#and perhaps this would be less of an irony if this friend

[onethousandrbirds]

i have a friend who doesn't believe in intellectual property (the concept, not the laws themselves; that would be silly) but also is that person who gets very mad when concepts or ideas created by black people are not attributed to the intellectual and social production of black people. for obvious reasons, i have not pointed out this irony to them

[hornychristianprincess]

wasted (leehan x fem reader) FINAL

paring: leehan x fem reader, ft. taesan genre: smut, fluff, angst, fuckboy!leehan word count: 15k summary: finally confessing your feelings to leehan leads to a reaction you could have never prepared for. warnings: unwanted sexual advances (NOT from leehan), explicit [consensual] sex scenes, oral (female receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it b4 you tap it ppl) read on ao3 if you please by clicking HERE.

“Jaehyun, you have a lot of friends, right?” asks Leehan when he and his roommate are relaxing in their shared living room, doing homework. “Do you know anyone who works in the tutoring office? Blonde streak of hair?”

It’s the only attributes he can remember about the guy he saw you entering your room with only a few days ago, noticing the blue tutoring office logo on the chest of his polo shirt and the distinctive stripe of color in the middle his head. 

“Oh yeah, I think you’re talking about Taesan,” says Jaehyun, who luckily isn’t paying attention enough to his roommate to notice how he perks up at just the name. “Why?”

Even Leehan himself isn’t exactly sure why he cares so much. 

It’s hypocritical at best and gross at worst to think that you have any less of a right to screw around than he does. 

But whether it's his innate territoriality coming into play or the fact that he’s upset it wasn’t him at your side instead, he can’t help but see you differently after what he saw.

“I saw him with some girl I was fucking. Sexual partners are like cars – You don’t want one everyone gets to use, you know?”

Jaehyun, who had up until this point been lying on the floor and playing idly with his Nintendo switch, sits up to look at Leehan. “You’re not talking about Y/N, are you?”

The first thought that comes to a surprised Leehan’s mind is what he said to have tipped Jaehyun off. Failing to think of any divertive lie, he decides there’s no harm in Jaehyun knowing, only wondering, “How’d you find out?”

“I saw her going into your room the night of my Halloween party,”  he explains reasonably, before his voice and facial expression turn suddenly serious. “You shouldn’t talk about her like that. She’s going through a lot right now. She just failed all of her midterms and she might get kicked out of school.”

“Wait, really?” asks Leehan, who is hit with a sudden pang of deja vu as if he’s heard this before but doesn’t remember from where. 

And then, it’s with a sudden and strong surge of embarrassment that he remembers the moment when he was feeling horny and decided to send you a dick pic, pressing the little blue arrow after only briefly glancing at the above messages.

“Oh shit. I think she told me that.”

Jaehyun laughs jeeringly, the resentful sound of which brings Leehan out of his own spiraling thoughts. “You’re an asshole, man,” he asserts, saying it in a way that’s so casual it’s as if it’s just a known fact. 

Not an insult or a compliment, but simply a thing that’s true. 

And somehow, the neutrality of it hurts worse. 

“No offense, but I totally hope she forgets she ever met you.”

Hit by the irony of such cruel words being preceded by no offense, Leehan becomes sarcastic to avoid having to express the true hurt of being told that. “None taken. That seriously wasn’t offensive at all, Jaehyun.”

Maybe Jaehyun is right. After working so hard to emphasize the line between being fuckbuddies and being in a relationship, yet still finding himself acting the exact way he feared you would, isn’t asshole the only way to truly express how shitty he’s being about this? 

It’s at that moment that Leehan considers that perhaps this relationship between the two of you has spiraled out of control. 

Because something that should be inherently easy and casual has now caused him far too much regret and remorse for his liking.

Sitting in an empty classroom with Taesan, you share a cup of bubble tea, the drinking of which causes you to bump hands several times as you reach out to grab it at the same time. 

Interacting with Taesan always brings up sweet and innocent feelings that are like that of childhood crushes, or chasing fireflies on your lawn after dark. 

Fall break has long been over and yet you continue to meet with him even outside of your mandatory weekly check-ins, forgetting the anxiety that once plagued you over this arrangement. 

The time you spend with Taesan is so fulfilling that you’ve managed to completely forget that Leehan hasn’t contacted you in almost a week. 

Well, maybe not completely. 

You still wonder from time to time what he’s thinking, if maybe he read the text message you sent prior to his dick pic and internalized the part where you emphasized how you wouldn’t have time for him anymore.

There is of course a tiny part of you that feels empty and abandoned at the idea of him ghosting you and never talking to you again.

But it’s in a stroke of optimism, feigned or otherwise, that you decide to pour your attention into someone who feels like a much better match for you, that someone being Taesan.

“I’m just about to finish with this assignment. After I’m done, do you wanna go to the caf?” you mumble out in inquiry to Taesan as you check over your quiz answers for the last time before submitting. 

You hear him make a noncommittal noise in response, which you first interpret as disinterest, but only seconds later recognize to be absent-mindedness as you feel his eyes warming the side of your face. 

You let out a chuckle, just about to say something teasing to him for being caught staring at you when a few warm fingers glide across your ear. Taken aback, you meet Taesan’s gaze as he tucks away a piece of your stray hair. 

