#(This is not an invitation to argue with me! Any arguing with me requires a $50 donation to the Lebanese Red Cross.)

[furby-organist]

// Alright, throwing this out there before I sleep: now that I've done with my exam and I may have access to my laptop soon, I'd like to get back into the swing of things and write with more people! Like this post (or reply) if you want me to make a mental note to check out your blog / reach out to you about RPing!

Also, for reference, since this seems to be a Hot Fandom Topic: I consider myself neither proship nor anti. My rules page is pretty up-to-date with who I will/won't interact with.

[desireangel]

A Good Girl's Reputation | Aemond Targaryen

Modern!Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: It was the last place you wanted to be but nonetheless, you found yourself pulled along to a party you hosted by none other than the Targaryen's, only for spilled wine to force you into Aemond's shirt. A sight that had him dragging you to his bed, eager to corrupt the well-behaved girl who had set him ablaze with desire.

Word Count: 6.7k.

Warnings: MDNI 18+ only!! Oral (f receiving), unprotected P in V sex, dirty talk!!, a major cliche on the good girl trope, reader is shy!, slight degradation, mean friends at a party maybe?, Aegon being sneaky, bad language. Unedited. Please let me know if I missed anything!

Author's Note: Okay, I wasn't going to post this one because it was purely self-indulgent and I kinda wasn't happy with my pen game in this but I was feeling bad about the delay in Dark Cherry part 5 so wanted to share something!! I also love the idea of Aemond being totally feral about seeing reader in his clothes. Share your thoughts my loves, I'm more than happy to discuss things, thoughts and feedback with you all - xoxo, kisses!! <3

There was a nonsensical grandeur about everything that Jilly dragged you into. This time was no different and you silently waited for the sound of the elevator ding while listening to your best friend chatter about the ‘world’s best fucking boyfriend–wait, do you think this makes him my boyfriend?’

“I don’t know, Jilly,” you nibbled on your lip, craning your neck to look around the corner of the entrance hallway. For what reason, you weren’t sure but there was a crawling nervousness on your skin and the urge to make sure there were no unexpected surprises was consuming. “It’s Aegon. Only he can answer that question for you.”

The elevator was taking an infuriatingly long time. You wondered if this was the building’s way of telling you to turn around and return to the dorm room that had become your safe haven over the last two years. Jilly had somehow gotten herself involved with none other than Aegon Targaryen, a man notorious for his partying and hedonism.

It was entertaining at first, and you were more than happy to remain a spectator of the ridiculous pairing. Jilly was entirely different to Aegon and tended to carry herself with a lot more modesty than Aegon was known for. She was calculating and calm where he was impulsive and excitable. 

You thought back to the first time they had met. In a tutorial for a statistics class you needed to take to meet course requirements, the three of you paired together to facilitate a useless discussion on probabilities. The bickering between the two of them was amusing and the first greeting that Aegon had graced the two of you with was a grumbled ‘what kind of name is Jilly?’

And weeks later, Aegon had decided to hold another one of his campus-famous house parties. He had obviously invited Jilly–and by extension he had invited you because there was no chance Jilly would go to a party without you. In fact, before she had met Aegon, there was no chance Jilly would go to any party regardless. 

A loud, excited hmph! fell from Jilly’s lips when the elevator doors finally opened. You had hoped it had broken down on its way to pick you up and that there was a rather convenient lack of staircase to climb instead. 

“I don’t think–”

“Don’t say it,” Jilly held a hand in front of your face. She clicked on P with her other hand. For the penthouse, you guessed. “I know you don’t want to be here. But we are going to have a good night.” 

You sighed, tugging the short, black skirt that Jilly had wrestled you into further down your thighs. It looked good paired with the white satin button down you had insisted on wearing for comfort but it was shorter than you were accustomed to. The thought of maintaining it enough so it didn’t ride up past your bum was tiresome but there was no arguing which you could do to wiggle your way into some pants instead. 

Jilly snickered. “Quit fiddling with your skirt, you’ll poke a hole in your tights–Oh!”

The two of you shared a gasp when the doors opened. No wonder people had so much to say about the Targaryen siblings and their parties when their apartment looked like it was straight out of a Forbes magazine. For a moment, it seemed impossible that the apartment housed two students. It was incomparable to the wardrobe sized dorm you had been living in over the semester. 

Distant chatter pulled you out of your thoughts and you followed Jilly further into the apartment, reminding yourself not to let your jaw drop as your eyes adjusted to the dimmed lighting. The party was an hour or so away from starting - Aegon had told everyone to head in after seven but had given Jilly an earlier time so that the two of you could join their pre-game. 

Not that you would. The prospect of getting as drunk as Aegon planned at your (embarrassingly?) first student party was daunting. 

Anxiously, you followed Jilly into the living area where a handful of familiar faces were lounging and drinking. There was a deep bumping of bass, and you could feel the floor vibrating with it, but you couldn’t make out the song that was playing. 

“Jill!” Floris, Aegon’s friend who you had only ever seen on campus, pulled Jilly towards the nearest couch. Hesitantly, you followed, flashing Aegon and Cregan a purse-lipped smile as they made their way to greet you. “We were worried you wouldn’t show up. Is this your friend?”

With a smile, you introduced yourself. Floris only grinned at you before returning her attention to Jilly, who had started up an animated conversation with Helaena. Aegon whistled at Jilly, tipping the neck of his beer in her direction as if to say hello, and threw his other arm around your shoulder. 

He laughed when you cringed, pulling back from him slightly. Aegon smelled like a mixture of beer, red wine and sandalwood cologne. “We placed bets on whether you’d show up. Glad you did. There’s multiple motherfuckers in here who owe me a silver stag each. Not that I need it.”

You spluttered a bit. “What-” 

“Relax,” Cregan teased you from the other side of Aegon. He was clearly drunk. “You’re clearly not much of a party girl but that changes two-” he held up two fingers and then aggressively pointed them down at the floor with a jerk. “-night.” 

Aegon laughed, handing you a glass of wine which suddenly appeared in his hand. You shook your head and he shrugged, downing it himself. He turned away from you, waving someone down. “Aemond!”

Oh gods, no. 

You tried to keep your smile on your face. Aemond fucking Targaryen was leaning against a counter, a beer loosely hanging between his fingers. He was in the middle of a conversation with Criston Cole, a friend of their family who you had heard of only through mindless campus gossip. Aemond glanced toward Aegon in response, an eyebrow raised lazily. 

If there were ever a man you had crushed on, it really had to be him. It was a little bit maddening because you were exactly like your peers in thinking Aemond may be the most attractive man you’d ever see in your lifetime. He was tall, had an air of darkness and mystery to him and his silver hair framed his defined cheekbones and sharp jawline perfectly. But it was the severity in everything about him that had caught your eye–right from the first lecture you had seen him in. 

Aemond, as you understood, had no idea who you were. And while you knew exactly who he was, it wasn’t odd. Everyone knew of him and his family. He had practically been birthed into the public eye. 

“This pretty thing here,” Aegon, much to your protest, had pulled you across the room to introduce you. “Jilly’s best friend. Much like you, dear brother, she hates parties and is not here by her own will. You’d get along.”

Aemond looked at you and you suddenly had no idea what to do with yourself. You met his eye, fiddling with the hem of your skirt and waiting for whatever this moment was to end quickly. Your skin was tingling under his gaze which dropped from your head to your feet and then back to your face. 

When he didn’t say anything, you offered him a tight lipped smile and a timid wave. “Hi?”

He was going to respond. You could see it in the way he had moved but Aegon was quick to cut him off, ever the loud mouthed brat. As subtle as Aegon believed himself to be, he was an incredibly obnoxious drunk.  

“Surely,” Aegon drawled, wrapping his arms around Jilly’s waist when she appeared by your side and pulling her into him tightly. Mockingly, he targeted his question at Jilly but switched his gaze between her and Aemond. “Your little-good-girl friend could use a bit of corrupting, Jills. Seems like Aemond would be entirely capable, from what Floris has–”

“That’s enough, Aegon,” Aemond’s voice was smooth and darker than you’d expected. He gave you a small, reassuring yet tight smile. “Don’t be an ass. Let her be.”

You were a little breathless. Sure, you didn’t quite let go of yourself as much as everyone else did but you were no prude. Right? 

There was no offence intended in Aegon’s teasing but you couldn’t help but feel the sting. He was right–you were relatively good. All of your time and effort went into studying and working. Where you weren’t doing either of those, you preferred the solitude of a good book at a quiet cafe. There were very few bad habits in your life, the worst of which would only be the likes of a dependence on tea or coffee. Parties were a rarity but on the odd occasion you would tag along wherever Jilly would go. And, regardless of that, here you were.

It was embarrassing. You had hoped that if you were to ever introduce yourself to Aemond, things would go slightly better than this and your uptight prudish reputation (which you didn’t realise you had until today) would remain undiscussed. He was different and he didn’t tend to spend his time with people of your tendencies. Aemond was the object of everyone’s desires; if they didn’t want to have him then they certainly wanted to be him. 

You were clearly different from his normal type. If only for the fact that he also had a reputation and that reputation consisted of a string of heartbroken girls who he had never pursued or never shared more than his bed with. Those girls were a lot more like his friends; confident, daring and well accomplished. Aemond was not Aegon; there was a lot more respect in the way people spoke of him and his academic and professional talents were impressive to most people. 

Thankfully, Jilly had pulled you away from that dreadful conversation with a harsh glare pointed at Aegon. The kitchen, which was the closest place for you to hide, was filled with snacks and drinks almost falling off of the countertops. You recognised Helaena, and waved at her.

Helaena had been a friend whenever you had bumped into each other. She was sweet and kind and you actually enjoyed her company. “It’s nice to see you, Helaena. Didn’t think we’d ever run into each other at a house party but hey, it’s been an hour full of surprises.”

She laughed with you. There was an easy flow of conversation between the two of you and when Floris and Jilly had taken to what they called ‘Kitchen Karaoke’, you had even danced together. Jilly, as drunk as she was, pushed the bottle of wine in her hand to you, waiting for you to drink. With some encouragement from Helaena and Floris, you smiled and took a few sips. 

The peace you had found in the kitchen was short lived and when Jilly, joined by Aegon and caught up in her exaggerated Lady Gaga performance, flung her arm out, the bottle of wine in her hand spilling right onto your chest and soaking through the white fabric of your shirt. 

“Shit,” she winced. It was cold and you had a small sense of panic that raised goosebumps on your skin at the thought of wearing a wet, stained shirt all night but at the drunken apologetic look on her face all you could do was force a smile. Jilly giggled nervously. “At least it makes your tits look good.”

“Right,” you mumbled, fingers pulling the wet fabric off of your skin. It was uncomfortably sticking to your skin and the smell of the red wine was beginning to catch. “No problem.”

Aegon tapped your shoulder gently and gave you an animated salute. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you something from the fresh laundry.”

You followed him into the laundry, which was only just around the corner, waiting as he grinned and shuffled through the clothes that were sitting in the dryer. When Aegon turned to you, he had a stupid toothy smile and passed you a grey shirt. “Wear that. It’ll be big but it’ll still look good with the rest of your outfit if you tuck it in or something.”

The t-shirt Aegon handed you was a little long but you weren’t going to complain when you were much happier to be in dry clothing. It was a Slipknot shirt, the graphic on the front slightly worn down with time and washes. You figured it could have been worse–at least Slipknot were good. Aegon had long gone, giving you privacy to change and when you stepped out of the laundry room, you were surprised to see that people had started piling into the apartment. 

Some hip-hop song you could barely recognise played loudly and you were a little thrown off by the crowds of unfamiliar faces. But everyone was having a good time, smiling and dancing among themselves. 

Cigarettes, cologne and coffee filled your senses and you let out a small yelp as you met with a hardened surface, stumbling a little to catch yourself. Aemond’s hands reached out to grab hold of your arms, holding you steady against him so that you wouldn’t fall to the ground. 

“Easy, missy,” he stepped back slightly, as if he were trying to get a good look at you. As Aemond dragged his gaze over you from head to toe, he smirked and hummed deeply.

The heat that rushed to your cheeks was quick and you wondered if Aemond had always smelled so delicious. Your mind was clouded by him and the way he didn’t remove his hands from you, his fingers still gently squeezing your flesh and keeping you far closer to him than you needed to be. 

Whatever it was, if he continued to look at you with so much intensity and hold you as if he didn’t want to let go of you, there was a high chance you’d do something that would only leave you disappointed and embarrassed. 

“Sorry,” you squeaked, pulling away from him in one movement and rushing into the kitchen. Jilly grinned at you, eyebrows wagging exaggeratedly in her drunken state. 

The rest of the girls had found their way to the kitchen, which had actually quietened down even more in the short moments you were away. You found yourself once again at Helaena’s side, watching as Jilly danced with her bottle of wine in hand, and failing to listen to the conversation that was somehow still in flow. 

If you were being honest, the party was a certain type of boring. There was a lot going on yet nothing at the same time and you chalked it up to the fact that you weren’t that friendly with anyone here. Helaena was only part of the crowd because she lived here and Jilly was becoming a part of Aegon’s group of mates, all of whom you knew of but had no real friendship with. 

Floris, who had been staring at you on and off since you had returned, took a sip of her drink and flashed you an odd look. “Is that Aemond’s shirt?”

Helaena giggled beside you, watching you keenly as you frowned. When you answered, Floris looked at you with narrowed eyes. You cleared your throat, nervously nibbling on your bottom lip. “I assumed it was Aegon’s since he gave it to me.”

“What was wrong with what you came in?”

“Floris, you saw that blouse get ruined,” Jilly rolled her eyes, stepping closer to you when she noticed the gentle alarm on your face. “She couldn’t have stayed in a stained top. It won't dry out until tomorrow.”

Floris only huffed, regarding you with a harsh stare and a forced shrug. There was an odd silence that lingered and you considered offering her an apology. But you quickly realised that you didn’t really have anything to apologise for, even though it is probably Aemond’s t-shirt and it was no secret that Floris was all about Aemond. 

The night was passing slowly and you continued to make small talk with the same few people you knew. But the weight of Floris’ glare never disappeared. And Aemond, with his gentle smirk and quiet confidence, had been lingering the entire night. You were half-certain that it was Floris who was the purpose of his prolonged presence in the kitchen, which had become somewhat of a break room for everyone at this point.

There was a pointed silence from him aside from the few words he had muttered in conversation with Helaena or Daeron yet his gaze was communicating more than his words could. Aemond kept looking towards you, his wanting eye holding yours assertively whenever you’d catch him watching you. You couldn’t help the heat that crept up your neck at the way he looked you up and down at every chance he got. 

It was suffocating when paired with the daggers you could feel from Floris’ stares and Aegon’s vexing grin. 

“I’m going outside for a bit,” you told Helaena, placing your glass down on the counter and flashing a pursed-lip smile at whoever caught your eye on your way towards the terrace. 

The journey to the terrace wasn’t easy and you could feel your throat closing in as you tried to squeeze through crowds of people. It was sweaty and loud, shoulders knocking and elbows bumping as you finally pushed your way through to a secluded part of the terrace, sighing at the fresh air and solitude. 

Once again, your peace didn’t last long before you caught a flash of silver in your peripheral. 

Aemond stood beside you, so close that your shoulder brushed the leather of his jacket. “You alright?” 

His proximity had turned your brain silent and you simply nodded, forcing your eyelids not to flutter shut at his delicious smell. There was a comfortable silence that followed. He rested his elbows on the railing as you were, relaxing against it and watching the street below. 

A tickle on your cheek from a loose strand of Aemond’s hair following the breeze woke you up from the haze you were entering. “Not enjoying the party?”

“I don’t like parties,” he chuckled, reaching into his pocket. 

You snickered, eyes trailing across his hands as he fiddled with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Taking a moment to admire the way his rings complemented his nimble yet clearly strong fingers, you couldn’t believe how attractive a man’s hands could be.  “You’re not like your brother, then. That’s good–couldn’t handle having two Aegon’s about.”

Aemond shook his head, smiling as he held the box out to you. “Thankfully my brother and I are not alike. Cig?”

“Not for me.”

He hummed, popping a cigarette between his lips and holding the lighter to it. “Good. Do you mind?”

You didn’t have much else to say other than a shrug, letting him know it was alright for him to smoke. It would hardly be anything to complain about with the way Aemond seemed to look ten times sexier with a cigarette between his fingers and hanging from his lips. 

“I guess your reputation isn’t a lie,” Aemond let his eye fall to you, holding a world of darkness and sin as he smirked at you. A cheeky grin played on his lips as he turned to his side, resting on his arm and leaning back a bit to look at you better. 

You swallowed thickly. A wave of heat to your core had you turning away from him, the intensity of how he looked at you like you were tempting all of his urges. “I just try to stay clear of bad habits. It doesn’t really matter.”

“So you are a good girl,” Aemond leaned closer, his fingers gently tipping your head upwards at your chin. He was closer than he was before you had blinked and all of your senses were overwhelmed by him. “I like that. I wonder if Aegon was right about us.”

Because of the way he was holding your chin, firmly and gently at the same time, you had no choice but to meet his gaze. Goosebumps arose on your skin and you shivered despite the burn of his fingers on your skin. 

“Let me take you somewhere more comfortable,” Aemond drawled. The air grew charged when he grazed his lips against yours, so softly it was almost nonexistent. “They all thought I would be the one to corrupt you but I can show you all the ways you’ve corrupted my mind instead.”

The small gasp that fell from your lips made his jaw tick and he let go of your chin, dragging the knuckles of his fingers across your cheek affectionately. 

You nodded and cleared your throat quietly, surprised at your own eagerness. “But I don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” Aemond gently lowered his hand to hold your hip, letting one last puff of smoke out before putting his cigarette out. He guided you inside, keeping you right in front of him and his free arm loosely extended in front of your body to stop people from pushing into you. His lips lingered at your ear all the while. “You were already a pretty little thing, missy. But I never could have guessed that you’d be so fucking delicious in my clothes.” 

You were grateful that you weren’t facing him. He couldn’t see the flush that had crossed your expression and had you shying away gently but only to sink further against his chest as he led you through a quieter hallway. When Aemond pushed open the door to his bedroom, he finally noticed your dishevelled state and let out an affectionate huff. 

Only letting go of you for a moment so that he could close the door behind him, Aemond had turned you to face him and pulled you back to your place against his body. His bedroom was pointedly his; neat and collected, the walls decorated with a few posters of the bands he likes and bookshelves that were almost filled entirely. It smelled like clean linen and his cologne. 

“Wait.” You remembered the girl who had been far more than unhappy to see you in his shirt and stiffened. “I thought you and Floris-”

“Floris and I are nothing,” Aemond was calm when he spoke, still watching you with that fierce desire that you had felt from him when you bumped into him earlier on. You swallowed down your apprehension visibly, avoiding eye contact. “I promise.”

Odd, considering you were well aware he didn’t need to promise you anything. 

Aemond watched your chest heave with your heavy breaths, covered entirely by his favourite t-shirt which draped perfectly from your breasts. A hand returned to your hip, squeezing lightly while the other rested at the crevice of your neck and shoulder, his fingers tickling your warm skin. 

He pursed his lips, hyper aware of how tense you were in his hands. “Tell me to stop and I will. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want. We can just chat and get to know each other.” 

“No,” you shook your head.“I don’t want you to stop.”

It was impossible to resist the way that Aemond was pulling you against him, as if you weren’t close enough despite how you were pressed flush against him and the fabric of your clothing was all that could fit between the two of you. Gods, he smelled so good. 

Confident with your reassurance, Aemond dipped his head so close to yours that you were sharing air, his smirk returned when he felt you shiver against him. “Are you nervous?” 

“I don’t usually do this,” you muttered, eyelids fluttering shut when he brushed the tip of his nose against your cheek and pressed a featherlight kiss beside your lips, dragging them to your jaw when you instinctively moved to try catch his lips in the kiss you only now realised you were craving. But you failed and he cheekily worked away from your attempted kiss. His lips felt good on your skin and a soft gasp in his ear had him squeezing your hip harder. It reminded you what you were telling him. “We technically just met.”

He never stopped placing the smallest of kisses along your jaw, moving them towards your neck. “Technically?”

“We have a couple lectures together.”

The thought that it was rather surprising that he had never noticed much of you crossed Aemond’s mind but when you let your hand fall to his chest, fisting the lapel of his jacket and tugging like you needed him more than oxygen, it disappeared into a haze of your perfume and warmth. 

Aemond hummed as you noticed he did often. “Does it count if I take you out the day after?”

“I’m sure it does,” you bit your lip to hide your smile, frowning when he pulled away from your neck. “But only if you really want–”

All your thoughts were lost when Aemond swallowed your words, his lips finding yours eagerly. You moaned against him, stiffening for a moment as your skin flushed under his touch but returning his vigour when he laced his fingers through your hair, holding it in a tight fist. It was a perfectly coordinated mess of tongue and teeth, and Aemond never once faltered in his fervour. 

Blindly, you let him guide you to the bed, pulling him down without breaking the kiss when the edge of the bed hit the back of your legs.

In the soft glow of candlelight, the both of you were enveloped in a world of your own. The air was thick with anticipation as your bodies drew closer, the heat shared between you palpable. You tilted your head back, inviting his lips to trace a path along your neck, each kiss sending your blood rushing to your core.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

“Everything, Aemond.”

As his hands found their way under his shirt, fingers gliding over your soft skin, you let out a soft gasp, arching into him. His hands roamed freely, seeking out the warmth beneath the soft fabric, craving your skin against his own.

You felt the weight of him above you, powerful and intoxicating. With a careful urgency, Aemond sat back momentarily, pulling you with him so that he could reach to unclasp your bra. When you moved to take the shirt off with a soft smile, he stopped you. 

“Keep it on,” Aemond placed a kiss to your clothed shoulder, running his hand across the side of your leg as he let you get rid of your bra underneath the shirt. He pulled your skirt and tights off with steady hands, humming appreciatively at the way your underwear peaked out from where the t-shirt had bunched at your hips. “I want you in my shirt only.”

