going to try to remember why this is happening. i know it’s some elaborate and probably petty bullshit. i think it’s something like 1) laurent got his ethics called into question by the guy who killed his brother and then 2) decided to do what damen asked and help the akelion slaves because he knew it was the right thing even though he hated damen so bad, therefore 3) laurent needed to create circumstances that would cause torveld to “save” them from the regent without his (laurent's) direct intervention so 4) laurent antagonized nicaise into making a bet that his (laurent’s) plan to get torveld to take the slaves wouldn’t work and then loudly talked about that plan in front of nicaise, prompting 5) nicaise to arrange a sadistic performance of slaves for the regent so the sadistic regent would want to keep the slaves, therefore winning nicaise the bet against laurent 6) which laurent knew would literally backfire because the fire would frighten the slaves and then prompt to torveld take them out of sympathy and pity. yeah i think that's it

It made Ancel angry. This mewling creature who had been brought to court and lavished with every opportunity that Ancel had worked for, was doing nothing to advance his own career, even now. But in the next moment Prince Torveld was calling the slave over, and—rather than booting him out of the hall—was fussing over him, talking to him, stroking his tousled blond head. Ancel gaped. Prince Torveld was taking the slave into his household? For what? For being too weak to survive at court? The unfairness was terrible. If Ancel had wanly lain down and waited for a rescuer, he would have died in the street.

i really like this short story. i like ancel’s character, and what the story is trying to say. it fits very nicely with the overall series themes about weakness/strength, submission/domination, and free will. also intimacy and trust, although that’s almost by omission.

‘Tell me about your master,’ the Regent said. ‘Lord Berenger.’ ‘He’s boring,’ said Ancel. ‘Serious. Loyal.’ ‘Loyal to my nephew,’ said the Regent. He spoke pleasantly, tweaking Ancel’s hair as he did so. The sharp tug hurt.

WOAH THIS IS COOL. we hardly got to see any of the regent’s private contributions to the complicated vere court nonsense in captive prince (there was that scene where he talked to damen alone, but that might have been it?)

‘Loyal to the throne.’ Ancel’s heart had started beating faster.

i like how the regent equates his nephew with the throne. so different from how he talks to laurent in front of the council. clearly, out of earshot of anyone who actually matters politically, the regent is threatened by his nephew.

‘I’ve heard he’s met with my nephew, several times. What was discussed?’ ‘I couldn’t say. I wasn’t there for the meetings.’ He kept his tone light. ‘So there were meetings.’

berenger you’re so real for that

His mouth felt dry suddenly, and it was hard to swallow. He thought of Berenger in the hall somewhere behind him, wondered if Berenger was looking at him, thought he probably wasn’t. ‘No. I mean that I don’t know—I don’t know what meetings he’s taken.’

ancel can tell that berenger is in danger, and even though he thinks berenger wants nothing to do with him, he tries to protect him

‘Oh dear.’ The tone was disappointed. ‘I thought you were clever.’ The Regent shifted, forcing Ancel to reposition, awkwardly. He was motioning for one of the servants to approach, looking past Ancel as though he was done with him. ‘I am.’ Ancel’s heart was pounding. ‘You just haven’t asked the right question.’ ‘And what’s that,’ said the Regent. ‘If I’m loyal,’ said Ancel.

and here’s the temptation of ancel finally getting what he’s always said he wanted, he just has to throw berenger under the bus. he tries to avoid this by making berenger irrelevant and putting the attention on himself, but we know that the regent does not give a shit about ancel, politically or sexually.

Ancel watched him turn away, watched him enter the darkened part of the rooms that held his bed, beginning to unlace his own jacket. ‘I didn’t tell him anything.’ The words were a blurt, delivered to the back of Berenger’s shoulders. Berenger’s movement came to a halt.

i really like ancel.