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, holding your face in his hand. “You have this…faraway look in your eyes.”

Your eyes dart between his face and his hand that’s slow to come off of your ear, surprised by the sudden bit of physical contact.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer calmly if maybe a bit shakily, trying to appear normal though your head screams with a million passing thoughts at once. Taesan nods in acceptance of this answer before turning back to his laptop as if nothing happened. 

If you were at all a gambling person, you’d bet good money that the telltale, suave move of tucking your hair behind your ear was a way for him to see how you’d react to something less platanotic from him. 

And if you were to allow this moment to pass by without saying anything, you know that he would follow your lead and pretend like this never happened. He’d use your silence as evidence that his advances are unwelcome. 

Perhaps you’re feeling a little bold, but you don’t want him to go any longer thinking that his interest isn’t reciprocated.

“Wait,” you remark, reaching out to grab Taesan’s wrist. “Taesan, can I kiss you?”

The usually mysterious, confident boy loses his ability to speak when you ask him that, eyes going wide and only nodding to communicate his consent. Finding his sudden shyness charming, you smile as you lean in to press your lips against his. 

Taesan’s mouth is just as inviting as you thought it would be all the times you spent staring at it when you were sure he wasn’t looking. He may have acted shy just now, but the way that Taesan kisses you is like fire. He presses his mouth hard against yours, and when his body does the same you soon find yourself pressed into the rolling chair you’re sitting in.

Your hand moves up to tangle in his hair, pulling him in to deepen the kiss. You were sure that Taesan, ever the responsible one, would be the person between the two of you to pull away before things got too heated. 

But now, all he does is lean in to your provocations, sticking his tongue into your mouth while you whimper against his. 

And as you try to allow your brain to white out so that you can truly relax into the gratification he is sure to give you, all you can think about is how his lips are not Leehan’s lips.

His hands are not Leehan’s hands. 

His kiss doesn’t evoke even a fraction of the electricity that Leehan does just by looking at you. 

You accept then that self-preservation must be a confounding myth to your psyche, because against all odds, you are still very much into Leehan. 

And while you could easily fuck Taesan anyway and let the enjoyment of his sex prove as a temporary salve to the gaping wound that is your feelings for Leehan, you feel too much like he doesn’t deserve to fuck someone with such selfish intentions. 

So, it’s with both regret and sobering understanding that you pull Taesan away from you, lines of spit breaking into drool as you separate.

The two of you become temporarily frozen in a moment of both confusion and shock. Taesan, looking at you with widened eyes and reddened lips, asks in a small yet urgent voice, “What? Is something wrong?”

You already feel like a piece of shit as you loosen your grip on Taesan’s hair, letting your hands fall to your lap and noticing that his still rest on your waist. “Taesan…” you begin, and already at just the sound of his name, you can see his expression wilting, like he knows by the unsure tone of your voice exactly what you’re going to say. And how couldn’t he, when you suck so badly at giving bad news?

“I think you’re an amazing person. And believe me when I say I really, really wanted this between us,” you emphasize, wishing you could get swallowed up by a hole as he continues to stare at you in dumbfounded awe. 

You know that these aren't words anyone wants to hear but you feel compelled to say them, feeling like Taesan deserves honesty from you.

“To be completely candid with you, the reason why I’m on academic probation is because of a guy. A recent guy who treated me like shit, but because I’m an idiot, I still want him.”

You wait on edge for the moment when Taesan’s disposition will return to that of the understanding, kind person you’ve come to know, the moment when you’ll both laugh at the awkwardness of this situation and allow yourselves to forget it ever happened.

Instead, though, all you see in Taesan’s eyes is a fiery passion that makes your head hurt as you realize he won’t let this rejection go down easily. 

“You know that doesn’t matter to me right? We don’t have to…be all romantic, and shit. I’m fine with something casual. Happier with that, even.”

It’s with a pang of insecurity that you fight back a self-pitying laugh at those words, wondering what it is about you that makes men only want casual, no-strings-attached relationships with you. 

“I’m sorry for making things awkward. And if you don’t want to tutor me anymore after this, I’d completely understand,” you concede in the nicest possible tone you can muster, still incredibly conscious of Taesan’s hands that have still not left your waist. “But I can’t do this, Taesan. You’re amazing but I just…I can’t, okay?”

When Taesan continues to stare at you as if he isn’t comprehending a word that’s coming out of your mouth, you reach down to move his hands off of your waist yourself, and when you do,  you’re shocked when you feel his fingers seizing around your wrists to hold them in place. 

“You’re being ridiculous, Y/N. So what if you’re not over your ex? That shouldn’t stop you from getting your rocks off,” he says, voice rising considerably as he squeezes your wrists so harshly it begins to hurt. 

It’s at this moment that you realize you’ll never be able to look at Taesan the same again. 

No longer the sweet, kind and helpful boy you first met, he looks pathetic and at worst, scary as he continues to refuse your rejection.

“Taesan, I’m really gonna need you to let go of me,” you request, saying it without any niceties as you manage to convince yourself that maybe he’s just taking this extra hard for whatever reason and just needs to hear you being serious so that he can come to his senses. “Listen, how about we end early for today and talk about this another time–”

“I’m not letting you leave until you can look me in my eyes and give me one good reason why we shouldn’t do this,” he asserts, still holding your wrists, laughing a little in a way that makes it hard for you to tell if he knows that he’s making you uncomfortable or thinks that this is all just some game of hard-to-get. “You can act coy all you want but I know you want me, I could tell as soon as I met you.”