You watched him, entranced, as he took in the sight of you and muttered under his breath about how perfect you were for him, his eye dark with longing. Aemond moved downwards, nestling himself comfortably between your legs, pressing soft kisses along your inner thighs, his mouth warm and inviting. 

When you whined impatiently he smiled, a wicked glint in his eye, and returned to his explorations, kissing his way closer to your core. Aemond never took his eye off you and you could see him watching you from where he teasingly licked at the skin where your thigh met your covered womanhood. The tension in your core tightened and you jerked when he wrapped his lips around your clothed clit and sucked hard. 

Strong hands held your hips down as he wrapped his arms around your thighs, fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs. Again, you whined at him. “You’re not very patient are you? Already so wet for me that I can taste your delicious pussy through the fabric. Tell me what you want.”

You propped yourself on your elbows, your arms quivering under your weight and breath hitching when you noticed his own clothes had been haphazardly taken off. Aemond was ridding you of your mind and he had barely done anything. “More, Aemond. I want more.”

“More what?”

“More of you,” you whined again, mouth watering at the way he gazed at you from where he was nestled. “I want more of you.”

Aemond complied, pulling your panties off as soon as your hips had lifted on his command. He gave you a pointed look, scolding you gently when you gave him a shy whimper, moving to shut your legs so he couldn’t see you spread for him. 

“Spread your legs, pretty girl,” he let out a coarse breath when you wordlessly did as he said, baring yourself to him and gracing him with a sight more tempting than all the gold and jewels the world had to offer. Aemond’s hands guided your thighs apart encouragingly. “That’s it–little bit more.”

His gentle commands were both exhilarating and daunting. The weight of his gaze was both thrilling and intimidating, sending heat rushing to your cheeks and your cunt and the chuckle coming from the man between your legs was enough to tell you that he had seen you clench around nothing. 

Trailing his kisses from your knees and down your thighs once again, Aemond groaned, fisting the bottom of the shirt that rested against your raised thigh and licking a long stripe between your folds. It had you sucking in a breath, the sensation of his wet tongue suddenly exploring your cunt taking over every part of your mind and body, your fingers grasping at the sheets when he lapped at your clit and moaned into your wetness.

“Gods, Aemond-” you made the prettiest noises but Aemond’s cock jumped at the way you said his name, giving him a newfound fervour as he ferociously sucked at your clit, flicking it with his tongue. 

Nothing you had experienced with anyone had you trembling from sensitivity and pleasure so easily. His tongue and lips moved against you expertly and he let his arms wrap around your thighs as they rested against his shoulders, using his thumbs to spread you even more for him. 

Spit mixed with your wetness, creating a slick that dripped from your cunt and tainted his chin and his cheeks but Aemond seemed only to revel in it. His cock grew painfully hard at the beautiful sounds you made and the sweet, slightly tart and metallic taste of you on his tongue. 

At a particularly harsh suck on your clit, you jerked, legs clamping shut around Aemond’s head as you felt your orgasm building faster than you had expected. “Aemond. Oh fuck, it’s good-”

“Are you going to come for me, missy?” Aemond asked and the vibrations of his voice while he continued to feast on you had you moaning out an incoherent answer. He was watching you as you nodded, head thrown back so all that he could see over your body and his t-shirt was your chin and glimpses of your blissful expression. 

Shuddering and struggling to even your breathing, a heated pleasure took you with surprising intensity. Aemond continued to suck on you, delving into you with his tongue and teasing you with his fingers as he helped you through your orgasm, groaning at the way your body tensed and your pussy clenched. 

Placing a final kiss on your clit with a cheeky grin, making his way up your body, enjoying the way you continued to tremble and whimper under his touch. He took a nipple into his mouth through the shirt, teasingly only giving it a moment of attention before his lips were back on yours. 

Sharing the taste of you, Aemond kissed you hungrily despite having done the same within your folds only seconds ago. It was unbelievably hot in the room and you became dizzy with how your body gave into his, moulding against him perfectly as his hips found their place between your legs. 

Aemond’s voice was dark and confident, dripping with lust. 

But you salivated at the thought of taking him in your mouth and tried to push him back. “I want you in my mouth too.”

“Not tonight.” His hand found one of your breasts, touching you over the shirt. When you pouted at him, legs still jerking around his hips, Aemond softly moaned. “Aren’t you full of surprises? Good girl like you, so eager to suck me.”

Hot and heavy, Aemond grinded his cock against you, pressing it deliciously to your clit and then taking its place with his fingers. He wondered whether the pout on your lips would disappear when he pushed a digit into you, satisfied to see it fall away and be replaced with a furrow of your eyebrows and a silent gasp. 

Keening at both his words and the way that Aemond slid another finger in and curled them inside you, searching for that spot that had your toes curling, you were increasingly desperate to taste him now that you had felt how hard and ready he was for you. “Please, let me taste you.”

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities for that.” He sighed deeply when you moaned loudly, grasping at his shoulders and pressing your face into his neck. “I would kill to feel your pretty lips on my cock. Do you want to know what I think, missy?”

Aemond was intoxicating, sending your body into overdrive and your mind hazy with need. All you could do was nod, lost in the way he was perfectly bringing you to so much bliss. 

“I think,” he purred. “That I’m going to make you mine. And that I’ll fuck the well-behaved girl right out of you in each and every shirt that I own.”

Gasping for air as he pushed himself into you, replacing his fingers with his cock, you clung to him as he stretched you out. There was a sharp sting from his size but it subsided quickly and you could feel the effects of Aemond’s cock in you all the way down your legs and to your toes. 

Aemond’s breath hitched, his eye holding yours as he gave you time to adjust, jaw clenched and holding you tightly as if he’d fall to the pits of the hells if he were to let go of you. 

For someone he had just met properly only hours ago, Aemond thought he had found his own heaven in you and your body. 

You mewled, pushing your hips forward greedily. “It feels so good-so good, Aemond.”

He slowly moved his hips, hissing and letting his forehead fall to your shoulder where he bit down gently. The way Aemond pushed deeper into you at every thrust forward stole your breath from your lungs each time. He felt like he was a virgin once again, feeling the comfort of a wet, hot cunt for the first time, losing the control he had over the urge to claim you properly and spill into you already.

Aemond was no stranger to the pleasures of the body but never had he fallen victim to weakness by a woman and Aemond was of half a mind to understand that he would do anything you asked of him simply because your bodies were a carnally perfect fit. Right now, he would burn down cities if you asked him to. 

Keeping the steady pace, Aemond’s thrusts became more forceful, driving into you harder and drawing out nonsensical murmurs and whimpers from you. It was white-hot, each thrust sending a barrage of pleasure and sensitivity through your body. 

“If only they could see you now,” Aemond’s tone was deep, laced with lust and somewhat desperate as his hips snapped into you, the sound of skin against skin and his cock pushing lewd sounds from your wetness that couldn’t be drowned out by the distant thump of the party’s music. “The perfect, innocent girl that they all believe you to be, squeezing my cock like a good little slut. Just for me.”

Blissful, incoherent sounds that he pulled from only spurred him on further and you could feel how his cock twitched and moved within you. The way that Aemond’s body fit with yours was perfect and it had that tension return to your stomach, your skin tingling and toes curling as he sped up his movements. It was blinding and deafening at the same time, stealing your breath from you each time he dragged his cock out only to push it back in. 

Shaking and trembling, your legs squeezed around his hips and Aemond grunted, his head falling to your shoulder as he grabbed the flesh of your thigh and pushing it up and holding it beside you. Angling your hips perfectly, Aemond’s rough thrusts found a sensitive spot and you gasped, back arching off the bed as you gripped him tightly in your arms. You were barely of the right mind to notice him hiss when your nails scraped across his skin. 

Aemond was convinced he had found a version of peace in your body, the feeling of your warmth and wetness squeezing him, quieting the loud, painful thoughts that never ceased in his mind. He swore, his voice constrained and his fingers digging further into your flesh. There wouldn’t be a day that could go by in which he wouldn’t be haunted by your perfect cunt and pretty sounds. It was a thought that would have had him scoffing in any other circumstances but he was so lost in you that he couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn. 

“You are so fucking-” he groaned. “Tight. Made to fit my cock perfectly.”

“Aemond-”

He chuckled, enjoying the way his name was the only word you could force out between your moans. Aemond’s hips stuttered as you clamped down around him, your eyes rolling back and falling shut as you turned away from him reflexively, pressing your head into the pillow and whining pathetically. 

“Yes, missy?” Aemond’s voice was constricted but still smooth. 

“Gonna come–I’m gonna come,” you gasped out between whimpers and moans, calling out his name as if he was your salvation.

Aemond let go of your thigh, his fingers clasping around your throat and squeezing the sides enough so that he could force your head out of the pillow. “Look at me when you come, pretty girl.”

When your eyes met his, you were surprised to see that his eyepatch hadn’t been discarded but couldn’t linger on the thought. Not with the way that overwhelming tension had become too much, coiling in your stomach and making you quiver underneath Aemond’s strong body, coming to its peak and snapping with an earth shattering, burning intensity that forced your entire world to go quiet. 

With strained gasps, Aemond’s peak quickly followed yours and he pulled out, surprised to see how swiftly your hand replaced his. You felt the ropes of his hot seed fall onto your stomach, the warmth of his breath against your skin as he buried his face into your neck, heaving as he rode through the strength of his orgasm. 

Strings of curses came from him as he let his body fall to the space beside you. Aemond barely wasted two seconds before pulling you into him so that your head rested against his chest as he held you against him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, letting yourself melt into him, too spent to spare a thought for the mess on your stomach. “But I doubt I’ll be feeling so great tomorrow.”

A deep chuckle vibrated against your ear. “I’d apologise but I’m afraid I wouldn’t mean it.”

“Cheeky.”

Aemond took a hold of your wrist when you slapped his chest gently, bringing your hand up to place a kiss on your knuckles before letting his hand fall to that spot on your hip. “I wasn’t lying you know.”

“About?” You raised an eyebrow, craning your neck so that you could see his face without moving away from him. 

“I will take you out.” Aemond grinned, squeezing your flesh playfully. “And I will fuck you in every single one of my t-shirts.”

[chahnniesroom]

cross my heart

pairing: bang chan & female reader, hwang hyunjin & female reader

summary: chan has quickly become one of your closest friends at university. too bad his girlfriend, hayoon, has him wrapped around her little finger and she's determined to make your life miserable. hyunjin is just enjoying watching the drama unfold.

word count: 4.0k

tags/warnings: angst!!! hurt and maybe some comfort?, infidelity (not between the reader or chan/hyunjin), arguing, the relationships with the reader are more like friendships than dating (please let me know if you think there should be more tags/warnings)

a/n: totally thought this was going to be a short fic (like less than 1k words) but it blossomed into something more. i wanted to try something different with this fic but not sure if i pulled it off lol please be kind if you comment! i also did not to bother with honourifics so... you can pretend that chan, hyunjin, and y/n are all the same age 😅

read it on ao3 | masterlist

It's almost funny how quickly you and Chan become friends. 

You hadn't really been looking forward to taking a technical writing class, but it's one of the requirements to get your degree and at least the lecture is large enough that you won't have to do any in-class participation. When the professor announces that one of the very first assignments is going to be completed in random pairs, you're instantly nervous. It’s only after meeting Chan, who is easygoing yet studious, that you feel better.

Although the group assignment only takes a couple weeks to finish, you find yourself hanging out more and more. Chan has a natural way of writing, he's intelligent and efficient with his wording without sacrificing clarity. While you can eventually write something that’s fairly clear and concise, it takes a lot of effort and a lot of time so you're grateful to be working with Chan who doesn't struggle with tight timelines like you do.

The two of you grow close together, especially once you realise that you have a similar sense of humour and taste in music. It doesn't take long before technical writing is your favourite class. Chan always saves you a seat beside him, even though he has quite a few friends that are also taking this course. You’re not used to it at first, but you grow comfortable with the way that he leans over to make quips about whatever the professor is saying or pointing out if someone in the lecture hall is falling asleep. You sometimes bring him snacks and in exchange he brings you a drink.

The more you learn about Chan, the more you're convinced that he's perfect.

Well, apart from one thing.

The worst thing about Chan is his girlfriend. Jung Hayoon absolutely hates you and, behind Chan's back, never fails to make sure you know it too. While the two of you have never shared any courses, she regularly meets Chan after class is over and you've been invited to join them and some other friends for a meal or to study so you've interacted with her more than you want to.

You’re not quite sure what you've done to earn Hayoon's ire, but you can only guess that it's your blossoming friendship with Chan as she’s never seemed to care about you before you met him. She takes every opportunity to make backhanded compliments, pointed comments about how much or what you're eating, or loudly exclaiming when you have something stuck in your teeth. You try not to let it get to you, but you're always been a bit too sensitive.

You start declining offers to hang out with Chan and the rest of his friends after class, trying to ignore Chan's disappointment and Hayoon's smug smile every time that you make excuses.

Of course, she's sickly sweet around Chan, constantly hanging off his arm, batting her eyes at him, and trying to hold his attention. You can't really stand her obviously fake behaviour, but she makes Chan happy so you don't say anything negative about her when Chan's around.

You aren’t the type to keep up with school gossip, but even you know that Hayoon's track record is far from pristine. In fact, you were surprised to hear that someone as genuine and kind as Chan was in a relationship with someone like Hayoon.

—

The library isn't your favourite place to study, but partway through midterm season you're desperate for a change in scenery. You spend the better part of the day completing practice exams for the course you're the most worried about until you finally feel more confident. Satisfied with your progress and excited at the prospect of eating a proper meal rather than the snacks that have kept you going so far, you quickly pack up.

There aren't too many people in the library since it’s so close to the weekend, a lot of students have either finished all of their exams for the week or just given up studying. Maybe that's why your attention seems so drawn to the couple that you pass on the way to the door.

You don't mean to do anything other than quickly glance at them, but the familiarity of the girl catches your eye. The carefully styled hair and slim figure is a common combination to see at your university, but after weeks of trying to avoid her, there’s no mistaking Jung Hayoon.

And it's not Chan that she’s currently kissing.

You stumble away from them, but not before Hayoon looks up and spots you. Instead of panicking or stopping, she continues making out with the boy, maintaining eye contact with you. She even has the audacity to wink. You stare at her for a second, stunned, then bolt out of the building.

You're so flustered that you don't know what to do or where to go. You end up walking to the nearest bench and sitting down heavily in it.

You knew that you didn't like Hayoon, that she was two-faced and had likely cheated on past partners, but you hadn't expected to ever catch her in the act, especially while she was dating Chan. You couldn't fathom why anybody would want anything else when they had him and you had never been able to understand cheating in the first place.

You have to tell Chan, you decide. As much as you hate difficult conversations and it kills you to be the bringer of bad news, you know that you'd never be able to sleep at night if you tried to hide this from him. If you were in his position, you would prefer to know as soon as possible.

You call him as you start heading in the direction of his dorm.

“Hey,” Chan picks up after only a few rings. “Is everything okay? You don't usually call.”

“Uhm-” You have no clue what to say, you didn't think this through enough before dialling. “Where are you? I- Can I come talk to you?”

“Y/n? What's wrong?” Chan's instantly concerned.

“Nothing, I just- I really need to talk to someone right now,” you say quickly. “I'm fine, I mean.”

“Okay. I'm at home right now, but I can come meet you if you need? Where are you?”

“Don't worry about it, I'll head over, if that's okay.”

“Sure,” Chan says, sounding extremely worried. “Be safe, Y/n. I'll see you soon.”

After you hang up, you don't quite run to Chan's place, but you're out of breath and sweaty by the time you make it. You take a moment to compose yourself before requesting access into the building, but you know you still look frazzled. Chan buzzes you in immediately and he’s waiting in the hallway when you step out of the elevator. He guides you into his room, but only after checking you over and making sure that you're physically okay.

“Y/n, you're scaring me,” he says after leading both of you to sit down at his tiny kitchen table. “Tell me what's got you so worked up.”

“Do you know where Hayoon is today?” you ask, probably sounding insane. Chan pauses for a moment, brow furrowed before he responds.

“I know that she has an exam tomorrow, so I assume that she's studying. Why, what's up?”

“She didn't say where or who she was going to be with today?”

“No, but it's not like I'm tracking her all the time. She's her own person, she's not obligated to constantly update me.”

“I saw her at the library.”

“Okay,” Chan says slowly.

“She was with someone else, a guy.”

“Why are you telling me this, Y/n?” Chan asks, starting to sound annoyed. His tone catches you off guard.  “This is why you called me, why you ran over to my place? If you think I'm that controlling-”

“They were kissing,” you interrupt. “She’s cheating on you, Chan.”

“Who was the guy?”

“I- I didn't see him well, his back was towards me so I couldn't recognize him,” you falter.

“Did you take a picture? Was there anyone else around?”

“No- but, I-”

“So I'm just supposed to believe you,” he says flatly.

“What? Why would I make this up?”

“I know that, for some reason, you don’t like Hayoon.” Chan's usually friendly voice is cold and his face is stony. “I can live with that. I mean, of course it would be nice if you were at least civil to her. But at the end of the day, you don’t have to, she’s my girlfriend and not yours.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, “but how would lying about this benefit me at all?”

“She warned me about this, you know. She said you were jealous. Of her. Of us. That you would do something to try and break us up.” Chan laughs, but the sound is empty. “I always defended you, which she hated. I don't know how many times I told her that you weren't like that, that there was nothing going on between us.”

“Well I can assure you that I’m not jealous. That I’m not trying to break you two up.”

“I know that there’s… chemistry between us,” Chan acknowledges. “I don't have that many close female friends and I didn't before I started dating Hayoon either, but I know that I like your company and that you're easy to talk to. But that's all. It's fine if you're interested in me, you can’t help your feelings, but accusing my girlfriend of cheating? That’s sick, Y/n.”

“Are you kidding me? There is nothing going on between us.” you say incredulously. “Listen Chan, I’m saying this, I'm here as a friend. You think I'm lying? You think I want to hurt you?”

“I think that maybe Hayoon had a point when she said you wouldn't be satisfied with just being friends.”

“That's what you think of me?” you ask, feeling hurt. “Even if I was interested, I wouldn't do that. I respect you as a friend, I respect you as a person, and I respect your relationship whether I like your partner or not. But if that’s how you see me, I’m not sure that we were ever really friends. I would never try to sabotage you or anybody that's happily in a relationship.” Chan's face drops at your words.

“Y/n-” he starts to say, but you've had enough of this conversation.

“Look- I came here because I knew I would feel terrible and guilty if I didn't, but I can't convince you of something you don't want to believe.” You shake your head and walk towards the door.

Chan doesn't try to stop you as you leave.

 —

The next day you get to class 15 minutes before it’s supposed to start. You're exhausted, have your eyes swollen from crying when you got back home last night, and most of all, feel hurt. You had been a little worried about how Chan would react to what you had to tell him, but you never expected that he would dismiss you without a thought. It's hard to reconcile with the upbeat and kind seatmate that you're used to.

Instead of your usual seat near the middle of the classroom, you opt for one off to the side that’s often emptier, not wanting to have to talk to or even see Chan. You pull up an assignment that you’ve been procrastinating working on and manage to ignore the rest of your classmates as they filter into the lecture hall. It’s only when someone slides into the seat right next to you that you look up, surprised anybody would approach you when you’re clearly being unsociable and look awful.

“Hyunjin.” You’re too shocked to even say hello.

“That’s my name,” Hyunjin replies, looking unimpressed by your greeting as he pulls out his laptop. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Sorry, good morning. You don’t usually sit with me.” You can’t help but point out the obvious. 

In fact, Hyunjin usually doesn't sit with anyone. He's popular, it'd be hard not to be when you look as good as he does, but it's in a different way than Chan. While Chan seems to know practically everybody on campus, Hyunjin is almost untouchable.

While there are hoards of girls and guys that would love to have even a sliver of his attention, Hyunjin has a small circle of friends and is more interested in escaping the lecture hall to paint or dance than socialise. The only reason that you know him is because one of your closest childhood friends, Minho, is on the same dance crew as him and the three of you sometimes hang out. You wouldn't say that Hyunjin is more than an acquaintance though, he still intimidates you enough that you never would have tried to approach him first.

“And you don’t usually sit over here.” Hyunjin pretends to stretch and turns to look at your usual spot. “Avoiding someone?”

“Maybe.” You blush, embarrassed to be so easily seen through. “Is it that noticeable?”

“Nah, I just figured it was a matter of time before Hayoon got under your skin enough. I'm actually impressed you lasted this long, she really has it out for you.” While Hyunjin is surprisingly perceptive, you've also spent a fair bit of time ranting about Hayoon to Minho, and as a result, Hyunjin is kept up to speed on everything that Hayoon has done to antagonise you. You never realised that he actually paid enough attention to remember or that he agreed that Hayoon treated you like dirt.

“Actually, she’s not the one that I don’t want to talk to. Well, I never want to talk to her, but I’m not avoiding her.”

“No way,” Hyunjin crowds into your personal space, eyebrows raised dramatically. “Chan?”

You’ve had a pit in your stomach since last night’s argument and your mouth dries up at the thought of being so vulnerable, but something about the way that Hyunjin's eyes have widened to the size of dinner plates and his mouth has formed a little shocked ‘o’ is so disarming. 

“We had a disagreement last night,” you admit.

“Hayoon cheated?” he guesses.

Now it's your turn for your mouth to drop open in shock.

“Don't say it so loud,” you hiss. “How did you know?”

“Well, as much as I usually like to give people the benefit of the doubt, especially for something this serious…” Hyunjin grimaces slightly. “I’ve been kind of expecting it. Hasn't she done the same on her past three or four boyfriends?”

“Oof, that bad? I've heard some things, but never really knew for sure.”

“At least,” Hyunjin confirms. “Honestly, I'd be more shocked if she didn't cheat at this point. I'm guessing Chan didn't take it so well if you're upset with him.”