‘About you and the Prince. That you’ve been meeting secretly each night. That you’re taking his side, that you’ve offered him funding and passage through Varenne, I didn’t tell him any of that, I thought that you—’

oh shit it’s that deep!!! fuck yeah berenger! wait does that mean that berenger had been loyal to laurent and thinking he was an admirable person for months/years only to see laurent in full sadistic kinky joker mode with a person who he doesn't know is laurent's brother's killer? do you think he was like "oh great, he's actually a freak too. fuck my life"

Berenger turned. Berenger was across the room, his hands on Ancel’s arms, gripping him tightly, his eyes boring into Ancel’s. ‘Stop it. You’re spoiling my clothes. I didn’t tell him. I told you. I didn’t tell him anything.’

oh, ancel immediately thinks he’s going to be punished and stripped of the nice things he’s been given. that’s so fucking sad :(

‘How do you know about any of that?’ ‘Just because I like nice things, and don’t read the boring books you like, doesn’t mean I’m stup—’ ‘This isn’t a game, Ancel.’

most! normal! man! in! this! series!

‘I’m trying to secure my future! I need to go somewhere. After you—after you end my contract.'

true, and explains some of the desperation ancel typically chooses not to acknowledge because of his pride

‘So that’s it. You want gifts?’ Berenger said, in a flat, deadly voice, ‘Are you trying to blackmail me for money?’ Ancel felt his mouth turn to sand. ‘No.’

ancel doesn’t want gifts! he wants a friend!!! i love this story, especially in this shitty world!!!!

‘I don’t want—I told you, I didn’t tell him anything. I wouldn’t. I was your pet, I thought we—I don’t want your money like that—’

going to be HUGE when ancel learns how healthy friendships and relationships work. people just do nice things for each other, and are loyal to each other, because they care and it’s what they want to do

‘You must hate me.’ ‘Hate you?’ said Berenger. ‘Why would I hate you? You’ve always been honest with me. You never tried to hide what you were.’ ‘A whore,’ said Ancel.

oh fuck.

really, really good choice of a word there. it’s easy to get caught up in the insane gimmicks of the veretian court, the slight dark humor to it, the way pets act like they’re playing the game willingly because this is a way for them to be treated well and showered with praise. but deep down, this system exists so they can be perceived as whores, belonging and submissive to people whose power rests on their degradation. and deep down, that’s how they feel about themselves.

goddamn, it is cool to see the worldbuilding expanded upon from this perspective.

‘So what if I am? I’m not ashamed of it. I’m good at it. I can make men want me.’ His voice felt raw. ‘It just doesn’t work on you.’

FREE WILL, POWER, AND TRUST THEMES DING DING DING

Berenger would be just one more owner, one more man from his past, one more name on a list. There was a hard pressure in his chest that he had to ignore. He would turn and walk away from it, he would move on to the next man, and the next. ‘It works on me,’ said Berenger.

okay, i like it being romantic, i think. because just like damen and laurent, their friendship and romance are deeply connected. and i’m glad that these two characters can find each other and be REAL in the midst of the fake nonsense

The words, in Berenger’s honest voice, at first didn’t make sense.

ancel can’t accept praise if he knows the person giving it is being honest, understands who he truly is, and expects nothing in return. girl same

‘You’ve never—’ ‘You never wanted me to.’ ‘Is that what you think?’ said Ancel. ‘Yes,’ said Berenger, steadily.

berenger clocked that ancel didn’t really want to be any of this long before ancel did, and has always respected that. i’m glad that he exists in this world.

‘If the Regent prevails, I won’t have money or lands. You should be with someone who can give you the luxuries you deserve, not someone who’ll embroil you in—’ ‘That’s why?’ said Ancel. ‘That’s why you decided to break my contract?’ He made sense of that much. And he clung to it. He wanted to ask, Does that mean you’re not giving me up because you don’t want me? He didn’t know how to ask that. He was usually so good at asking for what he wanted.

this is so fucking good. oh my god, this short story has been like a masterclass of creating a contained and intimate plot that develops a character individually and in relation to another character, while using the world around them to synthesize relevant and gratifying thematic development. it just comes together so perfectly, and simultaneously feels laser-focused and extremely wide in scope. SO good.