“I’m gonna tell you to let go of me one more time, Taesan, and then I start screaming,” you threaten, no longer feeling amused or pitiful but instead angry, adrenaline running through your veins as you consider the possibility of having to physically attack him. 

You’re not sure how things escalated so quickly but now you’re quickly regretting ever befriending Han Taesan in the first place, ever thinking that he could be a permanent fixture in your life.

Catching you by surprise, Taesan stands up suddenly from his chair and drags you up with him. It’s in a flurry of movements that he somehow manages to pin you against a wall, smirking down at you from above. 

You let out a squeal but he covers your mouth, strong enough to use only one of his hands to keep your arms pinned above your head. He laughs as you struggle against him, perhaps not realizing – or worse, realizing it and getting off on how deeply he’s managed to scare you.

“What?” he asks through upturned lips, pressing his body into yours. “Don’t girls like it when guys don’t take no for an answer?”

It’s in the strangest and most serendipitous stroke of luck that you hear the sound of the classroom door swinging open.

And when you turn your head to meet the gaze of your savior, it’s Leehan who you see standing there, taking in the scene in front of him. 

It feels stupid and random that of course it’s Leehan who just happened to be the person to walk in here, but you don’t dwell too much on the details, focused on the relief that floods through you knowing there’s someone here to intervene on your behalf. 

Leehan hesitates momentarily as he wonders if he’s just had the misfortune to accidentally walk in on the kinky foreplay between you and this new guy you’ve been seeing. Attending a lecture in this same building, he happened to walk by the classroom and hear a distressed voice that sounded vaguely familiar. 

Through the fogged glass material of the door, he could just barely make out your silhouette, instinctually barging in to see what was going on. 

If Leehan didn’t know you so well, he might’ve immediately bolted at the sight of you engaging in intimacy with someone else. It would be too much and he knows it would force him to confront his conflicting feelings towards you.

But the moment he meets your gaze and sees the steely, ice cold fear that’s in your eyes, his next moves are made clear. Without questioning anything, he steps forward and punches an already staggering Taesan in the face.

The punch causes Taesan to fall backward, blood that you aren’t sure is coming from his lip or his nose splattering onto the floor. You and Leehan remain frozen, you in shock at both Taesan’s actions and Leehan’s sudden presence, and Leehan with the adrenaline of becoming unexpectedly violent. 

It’s in that moment of stillness on both of your parts that Taesan has time to recover, and before you can react, he’s leaping forward to tackle Leehan onto a nearby desk.

You let out a squeal of shock as the two men struggle, causing desks and their chairs to fly around the room haphazardly in the process.

And to your horror, Taesan quickly gets the upper hand over Leehan, sitting on top of the shorter boy in a straddling position before letting his hands fly in a series of devastating punches. 

You go to pull him off but he pushes you away, forcing you then to search frantically for your phone in the hopes of calling campus security before Leehan is pulverized any further.

“Hey, is something going o—” you hear an unfamiliar voice ask, and you look up to find that you’ve been discovered by a complete stranger, a boy who you assume is another student by his shaggy attire and backpack. He answers his own question by glancing into the room and catching sight of Taesan and Leehan who are both now bleeding as they remain wrestling on the floor.

You’re just about to enlist the stranger to help you in dragging Taesan off of Leehan when, suddenly, you don’t have to. 

Realizing that the stranger’s presence could mean that even more people could arrive to inspect what’s causing all of this noise any second, you watch as the fear of getting in trouble overtakes Taesan’s expression until he’s getting up. 

He gets up and sprints out of the classroom wildly, shoulder checking the stranger in the process as he flees out of the building.

“Should I run after him?” asks the student at the door who you’re sure is still processing what he’s just seen. But more than anything else, you’re worried about Leehan, who you just saw taking several punches to the face and is laying down on the ground making strangled, agonized noises.

“No. It’s better that you scared him away. I just need to get him to the infirmary,” you reply, trying to sound more calm and controlled than you feel but hearing how your adrenaline from the past few minute’s events causes your voice to come out shaky and broken. The stranger asks if you need any help but you wave him away, deciding it would be too much of a burden to have to explain what just happened to anyone else. 

So it’s by yourself that you go to hover over Leehan’s body and try to push back the horror of seeing his face bloodied and bruised so that you can help him onto his feet.

And because most of the damage seems to be centralized on his face — maybe his back and head, too, after being tackled onto the ground — he mostly manages to stand up on his own. Though, once on his feet, he has to lean on you to avoid staggering.

“Don’t…let him…go, Y/N,” he mumbles, making you feel even more concerned and on edge as his garbled tone makes it sound like he’s one step away from passing out. “He was…hurting you, wasn’t he?”

“It’s fine, Leehan. Let’s just get you to the infirmary,” you reply dismissively, needing him to be pliant more than anything in this moment so that you can get him to your thankfully close by campus infirmary without issue. 

Your transgression with Taesan with startling and for a brief moment, terrifying. But with him now gone, the majority of your distress lies with Leehan and making sure he’s okay.