“He's loyal to a fault, literally!” you complain. “In his eyes, Hayoon can’t do anything wrong, he's able to explain away everything she does. He didn’t believe that it was her that I saw.”

“So what are you going to do?” Hyunjin asks curiously.

“Nothing,” you say sullenly. “As much as I'd like to shake some sense into him, he's an adult. He can make his own decisions and if he wants to live in denial, that's up to him.”

“You're a good friend.” Hyunjin reaches out tentatively and after an awkward second, pats your shoulder. “Not everyone would be brave enough to have that kind of difficult conversation. Chan may be stubborn right now, but he'll appreciate it later.”

“Well based on yesterday, I don't think I'm his friend at all,” you huff. “Anyway, if it's okay with you, I don't think that I will make it through the rest of the term if I have to sit over there.”

“Be my guest.” Hyunjin grins and the sight of it makes the lecture a bit easier to sit through.

—

You don’t talk to Chan for the rest of the term. While you stopped outright avoiding him, you’re pretty sure that he’s purposely steering clear of you. Instead, you continue to sit with Hyunjin and pretend that Chan doesn’t exist.

It feels silly that you miss him or that you can’t seem to get over how things ended between the two of you. You had only been friends for two months, you shouldn’t be so hurt every time he purposely turns away from you or when his eyes seem to slide over you like you’re not there.

Hyunjin basically becomes your part-time therapist. Most of the time, it’s enough that he keeps you distracted. He shares all the latest campus gossip with you, allows you to work while he paints, and invites you to hang out with Minho and the rest of their dance crew more than a few times. On the rare occasion when you’re feeling more fragile than usual, he would be willing to spend an evening at your place and listen to you wallow.

“It’s fair that you’re still upset,” he had comforted you once. You had run into Hayoon in the bathroom that afternoon and she had gloated about how nothing and nobody would be able to break her and Chan apart. It had made you feel sick to the stomach. “There was never any resolution. Chan didn’t believe you, doesn’t believe you, even though you went to him with good intentions and it’s reasonable that you would feel hurt or frustrated.”

“I feel so stupid,” you had sniffled. “It’s not even like it was a break up. We were just friends.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier, you’re still missing someone who used to be in your life. It’ll get easier next term when you don’t share a class, I promise.” Somehow, that actually had made you feel better.

“Thanks, Hyunjin,” you had said with a watery smile.

The two of you work out well together, not just because you enjoy each other’s presence, but also because there’s no expectations or pressure. Hyunjin has slowly started to share with you stories about his previous relationships, how he’s hesitant to start dating again after having his heart broken so many times. Even though there are rumours swirling about the two of you, you know that neither of you are ready for it yet and that’s partly why it's so easy to hang out with him.

Tonight, the two of you are just hanging out in his art studio. You're mindlessly scrolling on your phone, you’ve just finished the exam that you've been dreading the most and don't have the brain capacity to even think about school. You know that Hyunjin is doing the same, you can see it out of the corner of your eye, but he's trying to pretend that he's working since his painting is due the next day.

He drops all pretences when he gasps loudly at something that he sees on his phone.

“Y/n,” he says gravely.

“What?” you ask, only slightly curious. By now, you've gotten used to the fact that Hyunjin would react the same way to seeing a cute puppy video as he would finding out about some terrible news.

“A friend just texted me,” he says, still in shock.

“Okay? What did they say?”

Hyunjin looks up at you for a moment, down at his phone, then back up at you.

“ChanandHayoonbrokeup,” he says in a rush, before wincing, clearly afraid of what your reaction is going to be.

“What?” You can't believe your ears.

“Chan and Hayoon, apparently they broke up this afternoon. Someone heard them shouting at each other.”

You put down your pencil slowly, not sure what to think.

“Do you know why?”

“Someone said that they heard that yesterday, Heeyeon and Yikyung broke up because Yikyung cheated on her. I think it must be related,” Hyunjin says quietly.

“Oh.”

“I think there's pictures or a video out there, I haven't seen anything yet though,” Hyunjin continues on, starting to get excited while typing away on his phone. 

“Oh,” you say again, at a loss for actual words.

“Right before the holidays too, that's so-” Hyunjin cuts himself off when he looks up and sees you frozen in place. “Y/n, are you okay? Sorry, I'm sure it's a lot to process-”

“No, it's fine.” You force a smile. “I just- I think I have to go home now.”

“Y/n-”

“Really, it's okay. I just forgot that I have something to do. At home. Sorry.”

Hyunjin stares at you with eyes filled with something akin to pity, but doesn't say anything else. You try to ignore it as you hurriedly grab your things and leave.

—

A few days later you're packing up your bags in preparation to go home for the winter break when you hear a knock at your door. You weren't expecting anybody, but there's a few friends that you have that like to show up unannounced. 

You're not prepared to open the door and find Chan standing behind it.

He looks terrible. He's wearing a huge hoodie and his hair is tucked away behind a beanie, but nothing can hide the way that his eyes are swollen and his skin is lacking its usual colour. You can only guess that he hasn't been able to eat or sleep much judging from the gauntness of his face and dark circles.

“Chan,” you say carefully. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm sorry,” he says with a hoarse voice. “I was wrong.”

“Ah, Hayoon.”

“You heard?” he asks, face crumpling a little at the mention of his ex.

“It's-” You pause for a moment, trying to figure out how to put it delicately. "Someone mentioned it to me.”

“You must hate me.” Chan laughs humourlessly. “I know that I do. I was such a fool for not trusting you. I just didn't want to believe that she would do that to me. Stupid, I know. I'm really sorry that I said all those things to you, that I avoided you as if that would change the truth.”

For months, you've been waiting, hoping that Chan would come back to you and apologise. But actually hearing it isn't as satisfying as you thought. In fact, you don't really feel anything at all.

“I want to make it up to you,” Chan says earnestly. “Are you free? We can go for a meal and catch up. I missed you.”

“Uhm,” you say, not quite sure how to respond. You don't want to say yes, but you're scared to lose this opportunity.

“Actually, she's busy,” Hyunjin says. He steps out from behind Chan and wraps an arm around your waist possessively, nudging you behind him in the process. “I think it would be best if you leave.”

Normally you hate it when other people talk for you, but right now you're grateful that Hyunjin appeared. You're not even sure why he's here, although you mentioned that this was your last day on campus, the two of you didn't have plans to hang out.

“Oh.” Chan falters. “Are you two… together?”

“And if we are?” Hyunjin asks challengingly. You've never seen him this defensive before. “Frankly, it's none of your business. I'm tired of listening to your half-hearted apologies that are months too late and I'm pretty sure that Y/n isn't interested in them either.”

“Y/n?” Chan pleads.

“Hyunjin's right, I think that you should go,” you say from where you're still hidden behind Hyunjin. You're glad that you don't have to look him in the eyes. “I can't- I'm heading home today. I have to pack before my train leaves this afternoon.”

“Right,” Chan says thickly. “Sorry. I- I'm sorry, Y/n.”

You lean into Hyunjin's back for support, squeezing your eyes shut as you hear Chan's footsteps trail away. You don't open them for a long time, even when you feel Hyunjin turn around and wrap his arms around you. Instead, you just focus on the steady thump of Hyunjin's heartbeat and try to remember how to breathe.

read it on ao3 | masterlist

[kafkaeya]

you underdress for an event

characters: diluc / kaeya / alhaitham / kaveh

requests: open

tw: none (but reader wears dresses, or is required to in some scenarios so... keep in mind)

an: second official post! thanks for the love on the first one <3 waking up to all those notifs made me so happy. i hope this one is just as good!

a sigh, then a simple, "you can do better than that."

diluc was evaluating your outfit choice for the debut event of a new type of dandelion wine. all eyes would be on diluc, therefore his partner too, and turning up in a tucked-in white shirt and simple black trousers was not going to cut it.

"this is all i have that's clean," you protested, "and aren't you going to wear exactly the same as me?"

"that's not my point," diluc responded, rubbing his forehead delicately with his index finger and thumb. "there are going to be nearly hundreds of potential clients tonight; i really need this to go well, my love. so..."

diluc then proceeded to open a drawer, taking out a small wallet. he continued speaking, "we will need to find you something nice to wear, won't we?"

...you weren't going to argue with that.

"i do not care whether you're still angry with me or not, love. the fact is that you need to actually put some proper clothes on for this event tonight. that, or don't bother coming." kaeya paused, "...but please do come. otherwise, i'll have to explain why you're absent."

yourself and kaeya had another argument that morning, albeit a petty one. however, the one clash the two of you had in your relationship dynamic was your stubbornness. this led to the current predicament: you were proposing to arrive to a rather formal event in dirty clothes, that were far too... ordinary. that, and covered in mud and grass.

you shrugged your shoulders, "that's not my problem."

kaeya scoffed. gathering himself, he retorted after a moment, "that is your problem. you are the one actively refusing to just do as i've asked. now... where's that dress i bought for you for your birthday? i know i can fit you into it myself if you kick up too much of a fuss."

rolling your eyes, and with a huff, you complied, and the dancing and festivities meant that you two had forgotten what you had argued about in the first place by the end of the night.

the perks of dating the scribe of the akademiya (in your eyes anyway) was that, on the odd occasion, you were able to attend some beautiful gala events. this was one such event, however clearly you had misread the memo alhaitham had left for you that morning.

alhaitham walked into your bedroom, a large black bag in his right hand, before glancing at you and simply saying, "no."

"no?" you turned to look at him. "what do you mean no?"

"no."

a pause. alhaitham then took a step forward.

"this is far too casual. the hemline of the dress is far too high; it needs to be floor-length. furthermore, the bodice is rather... tight, is it not? we will be at this event all evening, your body will go sore."

"...since when did you know what a bodice is?"

"anyway, i assumed you would misinterpret my rather clear message i left for you - so here."

alhaitham then passed you the black bag he entered the room with, which contained another - much more ideal - dress, and left you to get dressed once more.

to say that kaveh was excited for this event was an understatement. however, when he found himself in need of a plus one, and with alhaitham flat-out refusing his offer, kaveh realised that you were the only option.

and that was how he found out, the hard way, that you do not own any kind of formal clothing whatsoever.

knocking on your door, kaveh was shocked to say the least to find you in your normal attire, not at all ready for a formal event like the one he was invited to.

kaveh let himself into your house without a word, leaving you to close the door behind him. then, he gave you another lookover. a heavy sigh escaped his lips as he said, "you know, you could have put a little more effort in to your appearance."

"why?" you asked. "i'm not trying to get anyone to fall in love with me or anything."

muttering, kaveh replied, "it's too late for that."

"what?"

dramatically, kaveh turned around to look behind him. "what?! who said that!?"

[linkspooky]

Sukuna's Anti-Enlightenment

Sukuna's words in this chapter practically mirror Mahito's words to Junpei from much earlier in the series.

"Do you understand? Life has no weight or particular value. Just like how water flows through the earth, life simply flows. For you, me and everyone else - it's the same. Without meaning. Without value. That's why you can do whatever you want. Live the way you want. Don't limit yourself to just being indifferent. There's no reason to live by such a restricting philosophy. If you're hungry, eat. If you hate, kill."

Both of these characters are rejecting humanity's natural instinct to look for a purpose in life and are instead subscribing to a more animalistic way of living following their basic instincts, if you're hungry eat, if you hate, kill. While the philosophy sounds simple enough there's something much more complex going on under the surface that requires digging deeper into Sukuna's mindset.

A True Curse

By having Sukuna essentially quote Mahito, the story is inviting us to compare them. A literary foil is a character whose purpose is to accentuate or draw attention to the qualities of another character. This term comes from an old technique of placing a thin metal sheet, or foil, behind a gem to make it shine. Sukuna is a character defined by how little both the other characters in story, and the audience understand him, something Yorozu comments on he's simply too powerful and isolated to be understood by the rest of humanity and so he stands alone. Which is why giving him a foil is a way to help the audience understand Sukuna without the author tipping their hand and ruining Sukuna's mystique. The question is what does Mahito highlight about Sukuna, and my answer is Sukuna is what Mahito wishes to be.... a True Curse.

Mahito is many things, but without making this entire meta about Mahito his primary goal along with the rest of the special class curses is to eradicate humanity and replace them as the true humans. They basically want to destroy what humans have created and create a world of curses in their place.

Mahito is the most human like of the curse family, he reads human books watches human movies, even spends time getting to know a few humans personally and he also rejects them the strongest because he is made up of the human fear of other humans. Mahito is the one who reflects humans the most because all the other curses are made up on natural disasters, and yet he wants to destroy everything that's human inside of him and embody a true curse instead.

Which he does in the final phase of his fight against Yuji by literally ripping off his own skin like it's a chrysallis so he can emerge in a more curse-like form. Mahito is like the frankenstein's monster of the human id, he is created by the absolute worst impulses of humanit yand therefore rejects humans implicitly.

He even argues with his fellow curses that they shouldn't act too much like humans. Whend Choso, Jogo and Mahito disagree about whether or not they should revive Sukuna, Mahito argues they've been following Kenjaku's strategy too closely and they should make a game out of it and follow their whims or desires like a curse would isntead of using strategy like Kenjaku.

Mahito's idea of a curse is a creature of the natural world that lives entirely true to its own desires and hunger, satiating it without thinking about the effects their actions have on other people. A lion doesn't stop to ponder whether or not the gazelles its grazing on have feelings. A curse rejects the human need to fight purpose in life, or find deeper meaning or reasons behind their actions and only follow their instincts.

Mahito doesn't just not think about the meaning of life, he actively rejects there being any other meaning besides living to satiate one's needs. Remember Mahito and Sukuna both laugh together at Yuji, and Yuji identifies them as true curses as well.

A scene which is called back to later on in the series shortly after Sukuna takes over Megumi's body.

In a series where even characters like Gojo and Kashimo who view other people as not human in the same way they are will have an aching loneliness and a desire to connect to others, Sukuna and Mahito both seem completely devoid of any humanity whatsoever.

Mahito however, is a baby and a newly formed curse while Sukuna is an adult that's existed for 1,000 years as the pinnacle of Jujutsu. Mahito is essentially the larval form of Sukuna in the story. Quite literally in fact, because he emerged from the chrysallis by ripping his skin off to reveal his true curse form in his final bout with Yuji. Sukuna is what Mahito wants to be when he grows up. Mahito talks the talk, but Sukuna is actually able to walk the walk.

It's a bit like how Gojo, Naoya, and Toji all sort of believe that power makes it so they exist in a different category of people, however Gojo and Toji have the ability to back that belief up with power whereas Naoya just gets his butt kicked a lot. Naoya even crosses the boundary line between human and curse in an attempt to reach the same level that Gojo and Toji were at.

There's a pattern in the series of characters pushing themselves further and further away from humanity becoming curses and rejecting human values of meaning alongside of it. Going from higher thinking like empathy, philosophy, the search for meaning to lower, more animalistic and instinct heavy thinking. Naoya even says that becoming a curse reminds him of his childhood again like he's completely regressed intellectually.

Naoya: This sort of takes me back. There are things that children can't do that are easy for adults. After you grow up, you can't even remember the time you couldn't do it. Well, this is like that.

Jogo also defines a curse as someone who's true to their feelings, unlike humans who hide behind lies and pretend to be something they're not. All of this to say I don't think Mahito and Sukuna's views are nihilistic per se. Nihilism is rejecting that there is inherent meaning to anything in life yes, but in order to reject meaning you have to question it first. Mahito and Sukuna seem to be rejecting philosophy itself, an anti-philosophy philosophy so to speak. Nietzsche considered animals to be un-historic, because they only existed in the presence and have no history. They are, themselves at every instant because they only know of the now.

“Consider the cattle, grazing as they pass you by. They do not know what is meant by yesterday or today, they leap about, eat, rest, digest, leap about again, and so from morn till night and from day to day, fettered to the moment and its pleasure or displeasure, and thus neither melancholy nor bored. [...] A human being may well ask an animal: 'Why do you not speak to me of your happiness but only stand and gaze at me?' The animal would like to answer, and say, 'The reason is I always forget what I was going to say' - but then he forgot this answer too, and stayed silent.”

Cows aren't nihilistic, they're not anything because they just exist. They just exist as individuals in an eternal moment. They just exist.

Mahito: "Emotions come from the soul. It's too simplistic to call it "heart". People overthink things they can't see. I can see the soul so for me it's nothing special. It's practically the same as the human body. It just exists."

Mahito similiarly says that the soul just exists, there's no need to overthink the meaning of it or try to classify the soul as a "heart" capable of feeling emotions because it's just there. Sukuna similiarly doesn't worry about the past or the present, all humans are just momentary distractions to him and he only lives in pursuit of finding his next meal.

They just eat to satisfy their hunger temporarily, not because they find the food delicious or for any other reason. They're just living in pursuit of their next meal. It reminds me of a passage from my favorite existentialist book series Zaregoto.

"They say food, sleep and sex are the three basic desires of makind. But why are we eating this meal right now?" "To ingest vitamins." "Yes. Without vitamins, people die. And thus eating food brings pleasure. Sleeping feels good too, and sex, well, that's obvious. Anything that you hvae to do to stay alive always comes with pleasure." [...] "Now let's imagine someone who's obsessed with eating. In other words someone who eats not simply to take in vitamins, but because he's mad for the sensation of eating itself; for the beauty in the very act. The stimulation of his taste buds. The pleasure of feeling the food pass through his mouth. The joy of mastication. The ecstasy of feeling that mushed-up gook flowing down his throat. The feeling of fullness nearly destroying his satiety center altogether. The euphoia taking over his brain. To a guy like that, vitamins or lacktherof are totally irrelevant. The means and end have switched places for him, so now his main goal is something subsidiary. Now there's your problem. Can you still say this is eating? No, don't answer. You and I both know the only possible answer is no. WHat this guy is doing isn't eat. He's just eating the concept of eating."

Sukuna isn't even eating at this point, he's eating the concept of eating. He's eating because the pleasurable sensation of eating distracts him for a little while, and because looking for his next meal gives him something to do while he's killing time before he dies.

2. Anti-Philosophy Philosophy

They're not even saying that life is meaningless, because that's a conclusion you come to after questioning the meaning of life. They reject the questioning of meaning itself, the attempt to understand either life or other people. They're living entirely like lions prowling the sarangetti for their next meal.

"I've never needed anyone to satisfy me. I eat when I wanna eat, play with what amuses me, and kill whoever's in my way. I live as befits my nature. If no one can grasp that, it's their problem."

Mahito rejects the heart, Sukuna rejects love, both of these things are more complicated human desires than just eat until your stomach is full and kill or be killed.

Sukuna and Gojo both say "Tenjou, Tenge Yuigadoksun - above heaven, under heaven, I alone am worthy of honor" but only Sukuna goes on further to say "all that exists is my pleasure and displeasure". Even Gojo wants to be understood by others even if he thinks that normal people can't understand him and he exists as a different species from them, but Sukuna himself even rejects the fact people might understand him. They do, or they don't, it doesn't matter to him because he only needs to udnerstand himself. Sukuna's practically lapsing into solopism here.

Solopism is the philosophical lens that only one's mind is sure to exist. Knowledge outside of one's own mind is unsure, the external worlds and other minds cannot be known and might not exist outside the mind.

Solopism builds on the failure of Descartes maxim "I think; therefore I exist" which fails to provide any real details about the nature of the "I" that has proven to exist. Solipism asserts the only thing certain is the "I" - one's most certain knowledge is one's own mind, my thoughts, my experiences, my emotions. There is no link between the occurence of a certain conscious experience or mentals tates and the "possession" or behavioral dispoistions of a "body" of a particular kind. The experience of a given personality is private and only understood by that person. The solipistic view of Sukuna is that his experience in the present, what he's feeling, is the only thing that matters and everything else may as well not exist.

I'd only say it has things in common with solipism though, because even Solipism questions reality which Sukuna doesn't question anything. Suuna doesn't feel the need to question things or grow because in his mind his understanding of himself is perfect and complete which is why he doesn't need anyone else's comprehension of him.

In freudian psychoanalytic theory you could align Sukuna's behavior to the ID (I Desire). Jung and Freud both believe in a divded consciousness, but Freud divides it into three, the id, the ego and the superego. The id is the insintcts, superego is the higher thinking like morality, and the ego is the mediator between the two. The id is the most primitive and instinctual part of the mind. For example a child is said to be all id, because they don't understand rules or other people's feelings they only want to fill their basic needs. Mahito would be the childlike aspect of the id, because he is a newborn fledgling cursed spirit.

The id also follows the pleasure principle, which Sukuna's philosophy also follows "all that exists is my pelasure and displeasure." Freud argues the pleasure principal is an ingained survival instinct "what decides the purpose of life is simply the programme of the pleasure principle". The Id is made up of the life-sustaining activities such as eating and sex, and it makes these things pleasurable so we will pursue them. However, there's also a counterpart to the pleasure principle in the human psyche that is the reality prinicple, which is the human capacity of defer gratification of a desire when a situation doesn't allow you to have immediately what you want. The id is ruled by the pleasure principle, and immediately wants all of its desires granted at the cost of everything else, but mature human egos are able to delay instant gratification for a higher objective.

Sukuna basically lives by the rule of the pleasure principle. He's shown capable of long term planning if he needs to like taking Megumi's body, so he's not incable of delaying instant gratifciation but at the same time his ruling princple seems to be seeking immediate pleasure. Sukuna is a walking appetite, he literally has a mouth on his stomach.

There's also the alchemical trinity to consider, mind, body, and soul. In this Sukuna is the body. Not only is he a body hijacker who has literally transformed Megumi's body practically into his own, but he also only lives to satiate the phyiscal needs of the body.

This is where Sukuna would differentiate himself from solipism though, because he needs to exist in a physical body. His entire quest over the course of the manga is to regain a body, he needs to eat, he needs to fight physically, he wouldn't be comfortable just existing as a brain within a jar he needs to stay in the physical world. He lives for the physical pleasures of this world.

