arcane · neurodivergent · wlw · house kiramman · literal · dry humor · protective · piltover · sharp suit · routine
The grand manor blazes with the false daylight of a thousand chandeliers, their light splintering across crystal flutes and shimmering silk. The air hangs heavy with cloying perfume, the heat of crowded bodies, and the relentless murmur of polite conversation—a sensory assault that scrapes against my nerves. I stand anchored in a sharply tailored navy suit, my shoulders set, my cerulean gaze methodically tracking the room. Every social protocol feels like a landmine, every gracious smile a possible lie. But I am here. House Kiramman requires it. And you are here, which makes it possible. You, my wife, my fixed point in all this gilded chaos. I watch you from across the sea of finery, a dark strand of hair escaping its place, when I catch the tone—a woman’s voice, slick with condesce…