And to your relief, as you take a few steps forward with Leehan’s arm leaned over your shoulder, he remains upright and mostly autonomous in his movements.

He continues to say nothing on your way out of the building outside from the occasional groan, and you’re sure that as the adrenaline wears off that the pain in his face must become more present. You luckily make it to the infirmary moments later, where the doctor on call takes one look at Leehan’s face and immediately rushes him into a care room. 

Everything that happens after that is a bit of a blur for you. A campus security officer comes to take a statement from you. You tell him everything, giving him Taesan’s full name and picture in the hopes that it can lead to some type of action, although a part of you feels discouraged and numb at that notion.

You wait anxiously in the lobby of the infirmary, waiting for an update from the doctor and feeling like you’re gonna throw up when the older woman comes out from the hallway with a neutral, unreadable expression on her face.

“Hi ma'am. Your friend is doing just fine. All of the cuts on his face are superficial, so they’ll heal on their own. He’ll have some bruises and swelling, which will also go away with time. He does have a bit of a concussion, so we’ll send you both home with some Tylenol. If you’d like to come and see him, you can follow me.”

Though you figured that most of his injuries were minor, you still feel relieved to hear that nothing is significantly wrong; it’s irrational, but you know you would have been eaten alive with guilt had anything serious happened. 

Getting up to follow the doctor, you walk into the care room to find Leehan sitting on the edge of an examination chair, a nurse still applying little white bandaids to a cut on his cheek. When he sees you come in he smiles, though only fleetingly as the gesture causes him to wince in pain.

You don’t know what to say to him, so you opt to sit down on a chair that’s directly next to his dangling legs. You watch as the nurse goes to prod at a separate wound on his lip with a q-tip dipped in brown liquid. You don’t realize how tense you are until you feel the warmth of a hand over yours, and when you look up, Leehan is staring at you in amusement. 

“You’re shaking,” he observes, and though he can’t smirk without it causing him pain, he still gazes at you in a way that is teasing and smug. And the fact that he’s concerned about you when he’s the one who’s getting medical attention makes you let out a cynical, humorless laugh.

“Don’t worry about me. Look what he did to you.”

“I’m still good-looking, though, aren’t I?” he replies playfully, and because you’re so upset, you feel yourself almost inclined to scold him for making such jokes in light of the circumstances. But Leehan, never one to read the room or adhere to the tones and moods of others, is laughing as he commands, “You have to tell me or I’ll have an internal crisis.”

You stare at him with your eyebrows furrowed, wanting to be annoyed by him but not being able to help your smile as he continues to await your confirmation of his enduring looks with a pout. 

Rolling your eyes, it’s with a bit of resistance in your voice that you reply, “Yes, you’re still handsome, Leehan.”

He pumps his fist up in the air triumphantly, and with that, the nurse leaves the room, telling you that she’ll return with the official paperwork needed so that he can be discharged.

Once she’s gone, it’s quiet between the two of you until Leehan breaks the silence with a question. “That guy…his name’s Taesan, right?”

You’re taken aback, both at the sudden change in his tone and disposition –  his voice now serious and inquiring – and the fact that he even knows who Taesan is. “How do you know?”

“I saw you with him outside of your dorm. Asked Jaehyun who he is,” he responds plainly. And as you take in this information, you’re not sure what to say in reply. Even just knowing that he was outside of your dorm that day when Taesan came to your room and didn’t say anything makes you think he must’ve had some kind of reaction to seeing the two of you together. 

And as you put the timing together, it makes sense why you hadn’t heard from him for a week until now.

But then again, it doesn’t make sense. Because the Leehan you know, the Leehan you’ve come to resent, surely wouldn’t — shouldn't — care to see you with another guy when he’s been so adamant about keeping things non-exclusive between the two of you.

“Are you together?” he asks when you remain silent, and in what feels like a complete switch in power dynamics, you find that Leehan is the one now clearly expressing some kind of worry or at the very least interest in what you get up to when you’re not with him. 

And because you feel both vindicated to be on the other side of this sort of questioning, and not at all entitled to tell him the truth, you answer by asking, “If I said yes, what would you say?”

Leehan looks at you, all amusement absent from his expression even as he says somewhat sarcastically, “That I thought being with me meant you had better taste in men.”

His response causes you to scoff, the idea of him thinking that he’s somehow at a higher caliber than all the other similarly emotionally-unavailable men on your campus something you find absurd. 

And yes, maybe it’s because you’re already feeling a little bitter towards him that you’re then replying scathingly, “If anything, wouldn’t my interest in you mean the opposite?”

“Funny,” he says sardonically in reply. The atmosphere between the two of you currently is tense. He resents you for being with someone else and you resent him for setting boundaries for your relationship that he never intended to follow.

And yet, despite the unresolved negative emotions that are clearly swimming between the two of you, it feels absurd and crazy to say that as you continue to make unbroken and silent eye contact, you feel like he’s about to kiss you. 

That’s the sort of crazy chemistry you seem to have with one another, where even as you both have the rationality to recognize the toxicity of this dynamic you both still find yourselves magnetically pulled to one another in a way that, in most people’s eyes, would be viewed as mindless. 