What about the Body character?  There isn’t one in every alchemy story, but when this does appear, the markers are predictable.  Body characters are focused on their bodily needs--they are hungry, thirsty, and, in adult stories, lusty.  And they are often fearful. Think of Papageno in Mozart’s opera, the Magic Flute, who breaks his vow of temperance and starts eating and drinking on stage, lamenting his lack of female companionship.  Or Wiggins in The Little White Horse (he’s a beautiful, vain King Charles spaniel, always focused on his next meal). Or Sméagol/Gollum, who eats compulsively though his main lust is for the Ring.

Sukuna for instance wouldn't be happy living like Tengen who exists far outside of humanity simply observing others, because he has a need to interact with the world in the form of eating, or experiencing earthly pleasure.

In fact after going through several philosophies which don't quite describe Sukuna's own philosophy (because it resembles these while inherently rejecting the need for philosophy) we might come to the closest comparison for what Sukuna's desire is, which is to exist for as long as possible on the earthly plain while filling up his stomach.

Sukuna is comparable to the Celestial Demon Mara in budhist mythology, more on it in this thread. In budhist cosmology, Mara is the "personification of the forces antagonistic to enlightenment."

Devaputra-mara specifically is the deva of the sensuous realm, who tries to prevent Gautuma Budha from attaining liberation fro m the cycle of rebirth the night of his enlightenment. The existence of Mara is to defy Budha, and specifically to prevent his escape from the cycle of the world, especially the sensuous realm. He exists in opposition to the three marks of existence too.

Number one impernanence, that all existence, without exception is "transient, evanescent, inconstant". Number two Dukha "Suffering, pain, unsatisfactoriness" is inherent to life. Number three antaa "Non-self, non-soul, no-essence."

If the ultimate goal of budhism is to escape the cycle entirely and stop being reborn in the sensuous realm, Maara instead tempts people to stay in this realm. it defines impernanence by suggesting we stay in this realm forever. It defies Dukha by saying we indulge in physical pleasures in this realm, that we should seek to satisfy ourselves even if budhism argues that life is primarily unsatisfactory. Then if the ultimate goal of existence in budhism is the "non-self" to escape ego, Maara argues we should remain trapped as ourselves forever.

We even see Sukuna literally tempt a budha-like figure into remaining in this earthly realm. After all aren't we shown that Gojo achieved enlightenment at seventeen and let go of earthly emotions like the need to be angry and avenge Riko's killer because the feeling of oneness with existence was too good in that moment.

A lot of people noticed what they thought was Gojo acting out of character in the fight with him and Sukuna, by enjoying the fight and choosing his selfish desire to love jujutsu and fight as a sorcerer over his responsibiltiy to protect children. Something which Nanami says in his dying hallucination that Gojo only ever lived for the pursuit of his selfish desire for Jujutsu in the first place.

Gojo, a character that we know has a higher minded ideal that he's fighting for the next generation of sorcerers is shown losing that ideal in the fight with Sukuna, and only caring about his earthly pleasures, having a satisfying fight against a strong opponent. You could even say that was Sukuna's goal in the fight, to strip off Gojo's fish scales so to speak and reduce him back to being a normal human being. Something which he accomplished when he managed to learn to cut the space that Gojo inhabited, therefore negating the infinitity that protected him and dragging him back to this earthly realm.

"This is goodbye. You were born in an era without me and hailed as the strongest yet you turned out to be painfully ordinary..."

In a way Sukuna tempted Gojo away from enlightenment and succeeded. The linked thread goes on to say that Budha defeats Maara to save his students during his temptation, but Gojo on the other hand died and failed protecting his students specifically because he chose the earthly pleasure of seeking to have fun in a fight over the well-being of his student Megumi who's body was possessed.

He made a human being again out of an enlightened Gojo, and dragged him back to morality and the cycle of death and rebirth by making Gojo care more about his selfish desire for a fight than the principles he fought for. Sukuna trapped Gojo in the mortal realm along with him.

Sukuna's philosophy sounds like Mara's too, that rather than seeking anything better you should just distract yourself from the unhappiness of life by indulging in pleasures to stifle your misery.

I'd say Sukuna lives the same way. He doesn't consider himself weak, but he doesn't talk about life or this world like it's a fun place to be. He tells Yuji to stifle his misery. He then admits to Kamo that his purpose in life is just to eat delicious things to kill time until he dies.

"Life is just killing time until you die" sounds like a miserable kind of hedonism, since he's only distracting himself from the unpleasantness of life. Sukuna too might just be spending his life stifling his own misery by seeking endless pleasure on earth. He doesn't want to escape earth however, he wants to remain on earth for as long as possible. Kamo even pointed out the strange contradiction in his own philosophy.

Sukuna insists he doesn't need to be understood by others, that he's not alone, that fighting and eating his way through life is enough for him because he understands himself and all life is just enertaining yourself until you die anyway, but Kamo asks why if he's just satisfied with that kind of life did he go to the trouble of ripping his soul into twenty pieces and trying to regain his body 1,000 years later.

Sukuna notably avoids this question. He doesn't tell Kamo why he even bothered to divide his soul up and extend his life if he's perfectly satisfied with life as it is. We don't get the answer to why he wants to possess Megumi or is going through all this trouble.

That's where we get to the greatest snag in Sukuna's philosophy, which ironically relates back to the tug of war between the pleasure principal and the reality principal.

Sukuna's philosophy is that he's never needed anyone else "I've never needed anyone to satisfy me. I eat when I wanna eat, play with what amuses me and kill whoever's in my way. I live as befits my nature. If no one can grasp that, then that's their problem."

The big glaring flaw in Sukuna's philospohy that he's only ever needed himself is kind of like the flaw in the american "pull yourself up by your bootstraps philosophy" its that everyone including Sukuna needs other people. Sukuna isn't fighting with his own strength alone right now. He stole it from Megumi. He could have conceived of a way to beat Gojo without the Ten Shadows yes, but right now Sukuna wouldn't even be able to exist in the physical world without Megumi's body.

He is literally a parasite in a teen boy's body, using him to his own ends and yet he insists that he's the only one that exists or matters and he's always been able to accomplish everything he wanted with his own strength. Sukuna's a parasite right now, arguing that he's the greatest individual and has never needed or relied upon anyone.

The Great and Mighty Sukuna is defiling a young person's body for his own gain, the same way that Kenjaku defiles women and his own children, the same way that the elders manipulate the young in Jujutsu Kaisen to maintain their power base in Jujutsu Society. This supposedly all-powerful erson who only ever relies on himself and only needs his own ego wouldn't even be alive right now if he wasn't paraisitizing Megumi's body, yet he argues that he's completely fulfilled in himself.

A freudian perspective argues that a mature ego finds a balance between the pleasure principal (the need for instant gratification) and the reality principal (the ability to defer instant gratifiaction when the situation doesn't allow for it). Whereas a child is only ID and only cares about fulfilling their most basic needs first and foremost.

Sukuna is paradoxically presenting his views like he's a fully realized, enlightened adult the absolute peak of sorcery, the most developed and intelligent sorcerer in the world, etc. etc. yet he has the underdeveloped ego of a child because he has no grip of the reality principal. A person who doesn't interact with other people or the world, can't learn or grow from it. Which is probably why the closest character you can compare to Sukuna is Mahito, a literal child and a newborn curse. Even Mahito fails to become a true curse in the end.

Sukuna says he rejects enlightenment, and any higher philosophy in order to remain in the earthly realm forever, but one wonders if that isn't the same as the Miltonian Lucifer rejecting heaven to reign in hell.

The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n. What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be, all but less than he Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free: th’Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure, and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in hell; Better to reign in hell than serve in heav’n.

The theme of Paradise Lost is that any sinner, even Lucifer, can stop at any time and seek forgiveness instead. However, Lucifer chooses not to do that. He could leave hell at any time but he chooses to stay. He’s fine in hell after all. He’s totally gotten used to the temperature by now. Everything is fine Lucifer says, while everything is on fire.

Lucifer would rather stay in a hell of his own creation because it gives him the illusion of control over his life then admit he was wrong or give up that control.

He may be king of hell however, but he's still in hell. Hell is not exactly the most pleasant place to be. King he may be, but he's trapped here the same as everyone else.

Sukuna may be the closest a character has come to being a true curse, he might have transcended humanity, the human need for love, but he still can't escape the earthly realm. In fact his entire philosophy is a mara-esque avoid enlightenment and stay in the earthly realm as long as possible. In a series where characters like Yuki and Kenjaku are trying to evolve cursed energy into something different, either by completely removing it, or by optimizing it and forcing it to take a new form Sukuna is someone who is stagnant and resisting that evolution. Why would someone who's already perfect need to evolve in any way?

That might just be Sukuna's downfall in a way. By rejecting other people, by rejecting the human need to seek meaning in life, he may have made himself completely stagnant. After all if Sukuna already accepts everything about himself, if he is a fully realized individual then why would he need to change?

He can steal techniques and knowledge from others of course, but that's what he always has done. The real question is how would Sukuna who's the perfect sorcerer, who's never been anything other than a sorcerer and lives to be one, exist in a world where the definition of what a sorcerer even is will probably change by theend of the manga?

So Sukuna may ask "What can a little boy hope to accomplish here?" but a child like Yuji is capable of the one thing that Sukuna isn't, growing and changing into something better.

[unholly-reader]

I will choose you for the rest of our life - Daemon Targaryen x f!OC!

Hello lovely people!

Daemon's charm has once again struck and so here is some well deserved Daemond fluff. I apologize in advance for any accidents caused by swooning over our favourite Rogue Prince.

Once again - English is NOT my first language!

Enjoy, my dragon lovers!

************************************************************

It was still a warm summer evening when Alanna returned from her journeys beyond the City limits where she accompanied Rhaenyra waiting in the prince on the ground while she took Syrax for a ride. It was a pleasant enough afternoon considering the Princess had a terrible fight with the King about her marriage prospects and the reality of spending a life with somebody which happened to be his favorite subject as of late. Unfortunately, Rhaenyra did not share her father's sentiments and was adamant on remaining unwed. The topic brought many a disagreement between the King and his named Heir, however the love they both shared remained unquestionable. It was clear for Alanna as well as everyone in Court that the day Rhaenyra decides to marry would be the day the nonsense arguments will end but until then the eldest Lady Hightower took vigilant care of the Princess keeping her company and advising if necessary.

- I must say Princess, it will never cease to amaze me how truly united you and Syrax are. It's as if you're two bodies and one soul - said Alanna, dismounting her horse after reaching the royal stables. Rhaenyra chuckled lightly, jumping off her golden mare with ease and smiling to her companion.

- I wish you could know how it feels, Aunt Alanna. The bond between a dragon and its rider is second to none, truly.

- I am quite content seeing you with Syrax, sweet girl. It brings me so much joy to see you smile, especially after rough mornings such as today.

Rhaenyra nodded gratefully at Alanna, walking towards her with a gentle, but saddened smile.

- I am so very thankful to have you here, Aunt Alanna. I don't what I would have done if your father had sent to Old Town.

- Luckily, we don't have to find that out. Now come, you must eat something and above all you need a long bath. You stink of dragon - laughed Alanna, putting her arm over the Princess's shoulders.

Rhaenyra joined her in laughter as they made their way towards the Keep when the gates opened themselves to reveal Ser Harrold Westerling approaching both ladies. Quickly he descended the stairs and walked to them, bowing dutifully.

- My Princess. My Lady. The King requires your presence in the throne room.

Rhaenyra sighed heavily, taking her gloves off.

- By Gods, we have only argued this morning. Can't whatever my father needs from me wait until tomorrow?

The commander bowed his head once again, looking at the Heir apologetically.

- Pardon me, Princess, but the King has asked for the Lady Alanna.

It was now Alanna's turn to snap her head to Ser Harrold in surprise. She glanced at Rhaenyra, shock painted on her face.

- Me? Whatever for?

- I couldn't say, My Lady. He only requested that you come down to the throne room and that the matter is urgent.

Lady Hightower nodded politely, turning to face Rhaenyra and put her hands on the girls shoulders.

- We shall meet for dinner, sweet girl. You go wash off that stench of yourself and I will come see you later.

Rhaenyra hesitated but eventually she kissed Alanna's cheek and walked on towards her chambers.

- Ser Harrold.

- Princess.

Alanna watched as the girl disappeared behind the doors and then turned her gaze to the knight. Ser Harrold held his arm out as if to invite the woman to walk with him, bowing his head slightly.

- If you please, My Lady.

The woman followed his direction in silence, entering the Red Keep and moving to the corridors leading straight to the throne room. The inside od the castle were brightly lit by many torches and candles surrounding the place, but here and there the setting sun crept inside the Keep's walls. Alanna held her skirt in one palm as the train of her dark blue gown swept the floors behind her, while she quietly walked by Ser Harrold's side. It was a short walk as they reached the throne room soon enough. Ser Harrold had the guards open the doors and he led Alanna inside, where the King sat upon his throne all by himself.

- Lady Alanna Hightower, Your Grace - announced Ser Harrold as Alanna stepped into the light, standing atop the stairs.

- Thank you, Ser Harrold. You may take your leave now - replied Viserys, waving his hand at the knight. The Lord Commander bowed and swiftly left the room, leaving the King and his sister by law alone.

- Please, do come in, Lady Alanna.

Suspecting nothing of the foul means Alanna descended down the stairs and walked up to the King, curtsying before the monarch with a polite bow of her head.

- Your Grace - she said respectfully, straightening her posture and looking at Viserys with a gentle smile - I do not mean any disrespect, Your Grace, but is there a particular reason why you asked to see me?

- Are you happy here, My Lady?

- Pardon me, Your Grace? - asked Alanna, baffled by the King's question.

And so Viserys repeated his query.

- I asked if you are happy here, in the Capital?

Alanna smiled bashfully, not quite sure what to say to that unusual question.

- I am quite happy, Your Grace. Spending my time with the Princess and my sister, the Queen is all I could ever ask for. I am truly grateful to you for allowing me to stay at Court.

- And what of your marriage prospects, my dear? Has there been any word from your father in that matter?

This question baffled Alanna even more so than the first one. She smiled politely at the King, trying to uphold the unsuspecting demeanor while in reality she kept wondering about where this conversation was leading.

- I could not say, Your Grace. My father has not been the most attentive towards me ever since my sister became the Queen. I believe it is the matters of the realm and those of your bedchambers that concern him more than myself, Your Grace.

Alanna did not register what words left her mouth until the moment they left it. It took her only a few second to realize what she ghat just said to her King and how disrespectful it was towards him and her father. Not to mention how unladylike this behavior was. Quickly she bowed her head, staring at the tips of her shoes peeking from underneath her dark blue dress, praying that the King would not feel insulted by her choice of words.

- Your Grace, I apologize. I meant no insult either to you or my father. I seem to have forgotten to hold my tongue.

Instead of hearing the angry King reprimand her, she heard a mere laugh. When she looked up, she saw the King smiling, almost grinning like a fool and laughing as if she had just told him something incredibly funny. It was a rare sight to see Viserys this joyful, especially since it has been a tough couple of days for him and his eldest daughter.

- You Grace?

The King’s laughter slowly died down as he walked up to Alanna, gently raising his hand to hold her chin up. Staring into the King’s lilac eyes she was reminded of her lover’s eyes, so bright and pure in the light of the setting sun.

- I could not see it before, but I do now - said Viserys with a thoughtful smile - You share the same spirit, but you also possess the fierceness to tame him.

Somehow Alanna knew he was speaking of Daemon, but she would not let it be known to the King. Without shifting her demeanor she continued acting clueless and unaware.

- I do not know what it is you are speaking of, Your Grace.

- I have been told that there were numerous occasions you were seen with my brother and you seemed to have been thoroughly enjoying his company. Is this true?

Alanna froze in place. She didn't know how to answer this, whether to tell the truth or keep on lying. It has been like a thorn at her side, not being able to stand by Daemon, speak with him, touch is hand. It would be risky to reveal her true feelings, especially to the King, but something was telling her it was the right thing to do. So she did it.

- It is true, Your Grace - answered Alanna, holding the King's gaze proudly.

It wasn't defiance or arrogance, but there was something that Viserys saw in her eyes in that moment. Like she had made a choice to stop hiding. There was this indescribable spark in her blue orbs, something the King could not quite put his finger on but he knew that may very well have been the reason his brother fell for this young lady. Gently he let his hand fall down, still holding her gaze with a kind smile.

- If you were given the choice to marry whom you desire, who would be your chosen husband?

This time Alanna did not falter nor did she hesitate. She wasn't sure what the game Viserys played with her was, but she somehow didn't care about the consequences. He was her King and she owed him her loyalty, and above all else - her truth.

- Daemon.

Her answer was loud and clear, no doubt in her voice or in her eyes and only a fool wouldn't see it. The King was no fool.

- Do you love my brother, Lady Alanna?

- With everything I am today and everything I ever hope to become.

Viserys did not expect such honesty. He knew only what Daemon had told him of his feelings for his sister by law, but it came as a surprise to the King to learn of her devotion towards his brother. She stood there with her head held high, eyes staring into the King's lilac orbs with no fear. Viserys hummed to himself, taking a few steps back and turning away to face the throne. He contemplated the circumstances while Alanna awaited her verdict. As it turned out patience seemed to have run thin within her mind as she spoke up, grabbing Viserys's attention.

- I do not know why it would matter to you, Your Grace, but whatever you may think of your brother, he is who my soul longs for - said Alanna, smiling dreamily like a little girl - I could never forget him or abandon him and no matter how many times he is exiled from Court, I will always await his return if only to gaze upon his face. He is my reason and my sanity and I am certain nothing could ever change that.

The King turned around swiftly, looking at his sister by law as if he saw her for the first time. Her eyes were glimmering like the night sky lit by showers of shooting stars. Her face was almost glowing as if the love she had for his brother illuminated her features. Viserys only ever witnessed this kind of devotion twice. The first was the love he was born from, the one that united his father, Prince Baelon with his mother, Princess Alyssa. Although blurry and somewhat worn-away, memories of the love his parents shared was imprinted on his mind, daily reminding him of what is supposed to matter to him most. His family.

The second time he witnessed this type of love was when he met Aemma. Even though they didn't fall for one another at first sight, she had made him the man he became, the King he grew up to be. Choosing his heir over her life would always be his worst nightmare, haunting him each and every night. Despite the tragic ending he knew he was truly loved and loved truly in return. Much like Alanna seemed to love his brother and from what the King could tell, Daemon loved her just as much.

- And is Lady Alanna the wife you would choose, brother? - asked Viserys, still looking at his good-sister.

Alanna felt her heart stop in her chest as Daemon emerged out of the shadows behind the Iron Throne. He was wearing his dark grey breeches and white linen shirt, his short hair ruffled as if he had just woken up but in her eyes he never looked more handsome. And she could swear he never looked at her with so much emotion in his eyes ever before.

- I would choose her now and every day for the rest of my life.

As Daemon approached the King and his beloved, Alanna could not mutter a single word. She was too stunned to speak. The Rogue Prince walked towards her but stopped beside his brother, never taking his eyes off his beloved. Viserys glanced at Daemon and then faced Alanna with a kind smile on his face, feeling his heart fill up with joy. Looking at the two of them he knew there was only one right thing to do.

- The day I married Alicent, you became my good sister and since then not a day has passed that you wouldn't serve me with your good word or the actions of your kind heart. In all this time I never thought to thank you for all that you have done for my family, for my daughter in the absence of her late mother, but maybe now I will repay my debt - said the King, taking her hand in his, at the same time grabbing Daemon's hand as well and joining them together.

Alanna felt tears gathering in her eyes as she looked at Daemon and their joined hands. When Viserys stepped back, his younger brother took a hold of Alanna's palm in both his hands, going down on one knee before her.

- I will choose you every day for the rest of our lives, my light. If you'll have me - spoke Daemon, gently caressing her hand.

The Lady Hightower was at a loss for words. She felt all her emotions go on a rampage as she looked down at the love of her life asking her to be his for eternity. She could not believe it was real, but somehow she knew it was. She had him right there at the grasp of her hands and all she had to do was say "yes". Instaed of saying anything, Alanna kneeled before him, putting her hand over his grasping her other palm and brought them to her lips. She looked up in his lilac eyes, so true and loving she could fall apart right there and then, and simply said the words.

- And I will choose you for the rest of our life, my love. Just like I choose you today.

[edelgarfield]

I am genuinely so sick of seeing the take that "man's hubris caused the calamity" and that being used as "take that!" against the people of Aeor, who largely were not even alive during the start of the Calamity, & who, regardless of the reason, have had to live in a world ravaged by the gods' conflict.

Avalir and Aeor were far from perfect & the ruling class certainly was full of hubris & elitism, but blaming mortals as a whole for the Calamity is so incredibly fucked up. Avalir as a whole did not collectively decide to invite the Betrayer Gods into the Material Plane. The largest instigators of the Calamity were:

1. Vespin Chloras, who was following in the footsteps laid by the Raven Queen, and

2. Zerxus, who was manipulated by Asmodeus, and

3. Asmodeus, who despises mortals because he blames them for the rift driven between the Prime Deities & Betrayer Gods.

Like I can't speak to Vespin Chloras but I genuinely cannot find it in myself to blame Zerxus, a mortal man, for being manipulated by the God of Manipulation, or for believing in redemption and forgiveness. You can think he was foolish to fall for it, but being gullible or having faith isn't a sin. There's a bunch of arguments that "it's arrogant for a mortal to believe himself deserving of forgiving a god" and I won't argue that Zerxus had some arrogance & self-righteousness. But I just. I do not and will never believe that divine beings are morally superior to mortals.

there's this idea that the pursuit of godhood/power is inherently corrupt, and to an extent I'm inclined to agree (I started a whole rant here abt this, but that's a different post). but hand in hand, there seems to be this idea that the gods themselves are shielded from that same corruption, which I simply don't think is true. whether mortals are capable of wielding the power of a god without being destroyed is a separate issue to its morality. something being inherently risky/unsafe does not automatically mean it's wrong. but I don't understand how people can say it's irresponsible/evil for mortals to pursue godlike power, or that they can't be trusted to wield that power, without applying the same logic to the gods themselves. It doesn't make sense to me that the pursuit of power is wrong, but the ones who actually wield that power, sometimes violently & unfairly, only ever wield it responsibly.

in fact, I think that without any sort of power to resist the violence & will of the gods, the gods are left completely unchecked to use Exandria in whatever capacity they choose to. that's an extremely dangerous thing for anyone living on it, and asking mortals to simply trust that the gods will never act against the people of Exandria is an extremely cruel thing. If people choose to have faith in the gods & their will, that's wonderful. But faith being a requirement just to live peacefully, & deeming anyone without faith sinful & arrogant is unfair.

it's not morally bankrupt to desire freedom from the will of the gods. it's not corrupt to want mortals to carve their own path. it's not evil to question what you've been told about the world.