‘Can you honestly tell me that you’d want to stay with me if it meant risking your position?’ Berenger said. ‘If I had no money?’ ‘I’ve never fucked anyone without it being for money.’ The words came out differently than he’d intended. The painfully straightforward way that Berenger had asked him that question meant that Ancel had given an honest answer.

they’re matching each other’s freak, if "freak" means “honest person moving towards a healthier state of mind.” meanwhile, damen and laurent—

It was Berenger who spoke. ‘When I saw you in the ring, I thought you were incredible. You were fearless, powerful. You took on every lord in the room, and beat them. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.’

oh i go crazy for “i want to possess you because i am compelled by your unique and attractive qualities and i want to keep you by my side, not because i want to degrade and reduce you until you’re beneath me.” which is probably why i really like the captive prince series by cs pacat, but not like 80% of fiction with similar kink-related premises

‘I don’t care what might happen.’ He was moving forward, because Berenger wanted him.

oh.

those two sentences didn’t quite get me to tear up, but uhhhh they came pretty close

‘If he fails,’ said Ancel. He was stepping into Berenger’s space. He put his hand on the laces of Berenger’s jacket, and Berenger didn’t move away. ‘But if he wins?’

:’) the metatextual conversation this story has been having with the reader the entire time, tied in perfectly with the events at the forefront. really, really well done.

final notes:

not going to lie, i think i liked this short story more than 40-60% of king’s rising. damn.

honestly, i kind of hope ancel and berenger don’t end up together immediately. berenger is still 10 years older than ancel, and is like the first person in ancel’s life to show him respect. what rings truest to me is the idea of them being close friends and allies especially during the turbulent wartimes, and hooking up a few times and enjoying it, but a much more confident ancel eventually considering other partners and at least making more friends. either ancel doesn’t end up romantically with berenger because there’s someone even better suited for him romantically and sexually, or he decides that he truly does want berenger because even though there are other people who would love him for who he is, none of them are berenger. either way, they’re close friends the entire time and it’s very sweet. i like them a lot.

[adhdduckie]

felix felices, or liquid luck f.w. x fem! reader.

my masterlist

irl mutuals dni (你没有看到我）

music choice; yo bro wtf

t.w.: swearing. (sorry i couldnt help myself)

word count: 3.5k

synopsis; strangers (hallway crushes) to lovers, with the help of felix felicis potion, or the liquid luck potion!!

here you go anon! hope you enjoy <3 sorry i took so long.

im so sunburnt help

(slightly inspired from my own events but let me tell you i died inside. i hate chemistry oh my lord, potions reminds me too much of it lol)

warnings; not proof read. 3 (?) mentions of y/n, a really stupid misunderstanding. reader is described with hair that can get blown into their face.

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everybody knew fred weasley. it was impossible not to, as they were hogwart's most well known pranksters since the era of the marauders.

of course, you did not happen to know him well enough yourself. you had a couple of lessons with him, such as; potions, herbology, and arithmetics.

His brother and he never really contributed anything to class discussion, only ever helpfully supplying mischief and jokes, and whatever they deemed interesting to themselves.

however, you noticed him wherever you went. It seemed as if it was almost impossible not to, he just happened to pop up randomly everywhere. In hogsmeade, in the hallways between classes, and in your dreams. (not in a weird way you weirdos).

Maybe the first time you ever really started thinking about him was when he appeared in your dream…you weren't too sure. But soon enough, you began thinking about him way too much, counting down the lessons till you could see him again in a next lesson.

you began searching for him in the hallways, the common room, the dining hall. even in places you know he would never be, but it just seems like you were always looking for him.

in lessons, everything he did, you were drawn to. you knew what he had, knew what he liked, and you spoke to him only every once in a while.

'this sucks.' you'd tell your friends. they'd laugh, telling you you should just talk to him more.

which isn't really helpful. you would think.

through some miracle ( or horror, you really couldn't decide.) you ended up sitting with fred in potions. Technically it wasn't a miracle, you had just been goofing off with your friends, being too loud for dear old snapey, you'd been moved next to him.

'oh god oh god oh god oh god' was the only thing going through your head as you packed up your desk to move next to him. your friend could barely hold in her laughter, having to slap her own hand over her mouth to muffle it.

'oh shit oh shit oh shit what have i done to deserve this oh my god' is what you were thinking as you walked towards the back, brushing past george as you walked towards fred.

You sat down at his desk, and he turned his face to you, giving you a soft smile. you pray internally that your face does not erupt into flames.

professor snape, once satisfied that you are suffering, turns back to the board, tapping his wand impatiently on the board.