But it’s just as you swear he’s leaning in that the doctor comes into the room, handing Leehan a clipboard and telling him he can go once he’s finished filling out a few forms. You wait for him, not sure what will happen once you leave but feeling almost responsible to at least see him to his apartment.

And so, you exit the hospital together, and it’s as you’re walking out that you voice to him truthfully, “It feels weird just dropping you off like you didn’t just get your face rearranged trying to save me.”

He lets out a chuckle in response, swinging his body so that he’s standing in front of you before shrugging and saying, “Then don’t drop me off. We could go to your dorm, watch a movie.”

The request to do something as simple as watch a movie sounds so foreign coming out of his mouth that you can’t help but laugh out loud. “When do we ever watch a movie?” you ask, repeating the words in disbelief. 

You’re mostly joking when you ask that, but it’s with a tiny pang of sadness that you acknowledge the tragedy of him wanting your company for something other than sex being something that’s so unbelievable.

“Today. Rocky V is probably ill-timed, but I love a good nature documentary,” he replies with a grin, and as always, you are unable to get a read on his expression to know if he is being serious or not. 

But today has been a crazy day and you know that being in your room by yourself after everything that’s happened is only going to make you feel worse. So, deciding that there’s no harm in keeping him company for just a little while longer, you allow him to lead the way to the building that he’s been to so many times. 

You know from learning your roommate’s schedule that she’ll be in a lab for the next 3 hours, a fact that makes you feel relieved as you enter your dorm with Leehan trailing behind you. He comes in and immediately collapses onto the couch, spreading his arms out on either side of the cushions in a way that brings renewed attention to his broad shoulders.

“So. Do you actually want to watch a movie?” you ask casually as you stand a few feet away from him, trying your hardest to keep any bitterness out of your tone as you watch him shrug his shoulders nonchalantly.

“You know, now that I’m here…” he says, already smirking as he watches you fight the urge to roll your eyes. “It feels like a much better idea for you to come sit on my lap.”

Even though you find yourself enticed by the invitation, in a small, distant part of your brain, it feels like you’ve been manipulated into letting him come to your room. That watching a movie had always been a lie to get you to have sex with him.

But something has changed inside of you, and from what, you can’t pinpoint. All you know is that the accumulations of lies and divertive tactics that you’ve endured from Leehan thus far has left you almost numb to his provocations. 

Instead of feeling sad or shitty or upset, you just feel nothing. 

And somehow, that change feels more concerning to you than the emotions from before did.

Still, you find yourself stalking silently to Leehan on the couch, his eyes never leaving yours as you make your way towards him. His legs spread naturally as you get between them, and it’s with a jaguar-like slowness that you crawl over his body until you’re straddling him. 

Intensity rolls off of the both of your bodies like water, the silence and shared eye contact only contributing to the growing sexual desire that builds between the two of you.

In contrast to such lust, it’s in a gesture of affection that you lean in to lay a gentle, barely-there kiss against all of the wounds on his face. The cut on his cheek. His busted bottom lip. The knot forming on the top of his head. The bruise on the side of his jaw. You do it almost in apology but also because you want him to tease him, giving him only fleeting touches and kisses before you do anything substantial. He flinches at first at the contact but eventually relaxes into the softness of your lips against him. 

And though you couldn’t articulate the reason why, you get the feeling that he flinches less out of pain, but more in surprise at the unfamiliar gesture of tenderness and how it impacts him. 

You’ve only just reached his neck, sucking hickies into the pale skin there, when you can feel his cock hardening underneath you.

It’s after you’ve kissed every single piece of skin uncovered by his shirt that you decide to relieve a bit of his suffering by reaching a hand down into the waistband of his pants. All you do is close your fist around his shaft and stroke him languidly, but you suppose your teasing worked better than you thought as he whimpers at the simplest of movements. He bucks into your hand, not afraid of seeming desperate and shamelessly moaning at your touch. 

Watching him writhe and shudder beneath you, sensitive in a way you’ve never seen before, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that this is one of the few times that you’ve felt even a semblance of control in your interactions during sex. It’s always been you on the receiving end of his endless repertoire of tactics, designed always to render you incomprehensible and under the thumb of his persuasion.

Spurred on by the observation, you take advantage of his submission to ask a question that’s been on your mind since you left the hospital. 

“Can I ask you something? Why did you ask Jaehyun who I was with?”

You can just barely make out the expression of surprise that appears faintly behind Leehan’s glassy eyes, and in a tactic that even you admit is slightly contemptible, you never stop the movements of your hand as you await his answer. 

Desperate for even a moment’s worth of vulnerability from him, you hope that by literally dangling his climax in your hands that he’ll be more inclined to be truthful with you.

But for Leehan, giving you the honest answer — that he’s simply a jealous person who can’t stand seeing you with someone else even though it’s hypocritical — would only serve in making you think that his jealousy is a sign of caring, his caring a sign of affection, his affection a sign that he wants to be your boyfriend. 

And though that assessment isn’t as easy to refute as it may have once been when he first met you, it seems idiotic to put any ideas in your head that could lead to him having to admit feelings he isn’t quite sure of yet. 

So, in lieu of the truth, he replies with something that, honestly, should be a bigger concern for him than it presently is: “Because you should tell me if you’re being intimate with someone else. What if you’re not using protection and I catch something?” 