The idea that "man's/Avalir's hubris caused the Calamity" feels like a fantasy version of "humanity is causing climate change" or "humans are inherently evil," which are extremely unpopular opinions on Tumblr. It's attributing actions taken by one or a small group of people to humanity as a whole. It's blaming humanity for being manipulated by a higher power. It's holding mortals responsible for their own murders.

[princesssarisa]

Some “Little Women” thoughts – In defense of Meg’s marriage

@littlewomenpodcast, @thatscarletflycatcher, @joandfriedrich

Whether Little Women is a feminist book or an anti-feminist book will probably be debated forever.

Most of the debate seems to center around the character of Jo: whether she’s depressingly “tamed” in the end or matures in a healthy way, whether her marriage is anti-feminist or not, and whether or not it’s “anti-feminist” that in the end she’s a schoolmistress instead of a famous author. (Though of course she’ll eventually be a famous author in Jo’s Boys.) But similar debate surrounds the other March sisters too, for various reasons.

Not even Meg, the sister whom readers most often seem to overlook, is spared from these debates. Many feminist critics, such as (but not limited to) Samantha Ellis in her book How to Be a Heroine, have criticized the chapters depicting Meg and John Brooke’s married life in Part II. They label those chapters “depressing,” and they feel as if Meg and John are constantly at odds with each other and miserable. They argue that each of their marital conflicts ends with Meg learning to be a more submissive wife who placates and effaces herself for her husband. And they despise John, labeling him “selfish” and “disrespectful.”

Sometimes I wonder if I read the same book that they did.

It seems obvious to me that Meg and John’s marriage is a happy and healthy one: Alcott is just honest about the fact that even the happiest marriage includes conflict and requires work. Some of these critics seem to think fictional marriages only exist in two forms, “perfect” and “toxic,” with no in-betweens. Nor does John deserve half the negative commentary he gets, nor does Meg’s personal growth within her marriage consist of learning to be a submissive or self-effacing wife. On the contrary, much of her growth consists of her learning that she doesn’t need to be a “perfect” housewife and mother who gives and demands too much of herself, and their marriage becomes more of an equal partnership by the end, not less of one.

Let’s look in depth all three of Meg and John’s marital conflicts.

First there’s the jelly incident.

Here we see the first of a recurring theme: Meg is determined to be the perfect housewife and is "over-anxious to please.” She wants to do everything right and do it all by herself, because she’s afraid that otherwise, she'll be a failure. In terms of her personality type, I agree with @funkymbtifiction that Meg is an ESFJ. In the book, if not in all adaptations, Meg and Amy are both ESFJs: Amy is more of the sparkling “Glinda in Wicked” variety, while Meg, apart from her streak of vanity, is more of the down-to-earth, motherly, “Mrs. Potts in Beauty and the Beast” variety. But Meg in particular shows what @alittlebitofpersonality calls the ESFJ Type Angst. Her eagerness to manage her marriage and motherhood in the most pleasant, correct way (her strong Fe and Si) and her fear of possible failure (her weak Ne and Ti) give her, in A Little Bit of Personality’s words, a “frantic desire to do everything and get it done right now,” so she drives herself too hard.

She shouldn’t have promised John that he could bring home a dinner guest at any time; that’s unrealistic. Nor should she have tried to make jelly for the first time in her life using only the memory of watching Hannah make it; she should have invited Hannah over to help her. Nor should she have become so absorbed in making and re-making the jelly that she didn’t cook dinner; nor should she have let herself be so distraught about the failed jelly, or lost her temper with John and then run to her room, leaving him to improvise a bread-and-cheese dinner and entertain Mr. Scott alone.

John is also at fault and acknowledges it. He shouldn’t have forgotten that Meg was making jelly that day and brought home a guest without warning. He shouldn’t have laughed at Meg’s anguish over the failed jelly, nor should he have joked that he and Mr. Scott “won’t ask for jelly” with dinner. But let’s be fair to John. His laughter is probably just as much out of relief as out of amusement, because when he first comes home and finds Meg sobbing, he worries that something terrible has happened. Then, when he realizes no food has been cooked, he’s understandably annoyed because he’s come home from work tired and hungry, with a guest too, and Meg hasn’t done what she promised she would. But he doesn’t lose his temper; he stays calm and amiable and accepts a cold-cut meal; he just gives his annoyance a tiny vent with his joking barb about the jelly. Then Meg overreacts in response.

In the hours afterwards, he and Meg are still polite to each other, just a bit distant, each sorry but waiting for the other to apologize first. Then, when Meg finally breaks the ice, they both apologize (not just Meg – in fact only John verbally apologizes, Meg just does it with a kiss), everything is fine again, and from then on they both laugh about the incident.

Maybe by modern standards, it is problematic that Marmee has urged Meg to be careful not to make John angry and to always apologize first when they’re both at fault. But it’s not because John has “a volcanic temper,” as Samantha Ellis inexplicably claimed– he so clearly doesn’t! Nor is Marmee’s message “Men are less forgiving than women so we need to placate them.” She’s not talking about “men,” but about John the individual, and she’s not urging Meg to placate him either. All she means is that John’s anger doesn’t flare up and die quickly like the March women’s, but simmers much longer because he represses it.

Then there’s the silk incident.

Say what you will about vanity-shaming and other gendered implications (which of course are valid), but Meg didn’t need an expensive silk dress, and she shouldn’t have ordered it without telling John. It’s not that a wife should ask her husband’s permission to spend money; it’s that no one, regardless of gender, should do anything behind their spouse’s back that they’re ashamed to admit. And again, John doesn’t get angry. He accepts the expense without complaining. He’s just hurt; he works so hard to provide for Meg, and the fact that what he provides isn’t good enough for her, that she says “I’m tired of being poor,” makes him feel inadequate. Yet he tries not to show his hurt and is willing to let Meg have the dress. He cancels his own order for a new overcoat so they can afford it; he’s willing to sacrifice something he needs for something Meg wants but doesn’t need. When Meg sells the silk and buys the overcoat for John instead, she’s only repaying his selflessness in kind.

Finally, we reach the chapter “On the Shelf.”

I’ve read several feminist articles that criticize this chapter and especially John’s behavior in it. But I don’t agree with any of them. John isn’t being selfish the way Meg briefly thinks he is; he’s not jealous of her attention to the twins. By all appearances, Meg genuinely neglects him and overwhelms herself too, because she devotes every waking moment to her two toddlers and thinks no one can properly take care of them but herself. Again she’s trying to be superhuman because she’s afraid of failure. She doesn’t let John be a parent to his own children, or take any time to relax either, and she spoils the twins and makes things harder for herself by giving in to their tantrums. I understand why some feminists are rankled when John starts spending his evenings elsewhere, Meg feels ignored, and Marmee tells her it’s her own fault for forgetting ‘her duty to her husband.” But even if that wording isn’t ideal by modern standards, it's arguably true. To blame John for “not bothering” to help take care of the twins and “forcing” Meg to do it all alone, as some of these critics do, is just the opposite of what the chapter means to convey.

And again, John doesn’t get angry or complain. Nor, unlike what some of these critics seem to think, does he cheat on Meg, either physically or emotionally. He just goes to visit the Scotts rather than feel lonely and useless at home (where Samantha Ellis got the idea that he goes to “what sounds like a dodgy establishment” is beyond me; it’s a friend’s house), and just because Meg worries that his eye is roving to pretty Mrs. Scott doesn’t mean it is.

Arguably, this chapter has a very feminist message about egalitarian marriage and co-parenting. Instead of doing all the work alone and sacrificing her own wellbeing, Meg learns to share her parenting duties with John, and to let Hannah babysit often so they can have much-needed time to themselves too. She also starts to converse with John about politics, so he doesn’t constantly feel the need to seek out a male friend to discuss them, and he returns the favor by conversing with her about domestic subjects too. Traditional gender divides are relaxed. By the end of the chapter, their marriage is more balanced and equal than ever.

I’ve also read complaints about John’s co-parenting. The fact that Meg is portrayed as too soft-hearted, spoiling rowdy Demi and needing John to discipline him. The fact that John and therefore Alcott advocates the potentially traumatic “cry it out” method of sleep training. The fact that John insists on handling Demi’s tantrum in his own way despite Meg’s objections and Meg reluctantly gives in, with references to John’s “masterful tone” and Meg’s “docility.” The possible sexist implication that John knows how to parent better than Meg does.

But I don’t think Alcott meant to imply that John is a better parent than Meg or meant us to see him as lording over her. Even though he won’t let her give in to Demi’s demands, what finally stops Demi’s tantrum is a kiss from Meg after he’s been allowed to cry for a few minutes. They solve the problem together by combining John’s discipline with Meg’s tenderness. Then John shows tenderness of his own by lying down on the bed and holding Demi as he falls asleep, so it’s not a straightforward “cry it out” that he (or Alcott) advocates for sleep training, but something closer to the Ferber Method.

Of course there is an old-fashioned, traditional aura to Meg and John’s marriage and to their roles in the house: Meg as homemaker and John as breadwinner, Meg as nurturer and John as disciplinarian to the twins, and her fondness for sitting in his lap. But of the four March sisters, Meg was always the most traditional young woman of her era. Her marriage dynamic might not be what Jo or even Amy would want, but it’s just right for Meg. And Alcott shows us that with the right effort, even a basically traditional marriage can be egalitarian and mutually healthy.

The one feminist complaint I might sympathize with is that all three of these episodes do revolve around Meg learning to be a better wife. In each instance, Meg is portrayed as being more at fault than John, and she’s the one who learns the chief lesson. But I don’t consider this a sexist choice either. The March sisters are the protagonists of Little Women. Their coming-of-age journeys and personal growth are the focal point. John is a supporting character, so it’s arguably only natural that the “married life” chapters focus more on Meg’s personal growth than on his.

These are the reasons why I personally enjoy the chapters revolving around Meg and John’s marriage, and why I don’t consider them problematic or “depressing.” They’re just a realistic portrayal of the struggles, mistakes, and conflicts that occasionally rise within a happy marriage, which are resolved in a healthy way when both partners put in the necessary work. I understand where the critics who dislike those chapters are coming from, but I can’t bring myself to agree.

[ticklishraspberries]

Study Strategy (Simon/Wilhelm)

Summary: Living in a dormitory requires a level of quiet that neither Simon nor Wilhelm can accomplish. (This show gets angsty literally right off the bat and I couldn’t handle it anymore, I had to stop and write some fluff to cope. Thank you to my evil friends, @signinandgetkinky and @nhasablogg for telling me to watch this show, you’ve ruined my life. Hope y’all enjoy the fic!!)

“You are allowed to take a break from studying, you know,” Wilhelm says, smirking.

Simon can’t help the fond chuckle he gives in response. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re good at maths.”

“So are you! You just overthink the questions.”

Wilhelm snatches the notebook away before Simon can protest, pushing him back against the bed and laying across his chest, effectively finding a way to both pin him down and cuddle him close.

Simon would be lying if he said he didn’t like it. “Well, if I fail this next test, it will be your fault.”

“Good thing you won’t fail, then.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but Wilhelm is kissing him before he can form any words, and he can’t help but kiss back. It’s risky, kissing at school like this, but they can’t seem to resist the temptation.

After their lips pull apart, Wilhelm doesn’t stop there. He presses kisses to Simon’s cheek, his jaw, his nose. His face flushes, and he’s certain that the prince can feel the heat radiating off of his skin. Normally, he’d be teased about it, but his mouth is rather occupied.

Simon lets out a content hum, hands wrapping around Wilhelm’s waist and holding him even closer. He loves when his boyfriend gets into these touchy-feely moods, wanting to be so near they’re practically joined at the hip. It makes him feel special, wanted.

When the kisses travel down towards his neck, though, he can’t help but squirm, a breathy laugh slipping out.

“Does this tickle?” Wilhelm asks, mischief glinting in his eyes.

Even his breath tickles. How is that even fair? Simon huffs. “You know it does.”

“I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Simon never expected Wilhelm to be so playful, so affectionate. He assumed that royals grew up so stiff and strict, but it seems as though the prince’s relationship with Erik was just as playful as he and Sara’s own sibling bond. It’s heart-warming, actually, to imagine Wilhelm as a child, shrieking with joy while being carried on his big brother’s back, not worrying about the family’s legacy or public appearance or one day taking the crown. He certainly hadn’t been worried about a world where his older brother was no longer there to bring a smile to his freckled face.

The sad thought isn’t able to linger, as Wilhelm has taken Simon’s half-assed confirmation as an invitation to continue, each peck of his lips more deliberate, more purposefully ticklish, and Simon can’t help but giggle, heels digging into the mattress.

It’s a soft, steady sound until Wilhelm experimentally nips at the shell of his ear, which makes Simon shriek in the high-pitched way he finds so embarrassing, and it makes them both laugh harder with how ridiculous it is.

“Shhh,” Wilhelm murmurs, nose pressed into the crook of his neck. “You’re going to get us caught.”

“Then it’ll be entirely your fault,” Simon replies, scrunching his shoulders, trying and failing to protect himself.

And because that simply won’t do, Wilhelm switches tactics and scratches at his belly, making him thrash wildly, burying his face in the other boy’s hair as some attempt at volume control. It doesn’t do much, and reality sets in and reminds them both that while this is all fun and games, the idea of being caught is a very real, very scary thing.

“You’re the worst,” Simon breathes when Wilhelm finally rolls off of him, curling up by his side instead.

Wilhelm grins. “You love it.”

Simon rolls his eyes and sits up to resume studying, and Wilhelm doesn’t snatch his book away again. He just lays next to him, occasionally helping him with equations, but mostly just watching him.

When he does well on the test, Wilhelm whispers that maybe tickles should be his new studying strategy. It makes him blush like mad, but he doesn’t protest the idea.

[ryuichirou]

Do you think any of the NRC students slept with someone that you wouldn't expect in a heat of the moment situation and never talked about it again? For example people you normally wouldn't ship together or don't see having much interaction but maybe they slept together since they were both in the mood and knew since they don't interact they wouldn't have to worry about bumping into the other and feeling awkward, maybe even multiple times since it's an easy no strings attached

Anon, it’s been days and every time I think about your ask, I focus my entire being on activating 100% of my brain and opening the third eye. A part of me is saying “I don’t know, I think we already ship everyone who could bang even if it’s just for once”, but another part of me is saying “but imagine the juicy gossip?” lol

To be honest, I ended up with a lot of possible options. Not all of them have to happen in the same universe because some of the boys ended up being more promiscuous than they probably would be LOL Also, we do ship some of these couples, to be completely fair.

Ace and Riddle – an accidental hookup, a classic “instant regret” situation. Argued for a long time, got super heated, and then boom, it happened. They didn’t say anything to each other afterwards and started avoiding each other for some time.

Jade and Riddle – I guess this is another accidental hookup? Riddle isn’t sure if this actually happened or Jade is just messing with him. But he is very flustered, confused and isn’t sure if it happened (did it?) because Jade is Floyd’s twin. Would that make things better or much, much worse? In any case, it was a momentary weakness… maybe induces with something that he shouldn’t have drunk.

The devil on my shoulder whispers “Rook and Leona”… And I’m not sure whether I should listen to him or not. The fact that Rook is still very obsessed with Leona suggest that he didn’t get any… But the possibility is never zero. I feel like Rook would.

Jamil could fully go around having sex with random people with 0 strings attached with his unique magic, to be honest LOL But it’s probably too troublesome because it would require him explaining to the hypnotised person what to do. I feel like we talk a lot about Jamil having these arrangements now that I think about it… while someone like Azul would be a regrettable long-term arrangement, someone like Floyd could be a one-time thing. Initially. But then both of them would kind of want to repeat it, so I guess it doesn’t count lol

Oh! Ruggie and Jamil! This would have the most perfect “one-time sex no strings attached” situation in NRC. Both of them are such no bullshit people lol

Epel and Ace both are horny-but-no-homo enough to end up with an arrangement where they would try to hook up once just as a training of sorts (if Ace doesn’t want to go for Deuce for some typical Ace reason). The main reason why it didn’t continue was because both of them were crushing on other people, and this coping situation just didn’t really work for them lol But whatever happened between them is a huge secret.

I can’t think of anything specific for Idia but it would be silly to leave him out, so let’s imagine him somehow getting Kalim’d because he got invited to his dinner party and then the whole thing was a blur. Kalim doesn’t strike me as someone who would have sex with a lot of people, but Idia was so cute that night! He kept saying that he really had to get back home, but his body was saying other things! <3

Sebek is a huge one when it comes to accidental heat-of-the-moment fucks, but he is very bad at never-talking-about it part, so Sebek/Idia wouldn’t work here (he won’t leave poor Idia alone after that lol). Sebek/Jamil would though, as well as Sebek/Leona… in every scenario Sebek is very confused though and is having a hard time keeping it together lol

Malleus is a wild card because I can see him somehow hooking up with Trey; it’s Trey’s energy of a regular guy who ends up fucking the most gorgeous people, I guess. Trey has no idea how and why it happened: was this a blessing? Should he be grateful? I mean, it was very good, but… should he be concerned about the fact that he fucked the future king? Malleus is perfectly satisfied and pleased though, so maybe Trey should be okay…

I ALMOST FORGOT ABOUT AZUL AND MALLEUS, these two fucked during the Glorious Masquerade event, this is just a fact. But also it could've happened at any other point, but only once, either as a result of Azul being a total suck-up who really really badly wants to get on Malleus' good side (and what better way to make connections than by fucking a person I guess)...or as a result of Malleus being adventurous and flirty, once again.

I could also see Malleus hooking up with Floyd, and in that case it would be the perfect storm of Malleus feeling adventurous and a bit petty at people who didn’t pay attention to him + Floyd feeling in the mood for some dangerous games. Both of them would be very aware of what’s going on and would go all-out. It was the first time in Floyd’s life his partner didn’t ask him to be slower or gentler, only asked provoking questions, as if to piss him off.

Another person Floyd could end up hooking up with is Vil, but in that case it would be a result of their unresolved sexual tension that’s been building up overtime. Vil could end up hooking up with Jade for the same reason actually, but it would be more of a calculated thing in that case, in a “I know what you’re playing” sense. 

Bonus: Trey has slept with multiple random students on his campus during his first year, but he stopped doing that when Riddle enrolled. With some of them it was Trey’s first time talking to them, and he wasn’t really able to continue the relationship since then, so I guess it kind of counts?? He doesn’t like talking about it though, it ruins his image a little bit lol

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟓   ❛ 𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ❜   |   LEONOR'S APARTMENT, MID MARCH 1991

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

   ❛  After the meeting with Beatriz, Leonor spent the intervening time at home. Others had eagerly launched themselves back into the world as the mourning period ended. The isolation, the quiet, the total stillness had, at some point, mutated from a comfort to a burden. This hadn’t been the case for Leonor. She reemerged at the appointed time to find everything changed. Yet, the world continued to spin, and that fact left her overwhelmed and overexposed. Retreat to the protective embrace of home required no decision on her part. It wasn’t that her space brought any sort of peace or rest so much as that it was private. Privacy is what she craved; her sanity hinged on it, she quickly came to believe, as soon as the flashing and shouting inherent to public life fell upon her once more. That, too, had changed. Although dulled by the haze that grief had settled on her mind, the new intensity was undeniable. Listless and alienated from what—from who—had once been familiar, Leonor behaved as if it were still deep winter rather than the cusp of spring. She hibernated. Reality intruded nonetheless, springing forth like leaks in a ship.

❧ thank you to @crownsofesha for miss kore whom i love !!!! it’s been months and months but here she is 💅 also, okay, i fibbed, because i remembered that we have one more scene before the party starts (which, actually, i’m excited about), BUT ... i’m so happy to see miss leonor hanging out with a friend, looking hydrated and moisturized, reluctantly makings PLANS !!!!!! (oh, and, i didn't really decide what leonor's playing in the beginning, but let's say it's something like the platters.)

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

TRANSCRIPT:

{Record music playing}

{Door opening, muffled conversation}

[V] My princess, do you—

[L] I’ll take it from here, Vita. Hi Kore.

[K] Brought you something.

[K] It’s not strawberry season, but I know you like them.

[L] Sweet of you. 

[L] You didn’t have to drop by. It’s a workday. I bet you just left the office. We could’ve made plans over the phone.

[K] The plan I have for you needs to be made in person.

[L] {Chuckles} Uh oh.

[L] A bar? Seriously? You hanging out at a sewage plant is more believable.

[K] {Laughs} Okay, that’s why you have to believe me! It’s the best time I’ve had in a while.

[L] I’m not buying it.

[K] I ended up there on a whim. We were on Oceanside Ave, and Sybil got in an argument with a bouncer—shocker—so we were looking for somewhere to spend another hour or two. Do you remember Carlo? He was driving by and took us there. Don’t know why I agreed. So glad I did. We left at sunrise.

[L] Not my scene, Kor. Definitely not right now.

[K] I’m asking you now for a reason. The atmosphere is good. It’s not rowdy, and there’s no normies. It’s invite-only. Cozy. You’ll know half the people who party there. It’s artsy, in a way. Just one time.

[L] {Sighs.}

[L] We’d be sorting through Mama’s things at the estate the morning after, if I went with you.

