He’d known what the letter was the moment he’d seen the envelope on the doormat that morning. He’d tossed it atop the pile of half-abandoned notes and books—which had spread from the table to the kitchen counter and showed no sign of slowing its march of expansion—with full intention of ignoring it. Kelran’s non-House parties were elaborate, tedious, and full of exactly the sort of people Rizeth spent as much effort as possible avoiding. He had no desire whatsoever to subject himself to an evening of pointless small talk and mediocre wine.

Ashenivir made no reply. Rizeth glanced down—he was asleep. He smoothed Ashenivir’s hair back from his face and tried not to dwell on how impossibly good it was to have him lying here like this. He knew he should move, put him to bed and leave him to rest. I’ll just sit a few more minutes. In case he wakes up again. He stayed there until sunrise.

“No. No! I’m fine, I promise I’m fine.” He was lying, and they both knew it. No blood on him, no bruises, the mark still shrieking with distress but no pain, nothing to suggest anyone had touched him at all. No-one to blame, but clearly something had happened. Rizeth’s hand slid to his cheek, and he leaned into the touch, a flicker of relief finally slipping through the mark. His breath stuttered against Rizeth’s wrist. “Alright,” Rizeth said. “Have you eaten yet?” Ashenivir shook his head. “Would you like to come with me to get something, or shall we return to the apartment?” “I want to go home, please,” Ashenivir whispered, and it took Rizeth a moment to realise what he’d said. When it hit him, the street turned momentarily upside down. “Very well, xi’hum,” he said softly. “Home it is.”

His other hand curved over the back of Ashenivir’s neck, and the mark seemed to thrum beneath his touch, calling to its maker. Ashenivir moaned into his mouth, rocking against him. Rizeth bit his lip. “I told you to behave.” Ashenivir bit him back. “Make me.” Rizeth knew exactly what he was doing and let him, because it was Ashenivir and what other choice did he have? He pulled him close and put his mouth to his neck, over his racing pulse. Wet skin, hot beneath his tongue, and this impossible boy grinding atop him, apparently in a disobedient mood today, and he would punish him later; right now Rizeth wanted and damn it, he was going to have—

“Are any of your sisters engaged?” Elia asked. She knew they weren’t, at least not officially, but there had been engagement rumours about all three of his sisters at various points over the past several years. “No, though not due to a lack of trying on the part of my parents and various officials,” Hugh replied. She looked at him curiously.  “Cath is too focused on her studies to meet suitors, Mags refuses to come home from her travels if there’s a suitor waiting to meet her, and Beth…” He trailed off with a smile. “Beth is just too stubborn.” Too stubborn? What did that mean? “At first they tried to introduce her to men, and she wasn’t interested. She actually challenged one to combat and beat him so badly that he rescinded his offer out of shame before she had a chance to turn him down. And then they gave up on men and started introducing her to appropriate women, and that’s when she decided she would only marry for love,” he said.

Enemies to lovers. Admittedly I've never actually tried it, but it makes so little sense to me that I cannot see myself ever bothering. Way too much sexual attraction in there. My ace ass cannot comprehend even reading it. The seemingly controversial less extreme versions, like rivals to lovers, make much more sense to me, and they're okay. But mortal enemies to lovers loses me

Rules: given a word, find a sentence in your WIP that starts with each letter

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "No, not yet. Apparently a couple of the apprentices knocked it over when it was being forged and they have to start over. Not entirely a bad thing, mind you. I had some new ideas for the patterns I want after studying the culture of warrior women over in Jaquir, and this gives me a chance to make some changes. Still, the helm won't likely be finished until the end of the Mage's Final Festival." "I'm sorry, Kiki, I know you wanted it all finished by then," Tavar said with a little nod. "You still look wonderful, though. Have you sorted out where all of your knives go?"

Weirdly enough, it's recognising that things don't have to make logical sense. I always try to logic my way through a magic system, usually using earth rules, which... doesn't go very well.

Home didn’t make him think of Mythen Thaelas any longer. Home was the apartment, with his abandoned notes and Ashenivir’s mess of books. Home was a leash in the entryway and manacles on the bedframe, his cufflinks and Ashenivir’s hair ties on the nightstand; it was tangled sheets and sunlight glinting on the links of a collar, the mark beneath his hand and Ashenivir on his knees with hungry eyes and an eager smile. Mythen Thaelas without him would never be home at all.