"today," he drawls, "we will be attempting the felix felicis potion. failure to produce a functioning potion will result in a fourteen inch parchment describing every step you made and what you did wrong." he finishes, piercing his gaze into every one of his students.

you wince. fourteen inches for a mistake? seems costly. Potions has never been your strong point. (for the purpose of this, we're gonna pretend fred is excellent at potions.) You pray to the gods above that you don't mess this up for fred.

as snape sits down on his desk, working through marking some paper. as you get up to go get the ingredients as fred sets up the cauldron. you come back, setting down the ashwinder egg, squid bulb, murtlap growth, thyme occamy eggshell, and powdered common rue on the desk.

fred smiles again, thanking you for your help.

"so we have to set in the ashwinder egg first. you wanna do it?" fred asks, as you tie up your hair. he watches as you do so, and you nod, trying to fight off any embarrassment.

he steps back from the cauldron, letting you do so. your hands are shaking and you are doing everything in your power to stop it. in your haste, you knock over the murtlap growth, but before it falls, fred's hand flashes out, catching it in his hand.

"sorry!" you apologise frantically, and he laughs. It's the nicest laugh you've ever heard, deep and infectious, a laugh you'd be able to hear across the room and still recall years later.

"don't worry. i caught it." he says, setting it back on the table.

you smile, avoiding eye contact. you manage to finish the task, and with his help with mixing, the felix felicis is done. while he was mixing, you tried to pretend not to notice his hands. they're nice, to say the least. his hands are rough and calloused from years of being on the quidditch team, as a beater. he's got small white scars littered across his hands from years of experimenting with george over their joke shop products. you have to drag your eyes away.

The felix felicis potion is finished, and it's the most beautiful shade of gold you've ever seen. You would describe it akin to what you would imagine liquid gold to be, and it fits perfectly into a little vial the size of your middle finger. all that work for a little vial no bigger than your middle finger.

it's still the most valuable potion in the world, though.

the potion has large drops of gold leaping across the surface like goldfish, but it never seems to spill out of the vial. you put the stopper over it, and you hand it to fred, your fingers brushing against his warm ones in the process.

"thanks." he seems to whisper, even though he speaks at normal volume.

"we work well together, i think. usually i can't even get a basic potion done." you tell him, laughing a little.

"i bet that's not true." he responds, the corner of his lips upturned.

"it is." you laugh.

you both return to your seats after setting all the equipment away, and as the first group finished, it means you get to present it first.

snape looks at it approvingly, the first time he's ever regarded something you've done, as done well. you can't help but smile, and snape speaks. "i'm glad that you were able to work well once i removed you from your friends. mr. weasley will now be your partner."

you stare at him in slight disbelief, before shrugging and saying, "yes professor snape."

"as the first students done, and the best potion made, you may keep it. decide amongst yourselves which of you gets it." snape finishes, before shooing you away from his desk.

you both stare at each other, your eyes meeting his hazel brown ones. "you have it-" "i don't want-" you both say, before he tries to hand it to you.

you push his hand away, shaking your head, "it's alright, you can keep it."

"no, i think you should keep it. after all, you need it for potions, right?" he jokes, pushing it into your hands.

you gape at him in mock shock. "how could you say that! We only did so well because of me!" you respond, in mock indignation.

he laughs, as he closes your palm over the small vial, and you realise you've lost. however, you decide, you will sneak it into his bag when he's not paying attention.

the end of the lesson has never come so fast. And for the first time in your life, you're slightly disappointed to leave potions. before leaving you levitate the felix felicis potion into his bag with your wand, and you grin wickedly. you'll just have to see him in your other classes later.

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

Fred Weasley thinks he is absolutely screwed. After a year of having a crush on a girl who he does not talk to often, despite sharing three lessons with her, he is now partners in potions with her for an indefinite period of time.