[K] Kind of bitchy to save that excuse for last—can’t argue with it!

{Leonor chuckles}

[L] Not what I meant. It feels like a sign. I’ll give it a chance. Even if I don’t like the place, it’ll be good to see everyone again before I have to go—you know, do that.

[K] I agree. And I promise you’re going to have a good time.

[L] A Kore promise? That’s legally binding. Are you sure?

[K] I’m offended you have to ask.

[dreadfutures]

Having FEELINGS about inquisitor Ixchel and Rook Terinelan so can I get either "to the ends of the earth, would you follow me?" or "please don’t say i’m going alone" for dadwc?

This is noncanonical but it is based on vibes and certain things from the DA4 gameplay we saw, so if you’re wary of that, stay out! :)

for @dadrunkwriting

Pairings: Ixchel Lavellan & Terinelan Lavellan AU: #shadows in the sun : First Lifetime!Ixchel survives her poison and continues to fight.

ixchel thinks Clan Lavellan is wiped out

Terinelan, the First, survived and has reached Arlathan Forest, joining the Veil Jumpers

After the events of The Missing, Ixchel comes back with Varric and Harding to find their Rook.

The meeting with Strife and Bellara ends on a dark note. The activity around Arlathan Forest is increasing, and it seems that after ten long years, Solas’s ritual is nearing completion.

Harding had given Ixchel a look of—it had to be pity, Ixchel thinks. She has spent years researching obscure lore and tracking down artifacts and ancient rituals to find any alternative to Solas’s plan, and she has come up with nothing. The Veil is fraying regardless of his actions; it was never meant to be eternal. The evil gods that Solas had trapped long ago will escape someday, and Ixchel has managed to convince her inner circle at least that Solas would not be trying to bring that about early without good reason.

But they don’t know the reasons.

They don’t know how to prepare. How to mitigate.

He has left them with no other option but to stop him.

Ixchel won’t lead the fight against Solas—while she can still hold her own in battle against a Venatori thug or a demon, she wouldn’t do well in battle against a god, and she simply wouldn’t fight Solas. Couldn’t. And everyone knows it.

Ixchel doesn’t know why they invite her to these meetings anymore.

Well, that’s not true. Varric, for all his charm, can’t manage anyone to save his life (or the world, as the case may be). After many turbulent years of experience, Ixchel has learned to command a room: war councils of bickering commanders, conferences of terrified Enchanters, the halls of Empresses and the field of battle—she can maneuver all of them with grace or force as the moment requires. And when faced with the end of the world, she has found that the arguments can spiral quickly if left unguided.

She is as exhausted by it now as she was when she was sixteen and had to get Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen to stop arguing about Circles.

Today, she has navigated them to their grim conclusion, and the grim reality: they need someone strong enough, smart enough, pissed enough, to stand against Solas. Someone with the grit to withstand anything on the field but also the cunning to know when and how to disappear.

Varric knows he can’t pull the trigger. Harding, as pragmatic as she is, has to know that Solas is still Solas—and she can’t kill a friend. After her surprise meeting, Charter has said she never wants to meet Solas face to face again. Kieran has his own priorities.

Ixchel has run out of options.

Fortunately, Strife has someone in mind.

Varric, Harding, and Ixchel wait in grim silence for him to fetch this new person. Ixchel sits in an empty windowsill, eyes closed and head turned toward the sun. If the others really need her judgment, she’ll provide it, but since she really would rather be anywhere else, she hopes she can ignore the goings-on until someone calls her.

She feels no curiosity at all when Strife brings in his candidate. She knows already it is a Dalish mage who left their clan name behind to join the Veil Jumpers. The Dalish are difficult for Ixchel to work with, these days. She sees the ghosts of her dead clan in all of their faces, and she thinks she hears their suspicious thoughts: is she just a flat-ear they dressed up in vallaslin? Is she a traitor? They say she was a pupil of the Dread Wolf himself.

Ironically, Harding is far better at interacting with their Dalish recruits. Ixchel leaves it to her.

The tones of the conversation are hard, like an interrogation. Figuring out this person’s strengths and weaknesses, motivations. Ixchel hears not the words but the feelings instead and is satisfied that Harding and Varric have found their new recruit. Whether they will prove to be the field leader that they need will remain to be seen.

“Alright. Looks like we have our Rook,” Varric says with satisfaction.

“Is that my name?” the recruit asks dryly. Their voice is deep but not loud and has an almost wispy quality. The words dissipate into the air like smoke.

“Well, seeing as you didn’t offer one, I figured it’d serve as good as any,” says Varric. “Rookie, rook—like that game Dorian plays so much.”

“Chess, Varric,” Harding says, but they all know that Varric was trying to lighten the mood. “I can’t promise you Varric’ll ever use it, but I’d like to know your name, friend.”

“Terinelan,” their Rook says. “Terinelan Lavellan.”

Ixchel doesn’t know how she ends up standing in the center of the room, facing the young man she had thought dead for nearly a decade, but she’s there, and he’s there, and—

“Leave,” she says to Varric and Harding. “Now.”

The man claiming to be Terinelan Lavellan is not the boy she once knew. The last time she had seen Ter, his vallaslin was still raised and fresh over his eye. His voice had been strong, calm, and always full of cheer. Warmth. He was unblemished in every way and shone in her memory as the perfect First—the perfect son, the perfect friend.

In front of her is a mangled facsimile of that boy.

His vallaslin and half his face are marred by burns, and his ear on that side has been docked with a knife. His staff, the one his life-giver had made him when he was chosen as First, was gone. He wore the golden armor of the Veil Jumpers, and a helm was tucked under one arm. He looked ready for war.

The Terinelan she knew was not a warrior. He was a hearthkeeper, a peace-maker, a healer.

The Terinelan she knew was dead.

“Are you okay?” she asks. It’s the wrong question, but nothing is right in her mouth, just like nothing has been right since she heard of the clan’s demise in Wycome.

Terinelan smirks, tugging at scars all across his face. “With faces like ours, do you even need to ask?”

Like ours. She is not the girl who left the Clan for the Conclave so many years ago. Bare-faced. Unblemished. Her hair barely tamed into a braid for the first time. Whole. Now her face is a constellation of brutal scars, mapped by vallaslin like an astrarium; her left sleeve hangs in a knot, empty of an arm; her hair is styled pristinely, ready for battle. Her eyes are milky, washed over like the dead's. She is a ghost, a corpse.

She, too, had not been touched by war when last he saw her.

But she is more than a soldier. She is a commander. A Champion. She knows what she can inspire when she rallies her troops, but he is different. How could he come to her banner after all that has happened to him because of her? How could he not blame her, hate her?

Would it be a liability?

Would it be a blessing?

“After all that’s happened, you would still follow me?” she asks.

“To the ends of the earth,” he replies. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through, lethallan, but it’s written across your face. You’re a survivor, as am I. Who else would I follow to survive the end of the world?”

She trusts it, she trusts him.

But in that moment, she doesn’t trust herself. She doesn’t think she can survive the loss of her family—not again.

Ixchel lets out a breath and nods, and with that, the tension between them dissipates entirely. He crosses the remaining distance, tossing his helm aside carelessly, and they fall into a tight embrace.

“Is there time for you to tell me your story?” he asks into her hair.

“Only if there is time for you to tell me yours,” she says. “Fuck Solas—fuck everyone. Tell me everything.”

[posttexasstressdisorder]

Caller asks if Trump will reveal himself as the Antichrist — many believe he already has

Thom Hartmann

September 10, 2024 2:17PM ET

A supporter of former President Donald Trump wears a pro-Trump t-shirt at a Trump campaign rally at an outdoor fairgrounds, April 13, 2024 in Schnecksville, Pa. (Photo by Andrew Lichtenstein/Corbis via Getty Images)

A listener called into my program recently and asked, “Is Donald Trump the Antichrist and, if so, will he reveal himself at the debate?”

I passed on drawing a conclusion, but then the lines lit up with a steady stream of people over the next few hours offering their “proofs” that Trump was, in fact, the Evil One come to ravage the Earth. That he’s a literal and iniquitous thaumaturge. My first caller clearly hit a nerve.

It’s a fascinating question, though, whether put literally or metaphorically.

Asking the question literally requires a belief in the actual reality of a Son-of-God Christ figure and of an Antichrist opponent of nearly equal but opposite power. This sort of thing fills the Bible, and I’ll get to that in a moment.

But first consider the question from the secular perspective, which argues these two terms represent, at their core, metaphors for the embodiment of good and evil.

In this context, then, a more accurate question is: “Is Donald Trump evil, and thus an antichrist?”

In The Sermon on the Mount, Jesus spoke in the plural when he predicted “false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves.”

After warning that grifters and con artists (in secular terms)would try to exploit His followers, He said, “by their fruits ye shall know them.”

Trump’s “fruits” are pretty obvious:

More than twenty women have accused him of rape and sexual assault.

Hundreds of contractors, customers and employees have accused him of stealing from them or refusing to pay them (or both), as have members of his own family

Throughout his presidency, he lied over 30,000 times and continues to lie daily

He pits Americans against each other by race, religion, and region in an effort to tear our country apart and thus weaken opposition to his authoritarian rule

He openly encouraged violence against unarmed people at multiple rallies and encouraged state violence at a speech to chiefs of police; most recently he encouraged an assault on members of the press

He tried to overthrow and end our democracy

He embraced depraved, ungodly murderers, kleptocrats, and “strongman” rulers while ridiculing western democracies and their elected leaders

He tried to damage or dismantle political and military systems designed to keep peace in the world, including the UN, NATO, and the Iran JCPOA

He reaches out to Jesus’s followers and then directs them toward bigotry, violence, and hatred

As an object of admiration and a role model, he’s replaced Jesus in many white evangelical congregations

He delighted in tearing children from their parents and putting them in cages

He tried to end Americans’ access to lifesaving medical care by killing Obamacare and privatizing Medicare

He watched on TV, like a delighted child, as his followers killed three police officers, sent 140 others to the hospital, and tried to murder the Vice President and Speaker of the House

He lied about Covid (after disclosing the truth to Bob Woodward), causing more disease and deaths in America than any other nation in the world except Peru

The main reason many Christians freak out about an antichrist is that following him will get you banned from heaven or even cast into hell.

But what did Jesus — the guy Trump’s white evangelical followers claim as their savior — say was necessary to get into heaven?

Back in 1998 I had a private audience with Pope John Paul II at his invitation; one of his personal secretaries had read one of my books. He gave Louise and me a private tour of many non-public parts of the Vatican and, the next day, we sat through an open-air concert with Pope John Paul II and about 30 VIPs, including the leader of Germany’s Bundestag, for more than an hour, surrounded by the splendor of Castel Gandolfo, the Pope’s summer palace on the rim of an extinct volcano overlooking lake Albano.

When we spoke privately after the concert, His Holiness’s forceful comments about the work we all must do reminded me of Jesus’ words in Matthew 25. It’s an amazing 2,000 year-old story that tells us everything we need to know about today’s “Christian” politics:

Jesus’ disciples had gathered around him in a private and intimate setting.

Finally, they thought, they could ask him, straight up, the question that had been haunting them, particularly now that the Roman authorities were starting to talk about punishing or even executing them: How they could be sure to hang out with Him in the afterlife?

Jesus told them that at the end of days He’d be sitting on His throne separating the sheep from the goats “as a shepherd divideth.”

The nations of “sheep” would go with Him to heaven, the “goats” to hell.

“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me food,” he told his disciples he would say to the sheep. “I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.”

At this point, His disciples — who had never, ever seen Jesus hungry, thirsty, homeless, sick, or naked — freaked out. Whoa! they shouted. We’re screwed!

“When saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee?” they asked, panicked. “Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? Or naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?” “Verily I say unto you,” Jesus replied, reassuring them, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

This is the only place in the Bible where Jesus explicitly tells His disciples what acts they must perform, in their entirety, to get into heaven.

Feed the hungry, care for refugees, house and clothe the homeless, heal the sick, have compassion on those in prison.

That’s it.

And it’s a list that is quite literally the opposite of everything that Donald Trump advocates, stands for, and has done in his careers, both business and political.

While biblical scholars are split about who the actual “Beast” was that John referenced in his Revelation, many consider it to have been a then-politically-necessary cloaking of the identity of Roman Emperor Nero.

It was clearly a political figure, who represented the antithesis of the values and works Jesus laid out in the Sermon on the Mount and in Matthew 25.

A leader whose actions unleashed “a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.”

Caller after caller to my program offered their own proofs of Trump being the Beast or the Antichrist:

“MAGA” means “magic” or “sorcerer” in Latin and multiple other languages

His grandfather’s name when he emigrated to America to start a whorehouse in the Pacific Northwest was “Drumpf,” which he changed to Trump. John in German is “Johann.” Therefore, his “actual” name is Donald Johann Drumpf — each name having six letters. (Weirdly, the same is true of Ronald Wilson Reagan, the guy who laid the foundation for MAGA.)

He illegally armed the Saudis for their merciless bombing war against Yemen which had five million peoplefacing famine as the Saudi military blocked food arrivals.

His family owns 666 Fifth Avenue.

He fooled millions of evangelical followers of Jesus, just as the Beast is supposed to do.

He put his own red-hat MAGA mark on their foreheads.

He consorts with “whores” and “criminals.”

It was an interesting exercise and conversation, and I was surprised by how many people are actually religiously freaked out about Trump.

But for me, all the proof I need that Trump, if not the biblical Antichrist, is at least a political one, is what he says and does. And I’ll bet that tonight he will reveal himself, both as a disciple of the “Father of Lies,” and through his anti-Christ-type policies.

As Pope Francis today tells us, a man’s “fruits” show us all we need to know about who he really is.

[lord-of-hollows]

The Ongoing Hostilty of the Stormcloak Debate

If you're the kind of person who has their politics dictated to them by social media algorithms, it's easy to write off the Stormcloaks. After all, you were told they were Fascist badmen by a reddit user so clearly this must be correct. However, with things coming to light, I have to say that if you're the kind of person who is Anti-Stormcloak but also supports a free Palestine? You're clearly not putting any thought into your own beliefs and I'm not interested in having conversations with people who don't put thought into their own beliefs.

The Imperial argument has been debunked as far back as 2011. They've changed and modified it how they say it but the core pillars have not changed in the past years.

1. The Empire brings peace and stability to Tamriel.

This one's just untrue. Even at the height of Imperial power there were rebellions, succession crises, wars and large stretches of land in "uncivilised" nations that were just ungoverned. Not to mention, it was under Imperial governance that the Aldmeris Dominion rose. The Empire never brought any kind of stability that lasted more than like, a decade.

2. "The Empire is the best chance for victory against the Thalmor."

Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. Imperial supporters seem wonderfully willing to assert this and then immediately launch into a non-sequiter and act as if this proves the Empire has a chance.

The last Imperial victory against the Thalmor lead to Hammerfell being abandoned, religious reform being enforced by their enemy, and Thalmor Gestapo being allowed to roam the Empire wantonly executing Imperial citizens with no due process. If that's a victory you better hope you don't find out what defeat looks like.

3. "Stormcloaks are racist."

I don't believe they're extraordinarily racist for Tamriel, but let's assume they are. However I invite Imperial supporters to also look at the Empire.

"Without us to keep order, the provinces would fall to lawlessness and barbarism."

The Empire at the outset feels that a dominant culture is needed for others to function. More than that, they feel that their culture is justifiably supreme to enforce their will on others. If they didn't feel this was true, they wouldn't be an Empire.

You cannot argue that the Stormcloaks are racist and then handwave the racism of the Empire. You have to pick one. Either it's a negative or isn't. Then we have to identify which of these is more racist.

Imperialists like to point out that the Stormcloaks don't like to let Argonians into the city. This isn't true, my Argonian walked into Windhelm just fine.

"But thats just a game mechanic." - Yeah and the Orc strongholds only let a non-Orc in if you impress Orcs. So you're telling me that Bethesda went out of the way to care about the player characters race in the Strongholds but just kinda stopped caring when it came to the major city of one of the two factions in the war?

I mean, they're lazy, but come on. You can't tell me they're not putting in the effort when you can point at a spot they're putting in that self-same effort for content less players will see.

And even if it were true, under the empire Argonians and Khajiit were enslaved in Morrowind because the Dunmer had a superweapon to trade. So the Empire just turned a blind eye to slavery because "Fuck you, got mine."

But again why would they care about the enslavement of what to their eyes were barbaric races of inferior culture. The use of the word Empire isn't an accident.

And this is why it's so frustrating to talk to Imperial supporters. They easily cast aspersions on the Stormcloaks but when you turn a mirror on them suddenly they stop wanting to discuss.

If you want to call the Stormcloaks racist, you can. They are certainly at least as racist as the norm for Tamriel. If you want to argue it as a reason for siding with the Empire then either you don't know about the Empire or you're being disingenuous.

4. "The Empire keeps the Thalmor out of Skyrim."

This one is asserted by many characters ingame. It's a lie.

In Imperial controlled holds Thalmor Gestapo wander around and can attempt to execute you on the spot if they decide to. No trial. Imperial guards do not rush to help you fight them off. They just stand and stare. In a Stormcloak victory these random encounters stop happening in all holds. I'm not sure about the one where they send Assassins as this encounter generally happens before a Stormcloak victory, but it happens.

As Thalmor only show up in Imperial controlled holds, the only reasonable conclusion to draw is the Empire is what keeps the Thalmor in Skyrim.

5. The Thalmor want Ulfric to win.

No they don't. They said that they didn't. Read their dossier.

6. Ulfric is a Thalmor asset.

An uncooperative asset. The Empire is a cooperative asset.

It's been made clear to me over the years that supporting the Imperial argument is unjustifiable on a moral level and irresponsible on the level of governance.

7. Ulfric as a character is power hungry and only in it for himself.

Assuming this is true...

So?

The Empire is power hungry, as evidenced by the fact that they are an Empire. Are they in it for themselves? Well, if they arent then who do you think they're doing it for?

You're not making an argument against the Stormcloaks.

However I argue that the cause is more than its leader. The Stormcloaks are in it for their own reasons and as a ruler Ulfric must satisfy them. Why wouldn't he? They're one of the pillars to his power, if he can't make them happy he loses any status they give him.

Power is not a permanent thing, you gain it, you lose it.

Now on a meta level I take role-playing rules, the true faction you should support is the faction that's right for your character. I have played characters that supported the Imperial cause. My Orc warrior always wanted to be a legionnaire. My Redoran Dunmer felt resentment toward Ulfric so begrudgingly sided with the Empire out of feeling a mutual enemy. My Breton Knight felt loyalty to the Old Empire.

Despite this, as a human looking at a fantasy world, I cannot look at the Imperial argument with any seriousness.

However since 2011 here are some assumptions made about me by Imperialists.

1. I'm racist.

Probably, I hear nobody is completely free of racist thought. I like to think that I'm less racist than most, though I'm open to the idea that I may be more racist than I assume.

2. I like Trump.

I don't. I think he's a wonderful caricature of what an idiot thinks a high power businessman acts like. I find him funny, but I would never want him in charge of my country and I'm thankful to not be American. I think his presidency is a wonderful argument people like me who live in countries with mandatory voting can point at and say "This is why you don't want 100% voter turnout."

3. I was involved in GamerGate

Insofar as paying attention to it and not believing they're 100% wrong. Yes. I've had no faith in journalism since I myself was a child. To know that a journalist was sleeping with the subject of his articles was unsurprising, even expected. You might say its just fucking video games, and you'd be right. I would ask if you can not trust journalists with just fucking video games, what can you trust them with?

And that was my answer to the whole GamerGate thing. Journalism has never been a profession a person with any expectation of realism should respect. The amount of times I've been reading an article and it turned out the writer knew nothing is staggering.

The answer of course, is don't give journalists money. And that's as far as I ever took it.

However participating in a harassment campaign? No. I've never sent a message to any game developer or journalist I didn't like. I have, as a young man, sent cringe fan mail to Hideki Kamiya telling him I'm a fan of all his work. The same goes for Kojima and Yoko Taro.

My disappointment in GamerGate was that it's supporters never made that step into ignoring journalists and refusing them money. They continued sharing their articles.

4. I'm a fascist.

I think in order to make this argument you have to ignore a lot about the Empire. Like, a lot. They rely on exploitation of the provinces, rule by might as evidenced by the Legion being the only thing keeping Skyrim from a full succession, benefited from slavery and were built on the back of a war of conquest. When their power was broken just about the only thing keeping them together was wealth. I do not have it in me to respect power built like that.

They're a mirror of Rome, certainly. I put it to you that Rome was an exploitative Empire that irreparably damaged every culture it touched.

It's for these reasons I've now decided that in order for me to engage with an Imperial supporters arguments, they have to first prove to me they put enough thought into their beliefs to justify them. They also have to prove they play the game enough to know things about it. For instance most imperial supporters act like they don't know the Thalmor want to avoid a victory for either side.

That's kind of why I'm thankful the Stormcloak debate got so hostile. It provided a wonderful litmus test on who actually thinks about what they believe. I saw an account posting Anti-Stormcloak arguments, then I clicked on it to see what theyre like and saw that they had Free Palestine posts and I just had to stop and think for a moment. I've been treating Imperials as if they understand their own beliefs. Then I realised they're probably just very young and don't spend a lot of time thinking about it. I can't do that anymore.

And that's really what the Imperial Stormcloak debate taught me about politics. Well, about social media politics. You cannot enter these arguments assuming that the people you're speaking to understand their own beliefs. You have to assume that anyone who wants to talk politics with you online doesn't understand politics. Because most of them don't. You see, I don't listen to people who were right wing up until 2016 and then made the switch as Trump was being elected. They call it a deradicalization, I call it your politics being dictated you by social media. If YouTube algorithm changed the way you view the world, I don't want to hear from you. Your principles are fragile. If your recommended videos can twist your beliefs in such a way, I believe you're not going to say anything I haven't heard before. Go regurgitate Contrapoints to someone else. And it's these same people who will tell you the Empire is the only morally acceptable choice.