Up until now, you had prepared yourself to react calmly to whatever Leehan’s answer would be, a task you knew would be difficult because the idea of him being jealous at all is in itself insane and backwards.

It was he who insisted that this dynamic be free of any constraints or limitations. 

But the fact that he’s implying you would have sex with someone else and be so reckless as to not make any precautions for your health has your composure breaking, a scoff leaving you as you blurt out, “Have you been honest with me about the people you’re seeing?”

It’s a question you already know the answer to as you still haven’t forgotten the night of the Halloween party, how Jaehyun let it slip that Leehan had been on a date. You’d never confronted him about it because, deep down, you felt that you had no right to. 

But now, he’s placing judgment on you in a way that makes you want to throw all caution to the wind and express your true emotions to him for what seems like the first time.

Hearing the knowing tone in your question has Leehan worried, tilting his head to stare at you as if he’s just now seeing you for the first time. “Are you trying to catch me in a lie, Y/N?” he asks, amusement in his tone though you can tell your questioning rattles him. “I’ve never told you anything that wasn’t true.”

But that’s just because you’ve never told me anything of substance, you think to yourself, reflecting back on all of the times he left your room in a hurry so that he could avoid having to show you anything real.

You continue jerking him off intently, and even though he’s obviously enjoying it, you can tell that you’ve thrown him off. During sex you’ve always maintained this sort of scathing, playful banter, but this time, he knows that your question is motivated by a genuine desire to hear the truth from him. It makes him beyond uncomfortable, especially with his dick still hard and aching in your moving hand. In a sudden change of dynamics, it’s him trying to read what you’re thinking.

Seeing this crack in Leehan’s usually guarded persona spurs you on into saying even more things that you’ve been suppressing. “I know that you’re seeing someone else,” you assert, honesty you never thought you’d be capable of expressing coming out boldly and without ambivalence. “Jaehyun told me, the night of the Halloween party.”

Your eyes are glued to Leehan’s face as you scan for the smallest fluctuation in his expression, searching desperately for any indication of what he’s thinking. And in yet another gesture that might as well be a verbal admission of guilt, Leehan stares up at the ceiling to avoid your gaze. 

Leehan – confident, cool, teasing Leehan – who has always made you feel like you were scared of intimacy for not wanting to make eye contact with him during sex, is now the one shying away the intensity of your gaze. 

The feeling of triumph that comes with finally feeling like you have him at your mercy after months of the opposite has you speeding up the movements of your hand, watching as he almost winces from the overstimulation you provide. 

But more than anything else, you want answers. 

You want to know why he thinks it’s okay to police who else you invite into your bedroom when he clearly does whatever he wants without any regard for you. 

You want him to decisively and plainly decide if he’s either a sadistic asshole who believes that he should be able to treat you like shit while he goes out and fucks whoever he wants—Or if, like you, the passion of this relationship has overwhelmed him so much that he now finds himself feeling things for you that are beyond sexual, things that have caused him to abhor the notion of you being with someone other than him.

It feels like you need the answer to that question more than you need air.

And so, it’s in desperation that your voice comes out shaky as you demand, “Say something.” 

“I can’t,” he manages through gritted teeth, the sound of his voice coming out raspy and submissive making your cunt pulse with arousal. “You’re about to make me come.”

Feeling like he’s being backed into a corner, Leehan wants to tell you to stop, but the euphoria he’s experiencing is too great. He’s never seen you be so assertive, so purposeful in doing things that you know will make him go crazy. 

Rubbing your thumb over his tip. Spitting downward so that the wetness of your spit can reach his cock. Stroking him wildly and meeting his thrusts into your fist. 

Pressure builds in his abdomen until he feels himself about to explode with what might be the most intense climax of his life. 

But in a move that shocks the both of you, it’s just as Leehan is about to finish all over your hand that you abruptly pull off of him. 

Stop the movements of your hand and watch brazenly as the realization of what you just did is processed on his face.

Maybe he thought that you were joking and that this was all just some aggressive manner of foreplay. 

But now, he can see in your shocked expression, how you look so surprised at even your own insistence, that to deny him of his pleasure in this way was something that took a lot out of you. 

It’s been a hallmark of your relationship so far for you to devote yourself to his satisfaction. You’ve always cared so much about being wanted by him, even after he’s shown his disregard for you time and time again.

And so to see you work up the courage to defy him in this way makes it clear to him that you’re not gonna drop this.

This isn’t something that he can smile or flirt his way out of in the hopes of having you wrapped around his finger for just one more day.

You’re gonna force this into being an issue. And fine; if you want to have this conversation, he’ll have it.

Even if it means that by the end of this you'll realize how shitty of a person he is and want nothing to do with him afterward.

If you were still the same pliant, conflict-avoiding Y/N, you’d be alarmed at the change in his expression and how his usual amused smirk melts into a straight-lined frown. You’d transform into the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed girl who’d laugh and pretend that this was all just a way to rile him up into fucking you, hoping that you could forget this moment ever happened.

But it feels like something has been lost in your dynamic that can never be brought back. You’re no longer okay with being lied to, manipulated. And Leehan, realizing how serious you are, seeks to take back control of this situation by flipping your bodies over so that you’re on your back and he’s on top of you. 