He doesn't know when he first noticed you, but god, is he glad he did. he thinks you may be the prettiest girl he's ever seen, with the brightest smile, and the sweetest personality.

so imagine his surprise, that this sweet girl, has gotten in trouble for talking so much (he doesn't care, he liked listening to your voice)

while you were freaking out and chanting 'oh shit' in your head, something similar was going through fred's. george coughs, unsuccessfully hiding his laugh behind it. fred elbows george to get him to shut up as you approach the table, and george gathers his things, to leave. he winks at fred, before walking to your previous seat next to your friend, flashing a quick and easy smile.

fred wishes he could talk to you so easily, and he tries his best not to show his nervousness, flashing you what he thinks is an awkward smile. (it isnt, it looks natural as hell, not to mention hot as hell)

while you make the potion, he watches you with fervour, as if he's scared he'll miss a single movement you'll make, hungrily soaking up your smiles like a man starved.

every touch feels like something he's been missing, like a hot cup of chocolate after a walk in winter, and he's scared he's going to get addicted.

he wants to give you the felix felicis, and is happy when you finally give up. after potions, in herbology, he reaches into his bag, to find the felix felicis. he laughs, before searching across the classroom for you.

when he makes eye contact, he raises an eyebrow, holding it in his palm to show you, his heart fluttering in his chest. he looks as composed and calm as ever to you, but he knows differently.

it becomes a game, the felix felicis. it takes over several months, and you start to get creative with it, hiding it in his mail, he hid it in your textbooks somehow, you hid it in his hair, etc etc.

it became a competition, who could come up with the craziest spots. after you hid it a couple months later in what you hope was his jacket pocket.

it's been awhile since you had first sat with fred in potions because of professor snape, and you're so happy to say that you've grown closer over the months, even spending time together out of lessons at cafes to study, or in the library together.

after hiding the felix felicis in his jacket pocket while on a walk with him in the winter months, you wait for his turn.

one day passes. nothing happens. another day, and another. four days later, and it still hasn't turned up yet. where is it? you wonder. you check for it everywhere you go, turning your entire dorm upside down searching for it.

he couldn't have lost it, right? it was in his jacket pocket. could it be that he's bored of this game, and he just decided to keep it? must be.

you're disappointed, of course, it was very enjoyable. but there's nothing you can really do.

imagine your surprise, when you walk into the dining hall, to see fred standing with his brother, and what- what's that in his hand? none other than the felix felicis.

you watch as he takes a swig of it, setting the rest of the vial in his pocket. his brother pats him on the back in what seems to be encouragement, and he walks over to your friend.

he smiles at her, and she smiles back. they talk and for some reason your heart starts to get a bit heavy.

'did he just drink the felix felicis just to talk to her?' you ask yourself. unable to stand there and watch, you turn around and walk out of the dining hall, threading your fingers through your hair, brushing it away from your face.

something dark, sick and familiar is brewing in the pit of your stomach, it's pulling, pushing your heart strings.

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

fred weasley is going to ask you out. he toys with the felix felicis vial in his pocket as he waits for you to enter the dining hall, turning it over and over again in his pocket as he leans against one of the columns with george.

you don't show up for awhile, and fred's wondering where you are.

"go ask her friend." george states, pushing him forward, giving him a reassuring pat on the back.

fred hypes himself up, and he takes the vial out of his pocket, swigging a sip as he stalks towards your friend. the liquid is thick but light in his mouth, tasting of golden hawthorn berries and honey.

he taps her on the shoulder and smiles at her nervously.

"hey. where's y/n?" he asks your friend

"she's still upstairs i believe." she responds with a smile.

she turns around to see you walking out of the hall, and her smile drops.

"oh."

"what?" fred asks.

"i think she may have misunderstood what's going on." she sighs, and gives fred a slightly strained smile. "you couldn't have waited till after you spoke to me to drink it, could you?"

fred flashes a confused look. "whatever do you mean?"

"hasn't the entire potion been a game? who could hide it the best?" your friend asks him.

"i mean, yeah, it has. but i don't see the problem…?" he scratches the back of his neck.

she rolls her eyes, muttering something about 'boys…' freds eyes narrow, and she lets out a soft laugh.

"right. think of it this way. imagine you've had a crush on this guy for ages. you're not exactly close, but you talk. you have one 'special' thing you do together. for example, hiding the potion….and then you see them keeping it for themselves….you got me?" Your friend finishes, raising her eyebrows at him.

he stares, before realisation finally dawns on him.

"oh shit." he mutters, hand threading through his ginger locks.