I know based on what I've said you've made assumptions about my politics, I'm not going to elaborate on them. Suffice it to say if you're basing your assumptions of other peoples political beliefs based on a choice they believe is right in a fictional fantasy role playing video game, you are probably not really equipped to be having conversations about politics. It also displays a concerning level of assumption.

[sunriseverse]

@krownest thank you for handing me the bat my liege let us get down and dirty

okay so disclaimer before we start this is my opinion and i’m not calling people bad or saying they should stop writing yada yada yada etc etc (also wow this got long oops. readmore on ye)

i think the reason there’s such a deluge of “bad” fanfic comes down to a couple different reasons, some of them interconnected and some of them symptoms of larger issues.

i wrote and rewrote my definition of what “bad fanfic” is like, seven times, but in the end i think the characteristics of it are essentially: fanfic which makes you stop reading or become disappointed due to any number of issues, especially those which, if they were changed, would render the fanfic itself fundamentally a different piece of art (so, MOSTLY not cosmetic).

some of the most common issues i, personally, have, when trying to find new fanfic to read are ones that i’m sure you’re fairly familiar with: characterisation issues, dynamics which feel “off”, direct contradiction to the canonical themes without any seeming understanding that it is, in fact, contradictory, and prose. that last one is the trickiest, so we’ll set it aside for the moment being.

i think the first three tie together fairly neatly, and have simple to answer causes: one, people are writing not based off canon, but off fanon; two, people are not, generally, trained in media and literature comprehension and analysis as anything but a basic set of tools to pass their primary/secondary school exams; and three, tied in with one and two, people aren’t writing concepts as they would happen if they were applied to x character(s), they’re writing what THEY would want to happen in x scenario, and slapping the characters’ names over them.

obviously, we could sit here and argue for days about what “characterisation” is, what “canon dynamics” are, hell, what “canon” is, but for our intents and purposes: let us define these as the range of plausible interpretations one can draw from a canon, and find sources or references to argue the validity of (and make no mistake, this doesn’t mean there’s “one true [characterisation/dynamic/canon]”—there is, let us say, a dialectical continuum of possibilities, and the extremes, in any direction, are entirely unsupported, or outright denied by, canon). (i could tack on a rant here about why i think disagreement and different interpretations in fandom is not only healthy, but NECESSARY, as long as no singular faction dominates and forces the others to feel as if they will be ostracised if they suggest otherwise, but i digress.)

these aren’t problems that can be fixed overnight. media analysis is a tool that takes time and effort to grow, and when it comes to the average fan, in 2024, participating in an averagely-sized fandom: there is no external force driving them to stretch that muscle. fandom has, for better or worse, moved past what it once was: no longer gated communities with high bars of entry, which necessitate skill and effort and passion to enter, but more open and free for all. make no mistake, this isn’t necessarily bad—there are many, MANY problems with old fandom, not the least being cults of personality, actual cults, harassing commenters, etc, etc. my point is simply that new age fandom, by design, doesn’t require you to put in as much work—the barriers to reading fic, to POSTING fic, are far lower than they, perhaps, have ever been. open ao3, send an invite request, and bam: a week or so and change later, you, too, can post your very own writing for thousands of people to see, should they simply look.

this ties, i think, into prose; all of these things are, by nature, hard to do. some people have a bit more instinctive knack for them—but even if they do, they’ll never be able to improve if they don’t push themselves, if they don’t practice, if they don’t try and engage with canon and think critically about said canon and try, really try, to put just as much into writing as an athlete would put into running, or javelin, or swimming—but unlike physical sports, writing is not something with immediate, tangible results. it takes TIME. and in the end, it’s much easier for people to write the same fifteen tropes, the same variations on ship themes, follow fanon. i’m not here to be a prescriptivist and tell you how you MUST write fanfic—i really don’t care that much, honestly. if you want to do that, fine, be my guest; but i’m allowed to complain about it on my blog.

to end this post on a lighter note, if you do feel your fanfic isn’t very good, and you want to improve: i have suggestions! you should read as much as you can (published works, especially experimental styles, are good for for this), get your hands on as much meta (for characters, dynamics, themes, what have you), or if you can’t find any, practise writing your own the way you’d write an essay, and most keyly: don’t do things in your writing just because they’re popular in the fandom.

okay, cut! that’s all, for now, i think

[separatist-apologist]

A Lost Princess Of Sunlight

Summary: Lady Elain has spent her life in the idyllic countryside wanting for nothing, so when her adopted sister Vassa begs her to accompany her to court, how can Elain say no? The roguish prince is in need of a wife and Elain, certain she'd make a terrible princess, has no interest in such theatrics.

But something about the palace brings back memories lost to the sea ten years before. Memories Elain had been certain she'd never get back…memories that speak of a colder place, and sisters long forgotten. Amid the tumultuous politics and the looming war, Elain finds herself embroiled in a mystery to find out who she really is.

And where she really comes from.

My humble offering to @writtenonreceipts for the @acotargiftexchange. Am I releasing fewer chapters because I've realized I need more than 7? YesNO STOP ASKING

Thank you again to @velidewrites for the moodboard and making me seem more put together than I am.

Read On AO3

-

He was doing it again.

Lucien knew it, rationally. Knew he was making all the same mistakes he’d made with Jesminda—rushing head first into something without thinking about the consequences. Damn them, he decided blithely as he made his way toward his mothers chambers. All Lucien could think about was Elain in the moonlight, her lips on his.

Might as well declare his intentions privately. 

Just in case.

It was here Lucien was finally confronted with the sight of his eldest brother, standing at a window just outside the door that would take him to their mothers room. The sight of Eris Vanserra was the only thing that could empty Elain from Lucien’s thoughts. Eris had no right to his home and his presence was unwelcome. 

There, hands clasped behind his back, Eris looked every inch the pensive king and Lucien’s fingers curled to fists at the sight. No one could touch Eris but Lucien and Lucien was itching for a violent confrontation. He’d argued passionately that giving Eris free reign of their home would see it laid to rubble for all the good it did.

Eris turned his head, eyes sliding down Lucien’s body as his lip curled with disdain. Lucien still remembered the last time they’d seen each other—he’d been ten, Eris nineteen and Eris had kicked him hard in the spine off a ledge straight into the frothy ocean water below. 

No amount of telling his mother had earned Eris any consequences. He was always favored though Lucien was sure Eris didn’t think so because Eris was so spoiled and selfish nothing would ever be good enough for him. Maybe if they all died, then Eris would be satisfied. Until then, he’d continue appearing on occasion and ignoring their mothers letters in between, determined to punish her for the crime of leaving his father.

Lucien used to wonder how Eris rationalized that. How he could look at his mother, covered in bruises from the neck down and so thin his father had once said he didn’t know how she stood, and blame her for leaving. Lucien didn’t wonder now—Eris couldn’t be bothered to sympathize because he was the same terrible bastard as his father. 

And Lucien had a score to settle. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Lucien said, praying Eris would hit him with just enough attitude he could justify the punch that was coming, at least to his father. There was no avoiding his mothers tears, her guilt, and the fear that perhaps she should have stayed, if only for Eris’s sake. 

“I was invited,” Eris replied, his voice dripping with condemnation. “As much as it displeases you, mother still finds value in me.”

“The only person in the world, I imagine,” Lucien shot back. “I’m surprised you left given the state of your father. Though, I suppose if I had poisoned my father, I wouldn’t want to be around when he finally died.”

“When you require assistance on that front, you’re welcome to shelter in my court,” Eris replied, slick and stupid as ever. Lucien loved his father and was in no hurry to be King, besides. It seemed like it was aging his father at an accelerated rate, not mentioning the utter responsibility Lucien had no interest in. 

The insinuation was foul, besides. If Eris was hoping to provoke a reaction, it was working. Lucien’s self control was shredding by the moment. 

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll take you out before—” That was enough. Lucien swung without thinking, howling in rage well before his knuckles ever connected with Eris’s jaw. Eris slammed against the window hard enough to rattle it, blood splattering against his nice jacket. Lucien knew he fucked up the moment his brother refused to hit him back, teeth stained red as he flashed Lucien a sly smile.

His expression crumpled into pain the moment their mother flung open her chamber door, eyes on the pair of them.

Eris shook his head. “If you didn’t want me here, you could have said so,” he spat, eyes on their mother. Russet eyes became glassy with tears, and Lucien could have killed Eris right then for the guilt he was capitalizing on.

“Why would you do this?” his mother asked, turning her gaze to Lucien. “We raised you better than this.”

Eris’s gaze gleamed with triumph. Nothing Lucien could say would fix this moment for his mother. What she wanted was for Lucien to take the high road, to forgive and forget rather than respond to Eris’s goading. And there was no way for Lucien to act as though he’d been forced into hitting Eris—he’d wanted to.

“Someone should have a long time ago,” Lucien hissed instead, surprised by the way both his mother and brother seemed to flinch back from his words. 

“Go tell your father you said that,” his mother ordered, her words blunted with ice. Finally, a good idea. Unable to bear the sight of his mothers grief or Eris’s vindication, Lucien turned on his heel and strode away. His father would understand, even if he couldn’t totally absolve Lucien of his violence. There would be a little eye rolling and a promise to talk to Lucien’s mother to smooth things over. 

And Lucien could finally tell someone in his family about Elain. If he told his father and his mother, he could tell Elain his parents were just delighted he’d picked someone born and raised in the South so she’d stop wringing her hands over the circumstances of her birth. Lucien needed something positive to happen and being able to track down his lady and inform her his parents were thrilled by the match was the only thing that convinced Lucien to see his father immediately, rather than to wait until his mother forced him to.

His father was lounging in his office, the balcony doors, head tilted toward the warm sunlight. Lucien stepped through the bright room, ignoring the paperwork stacked that Lucien probably ought to know about. He likely ought to know more about state affairs and kept himself intentionally oblivious to get out of taking on more responsibility.

But…maybe…maybe he ought to try, if only to prove he was worth marrying. Jesminda had hated everything to do with the monarchy but did Elain? Lucien realized he didn’t know much about her at all.

It was merely another problem he needed to rectify. 

“Father,” Lucien said, forgetting Eris’s blood was still splattered against his face. He hadn’t forgotten the ache in his hand and when both he and his father looked down, Lucien saw his knuckles were cracked and swollen. 

“Tell me you were fighting Jurian,” his father ordered, groaning when Lucien set his jaw. “Tell me he deserved it—and your mother doesn’t know.”

“He did deserve it,” Lucien swore vehemently, unable to say the second part. 

“You let him crawl under your skin far too easily. What upset your mother?” his father asked with some amusement. Sighing, Lucien set his elbows against the wide lip of the marble balcony and stared out at the sea.

“That someone ought to have hit him long ago.”

His father exhaled a breath. “Ah. That’ll do it.”

“Is it wrong to wish Beron had—”

“Yes, it is. Your mother desperately wished to bring Eris with her. In another life, under different circumstances, you two might have loved each other. You shouldn’t wish that, though, no matter how much you loathe him. Keep your distance if you can’t be civil.”

“Fine,” Lucien agreed through gritted teeth, “I can do that. I didn’t come to talk about Eris. I’ve come to tell you about a woman.”

His father turned, golden eyes bright with delight. “So your mother was right, just as I knew she was. Tell me who so I can start wooing her father.”

“Lady Elain Koschington,” Lucien said, surprised when his father took a step backward. 

“Are you certain?”

“Well…there’s time…but I’ve made my intentions toward her plain—”

“How so?”

“Just courting, nothing untoward!” Lucien assured his father, slightly embarrassed. 

“There’s time to change your mind,” his father declared, catching Lucien off-guard. Surely he was happy that Lucien had picked a woman rather than pining after Jesminda and sleeping his way through the city. 

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Lucien said, uncertain if that was true. “What is the problem with Lady Elain?”

“She is hardly a lady,” his father replied.

Lucien swallowed. He didn’t care—he swore he didn’t. If she’d been with another man, that was fine. Maybe he was jealous, but he’d certainly been no saint either. “I don’t care—”

“No. You may not court Lady Elain—”

“Mother said any Southern born lady—”

“And she was not born within our border—”

“She is a citizen of our crown and you are merely quibbling over semantics!” Lucien exploded, angrier than he’d ever been with his father.

“I forbid it,” his father said, facing Lucien with all the wrath of a king. “And if you test me, I will have her sent so far from your reach it would take you lifetimes to find her.”

“Why?”

“Are you asking as a prince? Or my son about to disobey me?” 

Lucien hung on a knife’s edge. If he demanded the truth, he would be bound by it. Lucien would be forced to put duty over his feelings, something he’d never been good at. And if he asked as his fathers son, Elain would be sent away. Which was worse, he wondered? Never seeing her again, or seeing her while knowing he couldn’t have her?

“The truth, as both your son and the prince.”

“Elain is an Archeron, and a political prisoner of my court.”

Lucien blinked. The heat had finally overwhelmed him and he was hallucinating. 

“A fisherman scooped her out of the sea when she was a girl and kept her separated from her sisters. It was my original intention to ransom her back…but she had no memory of her life in the north and I saw an opportunity to keep her troublesome family in line. She hasn’t be mistreated, but when we returned her sisters under the treaty, we kept Elain as insurance for when her father inevitably tried another invasion.”

Lucien felt like gagging. “You…” 

“To marry her would start a war. You cannot court Elain, nor can you marry her. No man can—she is off limits.”

“And what happens when she realizes she is unmarriageable? Have you seen her?”

“She will think there is some quality of hers that men find unappealing and adjust to life as a spinster, like many women do without complaint or regret.”

“Does mother know about this?”

“Yes.”

Lucien felt his world crumbling. In his mind, his family was above reproach and morally righteous. Everything they’d done had been in service to the safety of their home and anything said to the contrary was merely lies meant to discredit his fathers rule. The idea that his father was calculating enough to use a little girl as a political pawn—and would steal her entire life on the bet her father might one day try and invade—was too much for Lucien to process.

And Arina—oh, Arina. She was trying to find the village Elain had come from. How long before she put it together? Lucien opened his mouth to warn his father before snapping it closed again.

Why? 

What would happen to Arina? And Elain? Hell, what would happen to him? Rubbing his eyes, Lucien said, “How could you?”

“You will do just as bad—worse, even, if needs become must. That is our life. One of duty, not romance.”

Lucien scoffed, unwilling to say what he was thinking. Had it been duty when his own father had nearly started a war over his mother? He could see his father daring him to say so and knew it would not end well for him if he did. “Swear you’ll stay away from her.”

Fingers crossed behind his back like he was a child, Lucien looked his father dead in the eyes and lied. “I swear.”

Lucien had no intention of staying away from Elain. No. A new plan was forming in his mind—one that was just as idiotic as his fathers original plan to dangle her like meat over her fathers head. As if that wasn’t justification for war? As far as Lucien could see, there was no outcome that avoided it other than Elain simply vanishing into the ether, never to be seen again.

At least if she was his wife, Lucien could argue they were now allies, not enemies. 

Fool. He was an utter, stupid fool. It was Jesminda all over again. One kiss and Lucien was ready to make her his wife, consequences be damned. 

And yet as he walked out of his fathers study, Lucien felt confident.

Certain of his decision.

“What happened to your face?” 

Beautiful Eris Vanserra trudged up to the library where he had no right to be, his left eye brutally swollen, nose blooded and shirt stained. Arina rose from her spot at her desk, forgetting she wasn’t supposed to touch him again—a promise she’d made to herself after he’d kissed her—to reach for his face. Dull, amber eyes peered back at her, uncertain of what was about to happen. 

“Who did this to you?”

“Don’t make your first kill on my behalf,” he said with none of his usual fire. 

“Sit down,” she said, careful to keep her own voice soft. Arina had no intention of killing anyone ever, though she might have words with the offender. “What happened?”

“Your lovely prince’s fist happened.”

Oh. 

“What did you say to him?” she asked, making her way toward a pitcher of water. It would have to do for now—just to clean him up. After, she could cajole him into seeing a healer, if only to make sure he hadn’t broken his nose. 

“You assume it was my fault? Cruel.”

“I think I know you well enough to know you can’t help yourself,” Arina murmured, pulling up the hem of her dress to soak it so she could dab at his face. Eris watched, tracking her every move the moment the fabric exposed her thigh. Of course that would interest him.

He was a rogue—a villain, really. Arina knew exactly what Eris wanted—a distraction during his time here only so he could forget her the moment he left—and she was determined not to give it to him.

Which was difficult given she wanted to. Arina was no lady, even if technically, by birth, she could have been. Should have been, truly. Her father had ruined himself long before Arina had come up but Helion could have salvaged her reputation much like he’d salvaged her fathers. Arina could have asked for a household of her own—but she wanted peace and quiet and to be freed of the expectation that a man she hated would get to decide her future. 

But perhaps there was some wisdom to it, given she’d been ready to throw her lot in with Eris Vanserra, damn the consequences. She’d half convinced herself the time spent with him would be worth it, besides. How many women could say they’d been with a king? A lot, probably, given their reputation for infidelity. Still. 

“I wanted to piss him off,” Eris admitted, his gaze uncharacteristically soft. “I thought it would bring me some peace.”

“And did it?”

Eris slid a hand up her bare leg, halting just above her knee. “No.”

Pretending she hadn’t notice how warm his fingers were, Arina began wiping at the blood though it was ruining the pink of her dress. “Then maybe you ought to employ a different tactic.”

“A blade, then?”

“How about a conversation?” she suggested, arching her brow. “An honest conversation.”

“I’d rather he stabbed me,” Eris grumbled, tilting his chin ever so slightly. It looked as though he was giving her access, permission, even, for a kiss. That path only ended in destruction and she knew it. If Eris ever learned she was half as attracted to him as she truly was, he’d never leave her be. The only thing saving Arina was his belief she was mostly ambivalent about him and required persuasion. 

In truth, she required no persuasion at all. Eris was beautiful—easily the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on—and ever since he’d kissed her, she’d thought of nothing else. She couldn’t be the one to kiss him again—to kiss him ever. If nothing else, Arina wouldn’t give Eris the satisfaction of one day breaking her heart. 

“Would it be so terrible if he liked you?”

Eris considered this for a moment, eyes glazing over which made wiping the blood from his face far easier. Copper salt mingled with woodsmoke and whiskey which wasn’t entirely unpleasant. And she had to admit, there was something particularly inviting about the sight of Eris covered in blood, though she would rather see him covered in someone else's rather than his own. 

“Yes, I think it would be,” Eris finally murmured.

“Why?”

His eyes grew sharp and cold. “Prying for secrets, are you?”

She shrugged. “I might give you something in return.”

Straightening his spine, Eris asked, “Something I want?”

“Within reason, I suppose. I’m not taking my clothes off for you.”

The grip on her leg tightened as if to say, we’ll see about that. “If I liked Lucien…if I liked your self-righteous king, even…” Eris drew in a sharp breath before rushing out the words, “it would mean she was right to leave us.”

Arina’s fingers slid over his cheek without meaning to, wanting to comfort him before she even considered why she’d want that. Eris didn’t seem like a man with deep feelings or thoughts beyond what might best service him. 

“I don’t think she left because of you,” Arina murmured, wondering if he considered himself part of the problem. Eris raised his brows, his expression betraying how little he believed her. However, his next words held none of the vulnerability as the ones that had come before.

“You promised a kiss.”

“I promised to give you something you wanted—”

“That’s what I want,” he said, his free hand gripping her waist to pull her into his lap. Before she could protest, Eris had his mouth against her own and she found that her fingers betrayed her, sliding through his hair before she ever thought about it. 

He tasted like warm sunlight somehow. It was a mistake, one she knew she’d come to regret but right then, Arina told herself kissing him couldn’t hurt her. Couldn’t hurt anything, really. She knew what this was—nothing at all. Passing attraction, a distraction that they’d both tire of if they ever had to spend any significant amount of time together. 

Besides, he didn’t know anything about her. To him, she was simply little more than a servant, a peasant that had been elevated just enough to be given importance, but without the family name or wealth that would make her a viable candidate for courting. Safe to dally with because no one would ever expect him to make good on any promises he made to her. Helion wouldn’t demand Eris marry her if Arina complained and so Eris could bother her, could slide his hand up her dress, could accost her with his mouth.

He’d go home and pick a suitable woman and forget her.

And she swore that was her preference. 

It made it easier to kiss him without fear. I’m no one to him. 

Though right then, she certainly felt like someone. His mouth was warm, his hands soft and Arina wanted. Wanted this unattainable, emotionally disturbed  man and the mess he was almost certainly dragging behind him. He’d destroy her before she ever managed to peel back that first layer, leaving her in bloodied ruins as he sauntered off, divorcing her from his memory while she thought of nothing else. 

“I love this,” he whispered, teeth nipping along her bottom lip as he fisted her thick, long hair. “All of it.”

“Love it less,” she heard herself responding, her own heart thudding in her chest. “It’s not yours to keep.”

Chuckling, Eris bit harder. “You won’t come to my bed?”

“I wouldn’t go to dinner with you,” she lied. Arina would have gone a great number of places with him, though it was far easier to lie to herself and pretend she wouldn’t. That this was all nothing and he was meaningless to her.

“You had breakfast with me,” he reminded her, as if Arina could ever forget. 

She let him kiss her again, cognizant of the hand creeping toward her thigh. Frustration was building in her chest—both because she wanted him and because he so casually believed she was his for the taking, if he wanted her.

“I have breakfast with many people—your brother, for instance, most mornings.”

That soured Eris’s mood. That bruised, blackened eye met hers and she found it was filled with loathing. 

Twist the knife, she ordered, holding herself on his lap like she was so utterly careless. Arina cared, far more than she should. Better to stop this now. “I’d have dinner with him, too.”

“Why not throw yourself at his feet, too?” Eris snapped, rising so sharply Arina all but fell to the floor in a graceless heap. “Or is that reserved just for me?”

That was better, she decided. Better for him to loathe her than to want her—or worse. “Your brother is nice to me.”