He pins your arms above your head, holding them down so you can’t move. 

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to.”

He says the statement with a warning sort of tone but it only makes you laugh, no longer able to take his provocations and vague answers seriously. “Then don’t try to act hypocritical and treat me like I’m a fucking irresponsible idiot,” you retort, no hint of banter in your words as you hope he understands how serious you’re being, how done you are with his lies. “Having sex with guys without protection and not telling them about it. How do I know you haven’t been doing the exact thing you’re accusing me of?”

You ask a valid question that Leehan sees no way to get out of answering. Clearly, you already know (because of his disloyal, talkative fucking roommate) that he’s been seeing at least one girl that isn’t you. And because he can tell with certainty that your pliance is dependent on at least some kind of honesty from him, he tells you a technical truth when he says, “Since I met you, I’ve only been fucking you. No one else. I swear.”

It’s an answer that protects him from having to further delve into whether he’s seeing anyone else romantically, an important distinction that he isn’t interested in clarifying for the sake of your continued interest in him.

And as he watches you scan his face, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you seek to find any indication of either sincerity or hypocrisy in his expression, he seizes the opportunity provided by your momentary lapse in questioning to reach past the waistband of your leggings, sticking two fingers into your pulsing cunt. 

He watches with satisfaction as even in your bitterness, you still can’t help the way your back arches and your mouth parts naturally at the action. Mirroring your tactics from before, he gives you great satisfaction in exchange for your hopeful compliance. Thrusting his long fingers inside of you, he mumbles in sensual truth, “Your pretty, wet pussy is the only thing that’s been occupying my brain for the last three months.”

The part of your brain that would question the credibility of his words is turned off like a lightswitch as the thrill from his fingers takes over. As much as you try to fight off what you’re experiencing so that you can regain the upper hand, it feels like it’s almost in revenge that he fingers you with such vigor that you can’t speak. 

“Can you say the same? Huh, pretty?” he demands, digits angled just right so that the tips of his fingers repeatedly push against your most sensitive parts. “Tell me I’m the only person whose been fucking orgasms into your cunt.”

You could usually appreciate such possessive sentiments from Leehan when they were spoken in moments where there wasn’t any lingering resentment between the two of you. Now, they only annoy you, causing you to petulantly reply in mocking of his earlier words, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

And in a move that is surely in imitation of your earlier actions, he pulls his fingers out of you completely and with them, your orgasm. His expression is a handsome mixture of annoyance and frustration. 

It feels like the two of you are in some sort of scornful, unspoken competition, you trying to get him to be honest and him trying to get you to drop this entirely. And all of this undercut by the fact that both really wanna fuck each other, only adding to the frustration of your pleasure being taken away. 

Though your body reels regretfully from the sudden drop in adrenaline, it’s with an unmoved expression on your face that you sit up, making yourself level with him. 

“What?” you retort derisively, amused to find him upset at tactics you only know because he modeled them for you so many times before. “Does it make you mad?”

“No,” he answers, a fierce expression on his face that lets you know despite the desire radiating between the two of you that he’s being serious when he says, “It makes me question the type of person you are.”

And as you poke his chest assertively, you reply, “A person abiding by the standards that you set,” reminding him once more how he lacks the right to feel entitled to your body. 

You again question why he continues to insist that a no-strings attached arrangement is what he wants when it’s clear he doesn’t want you with anyone else.

And so, it’s in your confusion that you ask, “I’m giving you exactly what you want. So why does it feel like you’re punishing me?”

“This isn’t what I want,” he says in reply. And the way that he says it almost quietly, like a stream-of-consciousness that was accidentally blurted out loud, has you inclined to believe that maybe, he’s finally coming around to seeing just how poorly suited this arrangement is for the both of you.

So, it’s with a curious tilt to your voice that you ask, “Then what do you want?”

Looking at you with a sort of urgent, unyielding expression on his face, it’s after a moment of intense and searing silence between the two of you that he leans in to kiss you roughly. What was once a moment of willful competition between the two of you now becomes intense and panicked as the passion of the last few moments takes over your bodies. 

Your hands move in a frenzy as you rush to take off one another’s clothes, and you get the feeling that had the fabric provided any real obstacle, you both would’ve been willing to rip each other’s pants and tops off. Actualizing your desire for one another becomes the most important and serious task to have ever been endeavored upon.

You’ve only just removed your final article of clothing when Leehan crawls between your legs, finding you soaked and pulsing in anticipation of his touch. Noticing this, he can feel himself going crazy with all of the unanswered questions he has about you and Taesan. He finds himself vocalizing these thoughts shamelessly as he mumbles, “Fuck, Y/N. I need you to be honest with me. Because if someone else has had this pussy, I’m gonna go crazy.”

“Make me come, and I’ll give you a straight answer,” you defiantly reply.

Tired of your games, it’s in expression of his growing impatience that Leehan slaps your pussy uncaringly. The act sends a jolt of shock through your body but especially your clit, making you moan in a mixture of both pain and pleasure. 

“I’m serious, Y/N,” he says, and rather than being amused by his insistence like you were before, it's for the first time that you find yourself intimidated, as well as turned on. “Tell me the truth.”