"well?" your friend asks, somewhat impatient. "go after her."

fred nods, sprinting across the dining hall, after you. praying to himself that he can fix this, and george throws him a thumbs up as he sprints past.

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

'fuck.' you think as you sit down on the edge of the astronomy tower. you can't help but replay the moment of fred drinking the felix felicis before he speaks to your friend. he looked so nervous but so hyped.

you're not about to jump off the astronomy tower, but it's a nice place to be where you need some time alone, to think. you need that now.

that sick, familiar and painful thing pulling at your gut earlier, its back. theres nothing you can do now, but just sit back and let it happen, you suppose.

She's your friend, and so is fred. you have to be okay with it. it's not worth losing friends over.

the wind picks up, ruffling your hair into your face, tangling it into knots. the rain starts pouring down, dropleta cascading down your face.

turning your face up to the sky, you let out a deep sigh, feeling tears prickling at your waterline, fighting the tears back. 'no. you don't have a right to be upset.' you chatise.

'he's not yours. he never was.' you need to remind yourself. this isn't fair to either of them, they had no control over their feelings.

despite that, the tears continue to fall. you can't compete, this isn't fair. she knew you liked him. she knew how you felt. you literally spoke to her about it.

There is nothing. nothing you can do about this. you are just going to have to wait for the feelings to go away. it wouldn't be fair to like your best friend's boyfriend. (getting ahead of yourself, aren't we?)

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

fred weasley is freaking out. he can't find you. you're not in the common room, in any of your lessons for the day (yes, he knows your schedule), you're not in any of the bathrooms (he didn't go in, he just asked the girls who came out of the bathrooms), and you're not near the black lake.

in his haste, he almost runs in to someone. "shit." he grunts

"watch where you're going!" someone says. he looks up and realises it's harry.

"oh it's you. you alright there, fred?" harry says, pulling fred up to his feet.

"harry!" fred basically shouts. "where's the marauders map?" he practically begs, and harry raises a brow in response.

"not the time. i need it." harry nods, pulling it out of his pocket, before handing it over to fred.

"oh shit." fred whispers, seeing your name pop up at the astronomy tower. how could he forget it? you told him weeks ago that it was your favourite place in the school.

shoving the marauders map back into harry's arms, fred yells his thanks to harry as he speeds through the hall, skipping steps three at a time to get to you, he stumbles a couple of times, not hitting the floor, but catching himself just in time.

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

your back is to the door, and the combination of the rain and the wind prevents you from hearing it open.

"y/n? are you alright?" fred asks quietly, taking a deep breath and sitting besides you.

you turn your face away, wiping away the marks of tears before turning back to him.

"yeah. just enjoying the rain. it's nice, isn't it?" you tell him, trying to change the topic, giving him a soft smile.

you both stare off into the distance, slowly watching all the dark rain clouds move away from the astronomy tower.

he notices that you're drenched, and he sighs. he pulls his jumper over his head, pulling his wand out from his pocket as he does so. "exaresco" he whispers as you dry off.

he passes you his jacket, which you accept without a word. it's still warm with his body heat, and smells faintly of the quidditch pitch and cinnamon, tinged with a scent of something burnt.

"so. you and (friend's name), huh?" you say to attempt to lighten the mood. turning your face to him, you send him a (fake) sly smile, nudging him in the arm.

he stares at you, furrowing his eyebrows. since he finally knows how you feel about him, why are you acting like this?

"no." his reply is short, straight to the point.

you gape at him, mouth falling open and he lets out a deep chuckle, his index finger reaching out and pushing your jaw back up.

"what do you mean no?? I saw you going up to her, drinking the felix felicis." you say, pushing his hand away from your face with a confused frown.

"it wasn't for her." He states simply, hoping his answer is enough for you to finally understand his feelings.

you stare blankly at him.

"you're one of the smartest people i know, but you're so oblivious." he states, sighing playfully.

"then who's the lucky girl?" you ask him, not really wanting to hear the answer anyway. your stomach's already feeling heavy, and he's not even said anything yet. is it katie bell? angelina johnson? who else has he spoken to that he might like?

fred lets out a groan. how can you be so oblivious.