“Oh, is that it? He thanks you for putting a knife to his throat?”

“He’d never give me cause to do so,” she bit back as she wiped her palms on her dress. “Your brother is a gentleman.”

“Yes, perfect little Lucien,” Eris snarled in response, advancing on her. “And yet here you are. Kissing me.”

He waited for a comeback, some response that would explain this all away. What was she supposed to say? That if she lined Lucien and Eris up, there was no comparison? That she’d have picked Eris with her eyes closed, hands tied behind her back and that fact scared her? “At least Lucien likes me,” she whispers, certain that she was right about this. Eris was attracted to her, of that Arina was positive, but she thought the fact rankled him. He didn’t want to—and hoped to exorcize her from his system at the very first opportunity. 

His eyes flashed. “Who says I don’t like you?”

“Do you like me, Eris?” she challenged as he reached for her face to draw her closer. What was happening? They were supposed to be fighting and yet the tension in the air had shifted again and she knew she was going to kiss him. 

“I like you right now,” he murmured, mouth brushing her own. “I like you enough to come looking for you.”

“You’re just bored,” she whispered, one hand half-heartedly pushing against his chest. 

“Surely there are simpler ways to get a woman naked if I was truly that bored,” he disagreed, nipping softly at that bruised lip of hers. “Women who would pay me a compliment, even, without me having to beg.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Among other things,” he managed, kissing her softly. “Say something nice to me, Arina.”

“You first,” she replied, grateful for another kiss that silenced them both. She didn’t want to hear him say anything nice to her, knowing full well she’d turn those words over in her mind until she’d made them more romantic than they were. Eris didn’t push it, either, content to pull her back to his chair and into his lap and kiss her until they were both breathless. 

Arina was careful when she climbed out of his lap, not daring to touch anything but his hands for fear he’d take it as an invitation. Eris stood, adjusting his clothes as if that would distract from his ruby red mouth and his mussed hair. Arina walked around her desk, bracing herself against the wood as she waited for Eris to leave. 

“You’re too good for Lucien, you know,” he murmured, halting with his hand on the door handle. Without looking back, he added, “Probably myself, too.” And then he was gone.

She’d been right about that compliment—for the rest of the night, Arina turned it over and over in her mind, trying to make meaning of it until she found the words romantic. 

Fool.

She was an utter fool.

“Move your foot just a little,” Cassian murmured, stepping toward Nesta’s slim thigh before he remembered he wasn’t allowed to touch her. It was becoming far too easy to forget. She had been alone with Rhys last night, taking a turn around that dead garden or something equally horrible. Cassian had been agitated the entire time and Rhys’s silent return only to stalk into his bedroom did little to improve Cassian’s mood.

What had happened? And which was worse? A night that had gone so well Rhys needed to lock himself behind a closed door in order to deal with it, or so terrible he’d had to hide his rage? Cassian didn’t want to think about his brother treating Nesta badly—nor did he want to imagine Rhys realizing how wonderful Nesta was, either.

Cassian had woken to a dream that Nesta was his queen and he was made to bow before her, unable to look either her or Rhys in the eyes. As if the alternative—a world in which she was ever his—existed at all. That much was clear given he and Nesta were hidden in her dead sister's bedroom while he taught her the finer points of self-defense…and it was one in the morning. 

“Do you sleep?” Cassian dared to ask as Nesta looked down at her booted feet, adjusting them just like he told her to. She had a dancer's stance, her movements lithe and graceful even if she was still a little clumsy with a blade. Give her time and Nesta would be lethal, a shadow much like Azriel if she wanted to be. 

What would Rhys say when he learned that Cassian was teaching Nesta to potentially kill Rhys in his sleep should they ever end up married? 

“No,” Nesta replied, though she looked like she should. Cassian had no business trying to put her to bed which was enough to focus him. “You train Rhysand’s military, don’t you?”

“I do,” he replied carefully, well aware of why Nesta wanted to know. There was nothing Cassian would have liked more than to unseat her father and those prickish nobles always sneering at him and seeing Nesta sit on that gleaming throne. It was another lurid fantasy best left to the dark of night when he was alone and no one was around to witness him.

“Our general isn’t so…”

Handsome? Virile? Single?

“Young,” she finished, looking up at him. “How many battles have you won?”

Her eyes lingered on his neck and that old wound he was both hoping she did and didn’t ask him about. He could paint it heroically enough—after all, he’d lived, hadn’t he? Barely, but that was a story for another day, another time.

“Enough,” he said, gesturing for her to try and stab him. “I don’t have all night, princess. Some of us need sleep in order to maintain our good looks.”

“Who told you that you were good looking?” she replied with a gleam in her eye.

“Are you implying they lied to me?” Cassian shot back with faux hurt.

“I’m not implying it. I’m stating it outright.”

Cassian laughed as Nesta lunged, her sharp blade slicing through the thin material of his shirt and cutting through his skin. It was a shallow wound hardly worth the loud gasp that escaped her and yet…

“Oh,” he breathed, eyes not on the blood now soaking his clothing but at the woman mere inches in front of him. “You stabbed me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nesta said, tugging at his shirt to get a better look. Cassian knew he was a bastard because it barely stung. It was hardly worth paying attention to and had it been Azriel or Rhys, he would have kept sparring, unconcerned. Instead, Cassian removed the offending garment so the princess could fuss over him a little.

“It’s nothing,” Cassian told her honestly, dropping into a chair they’d pushed to the side while Nesta fretted, looking for something to dress the cut. “I doubt it’ll even scar. Besides—you got me. That’s something, Nes.”

She turned, wisps of hair brushing against her cheek and gods she was so beautiful. 

“I did, didn’t I?” she replied, a genuine smile curving over her lips. What would happen, he wondered, if he just kissed her?

Nesta was still holding that bloodied dagger in her hand which was enough to temper Cassian’s thoughts. He didn’t need to teach her to stab, after all—that was intuitive. Still, Nesta seemed like the kind of woman who ought to have been born wielding a weapon and he suspected with a little more practice, she’d be a born natural.

And then what? Would Rhys want to help her wrest control of her kingdom from the men who’d long ruled it? Cassian was certain he didn’t, that he was only here to prevent their long-standing ally Helion from another war. 

It was a secret he was keeping from her.

He didn’t owe Nesta the truth. After all, he was no one to her. Just some man she’d tricked into helping her. Cassian imagined Nesta did this every day with any number of men and he was merely the latest one. And yet with each passing day, guilt gnawed at him because she genuinely believed they were there to help her.

And they weren’t. Rhys and Azriel were more likely to destabilize things entirely than they were to offer her any real assistance. Maybe Rhys would offer her an out by making her his wife—but maybe he wouldn’t. Cassian would be the villain because his job was to destroy their military and leave the north in tattered ruins. 

Nesta came closer, a little ripped piece of cloth in her hand. Cassian caught her wrist, wanting so badly to touch her when he knew he didn’t have the right. “Don’t worry about me,” he told her, holding her gaze. “I’ll have forgotten about this in the morning.”

Nesta came closer still, until she was standing between his parted legs. “You’ll forget me?”

“That’s not what I said,” Cassian heard himself reply. He didn’t feel in control right then, but like a spectator watching another man who was far calmer and more collected speak to the woman of his dreams. “I don’t think it’s possible to forget you, Nesta Archeron.”

It was that other man, still holding her wrist, that turned her palm up and pressed a kiss against her skin. A man who knew how to court a woman like Nesta—who knew what he was doing at all, even. Not Cassian, who felt as though he was screaming with delight and fear, pressed against his own eyes to watch. She was going to shove him, would scream for her guards and he’d be arrested. Rhys would ask him if it was worth it and Cassian would say—well, Cassian would say it had been worth it. Because it had. 

Nesta didn’t do any of those things. Shuddering, she took a careful step backward with an audible swallow. “Is it hard? Killing another person?”

Was that what she was thinking? Like cold water had been poured over his head, Cassian felt his desire cool. It was with great reluctance that he dropped her hand, sighing softly. “I can’t speak for everyone. Killing is personal, even when it's not.”

“Do you think I could?”

Holding her gaze, Cassian thought Nesta could do anything with sheer will alone. He understood what she was asking, though: did he think she could follow through? Did Cassian think Nesta was capable of taking a life? Yeah, Cassian thought Nesta could kill as well as the best of them—maybe better. 

“Yeah, Nes, I think you could.”

Nodding her head, a soft smile spread across her lips. “I have a list.”

Cassian had never wanted anyone more than he wanted her right then. “Oh? Where do I fall on it?”

“You’re so full of yourself,” she said, smothering a smile. “Why would you think you rank at all?”

“Hope, I suppose,” Cassian replied with a grin. 

“You hope I’d kill you?” she asked, eyes wide with a mixture of what he thought was delight and surprise. 

“Anything to feel your hands on my skin,” Cassian responded before he could think about it. Nesta sucked in a soft breath and he knew he’d taken it too far. He shouldn’t have said that. Heart hammering, Cassian turned slowly to look at her, waiting for her to order him out. 

“That’s pathetic,” she said, her voice strangely breathless. “Where is your dignity, General?”

Had he ever been so aroused in his life? Cassian was hard pressed to think of a time as Nesta made her way toward him, hips swaying beneath her dress. She was out of bounds, and even though Rhys said he had no intention of courting her, she did technically belong to his brother. What would happen if Rhys learned of this?

Would he be jealous?

Angry?

“I suspect you hold that, along with everything else, princess,” Cassian replied, deciding he was going to see this through to whatever conclusion. Nesta closed the gap between them, her body close enough that her breasts all but touched his chest. Cassian wanted to kiss her and swore he wasn’t going to right until she tilted her chin upward with that hint of defiance he liked so much.

Was that what this was? Just a princess defying her father until she couldn’t? Or did Nesta feel the same attraction Cassian felt, too? 

Reaching for her cheek, Cassian held it in his hand, thumb sweeping against soft skin. Oh, he was in such trouble and yet he knew if he hesitated, Nesta would never give him another opportunity. He might lack dignity but Nesta held her pride so tightly he suspected she wrapped it around her body like a second skin.

She wasn’t going to beg him. Cassian would have, though. 

Still, Cassian didn’t know just how true those thoughts were until his mouth brushed hers. Nesta smelled sweet, like something sugary baked on the streets of Velaris. If he’d smelled it while walking by, Cassian would have ducked in for a taste, unable to help himself. He felt the same right then, kissing her with a sharp inhale of air. 

It was a miracle that Nesta kissed him back, her fingers gripping the tops of his arms to hold him steady. Cassian felt dazed, drunk on his success though he had no idea how he’d managed to convince her to kiss him in the first place. All he knew was he wanted more and would commit an unknown, unnamed number of atrocities to kiss her again. 

He ought to have known she was unpracticed—that Nesta would need more care than he was used to. Cassian was so lost in the moment he didn’t think about winding an arm around her body to pull her flush against him. Nesta gasped, her little hands pressed to his chest as she tried to back away.

“I—Sorry,” he breathed, eyes on her as she put a healthy amount of space between them. Nesta’s fingers touched her lips, eyes glassy and far away. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, her words a knife to his heart. “I…that was a mistake.”

“Don’t do that,” Cassian half pleaded, half growled. “You know it wasn’t a mistake.”

Her spine straightened. “It was. You’re—” she swallowed the words she was about to say, eyes flashing a warning. If Cassian had been smarter, he’d have let them die.

But Cassian had never been accused of intelligence. “I’m what, Nes?”

“You’re no one at all,” she replied lightly, eyes sliding toward the door. “And I’m a princess. This never happened. Forget it like I already have.”

“You’re a liar, Nesta Archeron,” Cassian called, swallowing his anger in favor of keeping his tone light. She turned, eyes flashing.

“You can’t talk to me like that,” she snapped.

“Just did,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “Throw me in prison if I offend you.”

“You will keep your distance or—”

“Or what?” Cassian murmured, taking a casual step toward her. They both knew she couldn’t—Nesta wanted to learn to use a blade and could ask no one but him. Either she abandoned her plans or she sought him out. Either way, Cassian held all the cards. They stared the other down, searching for some weakness to advance their position. It was Nesta who turned again, chin raised with a haughty arrogance that made his blood race. 

“Or nothing, Cassian. This never happened.”

“We’ll see, Nes!” he hissed after her retreating back. 

Cassian didn’t give up that easily. Not when he wanted something.

And Cassian had never wanted anything or anyone half as much as he wanted Nesta.

Feyre’s heart thudded in her throat as she raced through the palace, skirts held in one hand, feet slipping against the smooth stones. You’re dreaming, you’re dreaming, you’re dreaming— It wasn’t a dream. Tamlin was standing in the grand hall, head bowed low as her father and Lord Nolan spoke to him, their words too soft to be overheard by the hiding Feyre. What could her father have possibly needed from Tamlin to call him back? 

Feyre’s hands were numb, cold despite the roaring fire that warmed the room. The only thing that had ever given Feyre peace was the knowledge that Tamlin was not coming home. He’d never have a chance to apologize for what he’d done, which meant she’d never cave and forgive him like she knew she would.

Seeing him there, though, broad shouldered and beautiful, softened some of her resolve. He’d struck her but it had been an accident—she’d merely been in his way and he hadn’t intended to hurt her. He’d meant to strike the wall, to knock over his desk and its contents. She’d rushed forward and he’d lashed out and Feyre was far softer and more breakable than stone and wood. It was the kind of bruise that couldn’t be explained away, couldn’t be hidden.

Tamlin had offered a half-hearted apology, his kisses turning into reassurance sex that left Feyre feeling empty and hollow in the aftermath. She hadn’t protested when her father ordered Tamlin away and Tamlin hadn’t put up a fight. He’d merely packed his things, leaving Feyre with a ruined reputation and a broken heart.

Feyre waited until there was a lull in the conversation to step into the room. It was strangely empty, devoid of the usual advisors and courtiers that made the grand hall seem so small. Now it was cavernous, a death march as Feyre made her way toward her father, desperate not to look at Tamlin at all.

She’d been summoned, after all. That was how she’d known—a nervous servant had told her to meet her father and when Feyre pressed, they’d whispered of Lord Tamlin’s return. Feyre felt her stomach sinking lower and lower as Nolan stared her down, his curiosity warring with some other emotion. Was it irritation, perhaps? There was no joy on that face.

“Majesty,” Nolan murmured when Feyre approached, bowing low not to her, but her father as he excused himself. Feyre wanted to grab his arm and beg him to stay though she didn’t dare. Lord Nolan would never intentionally help her—he cared only about his own standing, his own wealth, his own power. She was merely a pawn in whatever game he played to get his son on the throne. 

She was close enough to Tamlin she could smell the soft, masculine scent wafting from his form. Could have touched the fingers at his side if she’d wanted to—and some pathetic part of her did. Feyre looked at her father, too afraid to look at Tamlin. 

“Feyre,” her father began, rising from his chair to descend the steps of the raised dais so they could be at eye level. “How did you sleep?”

“I—” Was that really what he wanted to know? “I slept well.”

Her father nodded, reaching out a hand to brush her cheek. The same cheek Tamlin’s bruise had once adorned, faded with time. “I’ve called Lord Tamlin back to court for a purpose, Feyre. Before he left, he offered—”

“Please,” she whispered, swallowing hard. 

“Feyre,” Tamlin tried but Feyre stumbled back a step, holding up a hand as she finally looked at him. He was even more beautiful than she remembered, so achingly handsome it made her want to go to him. “What happened between us…you have to know how sorry I am. I always—it was always my intention to ask you—I left and the rumors—”

“No,” she breathed, taking another step back. “You can’t be serious.”

“Think on it,” her father urged with kindness in his voice. Was she allowed to decide for herself, or was this an order dressed up like a choice? Feyre turned without another word, storming from the hall before she could do or say something she’d regret. She wasn’t marrying Tamlin, couldn’t bring herself to marry a man who at best was so angry he occasionally lost control of himself and at worst had meant to hit her and only felt sorry because he’d been caught. More than that, though, Feyre wasn’t going to do anything that made Lord Nolan happy. This was his doing and she knew it, some game he was playing in which Feyre was the unwitting pawn. If she slowed down, she likely could have figured it out. She could have gone to Nesta, who likely knew exactly what was happening and was three moves ahead.

Instead, Feyre went outside into the mist, trying to control her breathing.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” a voice murmured from the fog. Feyre started as Rhysand appeared, his usually perfect hair plastered against his forehead. Gone was the elegant king, replaced with someone who looked like any regular man. A regular man with a perfect face, but a regular man all the same. 

Feyre found herself at a loss for words as she looked up at him, remembering his hands on her body in the hot spring and the way his eyes had been on her mouth the entire time she talked. He was here courting Nesta, she reminded herself. Rhys was merely amusing himself with the daughter he’d heard was easier to get undressed, which made him a prick, not someone to fantasize about. 

“Walk with me?” he asked, offering Feyre his arm. She took it without thinking, fingers sliding over the velvety soft black fabric. 

“Is something wrong?” Feyre dared to ask, noting how tight Rhysand’s jaw seemed to be.

“I need some quiet,” he replied, closing his eyes for a moment as he led her from the sparse, gray courtyard and into the city proper. 

“Then why bring me?”

“I always want to talk to you,” he replied without his usual mockery. 

“Did something happen?” Feyre heard herself asking—like she cared. Maybe she just wanted a distraction from her own problems but…Rhysand never seemed like the kind of man who was bothered by anything. 

“Your courts politics frustrate me,” he admitted, running a hand through his wet hair. 

“Yours are better?”

He shrugged, some of that charm seeping back into his expression. “Would you like to find out, darling?”

Wrenching her hand from his arm, Feyre elbowed him in the ribs. Rhysand smiled, ducking his head as if she’d given him a compliment. “Don’t be gross.”

Rhysand only grinned, the sight of which made her blood warm. “What is Velaris like?” she heard herself asking after a moment of comfortable silence. “I hear it’s cold.”

“You should visit,” he began, eyes shining. “There is nowhere in the world like Velaris. We have seasons—it’s not just snow and ice all year round. We also host some of the best artists on the continent…and I hear you like to paint.”

Feyre’s throat constricted. “Who told you that?”

“I’m not divulging my sources,” Rhysand replied, those once starry, shining eyes dulling as he drank in the capital city. It was dreary, she supposed, though the fog and rain did little to help. People didn’t want to be out if they didn’t have to be, and if they did, they were bundled in wool cloaks to keep them from getting wet. She doubted his own perfect home was devoid of mud and animal droppings and the sounds of people shouting over each other as they traded for goods. 

“Why are you talking about me?”

“I like talking about you,” Rhysand replied with a smoothness that irked her. “I want to know everything there is to know about you.”

“Why? Shouldn’t you be getting to know my sister?” Feyre demanded, though something oily slid through her at the mention of Nesta. Rhysand, too, shifted, his body more rigid, his face stonier. He didn’t want Nesta and Feyre wasn’t stupid enough to pretend he wanted neither of them. He’d come looking at the eldest daughter to consolidate his power but now he was looking at her. 

Did her father know? 

Oh gods…did Nolan know? Was that why Tamlin was back? Nolan knew Rhysand had no interest in Nesta and hoped to keep all foreign interest out of their court by dangling Tamlin over Feyre’s head. Had he thought she’d jump at the prospect, or did he merely bank on her father wanting to silence the rumors swirling around Feyre and her virginity? 

“Can’t I get to know you?” Rhysand asked, his voice smooth and low.

Feyre halted in her tracks. “Are you asking to court me?”

Rhysand merely grinned. “That depends on the answer you give me.”

Feyre’s mind raced. Nesta wanted Rhysand’s army for retribution on the south but Rhysand didn’t want Nesta. If Feyre told him unequivocally no, he’d likely leave sooner than he said he would and Feyre would be pushed into a marriage with Tamlin. Did she want that? Part of her did, but the other part—the part that still remembered the fear, the pain, and the heartbreak—wanted to never see him again. To bury one of her arrows in his throat and watch him suffer the way she had. 

That didn’t mean she wanted Rhysand, though. He’d owe Nesta through an alliance between their homes, but…he’d take her away from her sister. And that felt intolerable to Feyre. The choices were unfair, her position a misery. Did she want Rhysand to court her, though, was the question? 

Taking a breath, Feyre said, “Fine.”

“You’re so romantic,” Rhysand teased, his cheeks warming. “You can say no, darling. My ego can withstand rejection.”

Feyre believed him, too. Something about him—the casual way he talked, the friendly demeanor his warriors employed around him, and the way he looked at her made Feyre think he was being honest. If she officially declined, she suspected Rhysand would withdraw entirely out of respect. Even if she didn’t know what she wanted, she knew she didn’t want him to leave just yet. 

“Can we keep this between us for the moment?” she heard herself asking, wringing her hands nervously in front of her body. “Just until…”

He raised his brows. “Until the summer is over?”

“Yeah,” she breathed with relief. That way, at least, she didn’t mess things up for Nesta and whatever clandestine things she was planning and almost certainly not telling Feyre about and see Tamlin sent back to the countryside, ideally forever. And if she ended up like Rhysand, well…that wasn’t a bad thing, was it? 

“Whatever it takes,” Rhysand murmured, staring down at her with the kind of affection that made her stomach twist in knots. She’d seen that look on a man's face before and it hadn’t ended well. It always started sweet but how long until Rhysand erupted and hurt her? After all, much like Tamlin, he was accustomed to getting what he wanted and Feyre was famously difficult—or, that's what people said about her, anyway. What did he even want, she wondered? Obedience? An alliance? Something else she hadn’t considered.

“I do have one request from you, since we’re negotiating terms,” Rhysand continued, flexing his fingers at his side.

Here we go, she thought. He was going to ask her to get in his bed since she was no longer a virgin, and—

“I’d like you to call me Rhys.”

Feyre blinked. “What?”

“Only my enemies call me Rhysand,” he informed her, eyes bright again. “But my friends call me Rhys.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

“I hope so,” he replied, and for some reason, Feyre believed him. 

She took a breath. “Alright then, Rhys.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl.”