"what?" You laugh, nudging him and trying to get out an answer from him. your hands are getting cold, so you put them in your (fred's) jacket pockets. there's something cold inside, and you pull out a familiar vial.

"why would you think there's anyone else?" fred asks, eyes trained on you as you turn the vial over and over again in your hands.

that catches your attention and your eyes turn to him. "what do you mean?"

fred laughs, his hand combs through his ginger locks as he pushes them back nervously.

"I'm trying, and failing apparently, to tell you i like you." he finally says, laughing nervously again, avoiding eye contact with you.

you gape, for the umpteenth time tonight, before realising he must be joking. you force out a laugh, slightly (super) disappointed. "you're so funny." you deadpan.

"i'm not joking."

"you must be." You respond, slightly hurt that he finds something like this funny. you're facing away again, so you don't notice him look at you. something steels inside of him, and he's confident this will end in his favour.

he reaches up, his hand finding your jaw, and he pulls your face back to him.

something in his eyes is dark, and you realise for the first time, that he's not joking. there's something similar to adoration in his eyes, and it's everything you do in your power to stop from gasping.

"i'm not joking." he repeats.

you can feel his breath on you, fanning across your skin like a warm embrace.

"are you sure?" you whisper, trying to contain the butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

"yes." his response is short, sure and straight to the point. "i am"

the next thing you know, his lips are on yours, breaths mingling together. he pulls you closer, and you feel yourself melt into his embrace.

you pull back from the kiss, and he lets out a unhappy groan.

"does this mean…you like me?" you ask him.

he glares at you, and you laugh. "i'm only joking." is your response. he grins, his forehead resting against yours.

you lie your head on his shoulder, and the both of you enjoy each other's company. this all happened because of felix felics. you can't help but feel so grateful. maybe you should stop hating potions now.

[dear-kumari]

This may be a bit underbaked bc I'm not a history expert, but I do believe that if you must view the Pointed Hats as analogous to any single real-world group, it would be the Christian church during the medieval period in Europe. They're somewhat sequestered from the general population (the Great Hall and ateliers vs. the Vatican and monasteries); have near-exclusive access to certain important information (the truth about magic vs. the language of the Bible and much of historical record) and the means of media production (Silverwood ink and casting seals vs. the labor and resources to copy manuscripts); are supported by taxes but do not seem to pay any (ch. 48); are relied on to perform individual charity, general social services, and paid services for feudal lords and monarchs (a central tension in ch. 39 and much of the Silver Eve arc); and of course, are punitive towards heresy and apostasy to the point of having a specialized judicial branch to root out sinful witches (the Knights Moralis vs. the Inquisitors, who are often depicted in similar colors).

WHA's setting is clearly inspired by the medieval period in its aesthetics and worldbuilding, but it doesn't include any organized religions (iirc) because the secular Pointed Hats roughly fulfill that role, including as moral arbiters for this society. Knowing that can also clarify the position of forbidden magic in the story as not just crime, but sin (as defined by Pointed Hat dogma). Despite sharing the name of "witch," Pointed Hats aren't at all comparable to witches as they were understood in the medieval period, while the Brimhats are functionally the witches in this analogy. They are marginalized thanks to their heretical beliefs and/or sinful practices (esp in cultivating knowledge preceding and/or contradicting the current world order) and offer a precarious alternative to the stifling conformist institution of the Pointed Hats.

Now, if you're reading this and going, "Hmm, okay, but WHA puts the Pointed Hats in a generally positive light and shows them as being far less violent, corrupt, and oppressive than the actual medieval Church, while also playing the Brimhats pretty straight as borderline demonic criminals rather than unfairly marginalized heretics or political targets," I think that's a good line of thought to follow! It's similar to the "does WHA actually say ACAB or do you just like Shirahama" debate but a bit more accurate to the Pointed Hats' actual role in this fictional society, imo (because as I've said in the past, I don't think WHA "says ACAB" by any metric, but I also think it's overly reductive to call the Knights "cops"). I also think this is a fun thought exercise if you, like Coco, fell in love with the sense of wonder and goodness around the Pointed Hats' magic, because we don't tend to look back in history and consider all the positive feelings the average person might've had towards the church, nor how radical and dangerous it would've actually felt to question them.