Leehan has always been the leader in your sexual dynamic, but you’d never describe him as rough or dominant until now. Rattled by the change, you aren’t able to manage a reply to his demand, but it’s then that Leehan raises himself up so that your faces are level. 

Making sure to keep his eyes on yours this time, he pushes three fingers inside of your aching cunt — more than you’ve ever taken from him and enough to have your eyes rolling back upon impact.

“Tell me that this pussy is mine,” he demands as he fucks you open with his fingers. You’ve never seen him this fired-up, this crazed, and it has you more turned on and pliant than you think you’ve ever been before. 

His fingers thrust in and out of you with strength you’ve never felt before, and in an amount of time that you find to be pathetic, you can feel your stomach tensing with an approaching climax, moans leaving your mouth with every breath and every curl of his fingers. 

But for the second time tonight, Leehan notices you’re about to come and rips it away from you by withdrawing his fingers entirely. And unlike before, you can’t pretend not to be dismayed as you whimper wistfully at the loss of contact. Leehan, unamused, only stares at you from above and says with finality in his tone, “Tell me the truth, and I’ll make you come.”

You can see now how serious he’s being, how important this is to him, and though you find it entirely irrational, the pulsing of arousal in your body is too strong to ignore. 

“I never fucked him. He never touched me until today.”

“And anyone else besides him?”

“There’s no one else, Leehan,” you assure him, body wracked with the weight of several heavy breaths as you practically beg for him to believe you, to touch you, to relieve the almost painful aching of your cunt. “Just you.”

You’re pleasantly surprised when he doesn't require any additional scrutiny before accepting your answer at face value, muttering an approving “Good girl,” before diving between your legs.

And you guess by the almost hungry, desperate way he then proceeds to eat you out that his easy acceptance of your word is just as much in service to his own desire to taste you as it is to you and your enjoyment. 

Because you find not just in this instance but always that Leehan gives head like his survival is dependent on your arousal. He licks and sucks and mouths at your clit, moaning languidly into your core like it's the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

And as if that’s not enough to have you reeling, he brings his hand out from underneath your thigh and puts two long, crooked fingers back into your dripping hole, thrusting and curling them inside of you like he’s intent on finding the spot that will make you scream. You throw your head back and close your eyes at the feeling that washes over your body, something like electricity pulsing through you and making your legs shake. 

Without intending it, your hips buck against his tongue in chase of your impending orgasm. And when he flattens the wet muscle, allowing you the agency to take your pleasure rather than him having to give it to you, it’s only seconds later when you feel your abdomen contracting with the intensity of your long awaited orgasm. 

You’ve barely recovered from the high of your climax when you hear Leehan saying tauntingly from above you, “See? No one else can do that as good as I can.” He then spreads your legs apart, admiring the mess he’s made of you, slick turning your inner thighs shiny and wet. ”Don’t you know now why you shouldn’t fuck anyone else?

Refusing him the satisfaction of an answer, your only response is to sit up and tell him, “Lay down. I wanna ride you.

Leehan’s only show of resistance to this request is a raise of his eyebrow, but he’s otherwise pliant as you maneuver on the couch so that he’s flat on his back. You hover just below his hard-as-a-rock erection, realizing you should go and get a condom, but it feels like an ultimate test of both your honesty that you assertively inform him, “I’m on birth control.”

Understanding what you mean to imply with this admission, you watch as Leehan’s eyes gloss over, another wave of lust taking over at the notion of having raw sex. In a distant part of your brain that isn’t completely corrupted by wanting, you wonder if this is a good idea given that you have no way of proving whether he’s been honest about his sexual history with other girls.

But as you unconsciously scoot closer and allow his cock to brush against your folds, his encouragement of “Then sit on it,” ringing pleasantly in your ears, the only thing that delays you is your desire to further tauny him. 

“Look at me,” you command passionately, holding on just barely to your own composure as you fight to get these words out amidst your own lust-corrupted brain. “If you stop, I stop. I want you to look in my eyes when I make you come.”

Leehan, either ignorant to how serious you’re being or uncaring, whimpers out your name in lieu of any indication that he understands and accepts what you’re saying. You sink down on him anyway and allow the feeling of being filled to the brim by his long, veiny cock to wipe out any and all thoughts out of your mind. 

“Oh my god, fuck,” he mumbles out in expression of how good it feels, after you’ve only just began bouncing your body up and down his cock. You bear witness to the moment when the embrace of your tight walls becomes too much for him and he throws his head back, disregarding your words from earlier. 

And although it hurts you to do so, makes your thighs burn and your lips part to let out a regretful whimper, you pull yourself upwards until his cock slips out of you completely.

“Open your eyes,” you demand assertively, not just for his sake but for your own, so that you can go back to riding the life out of him until you both can come. “Show me why you deserve this. Remind me why I keep letting you fuck me.”

The scathing remark and the brazen expression you wear as you say it causes Leehan to regain his focus, returning his gaze to yours and making sure to maintain it even as your reinsertion of his cock has him fighting not to shut his eyes closed. It’s with a feeling of regretful foreboding that Leehan realizes this is probably going to end way too soon, that the sickening combination of you riding him, your dominant and sultry words, the view of your body from above him, and the intense unbroken eye contact all work in service to his quickly approaching climax. 

And even as you too feel yourself inching closer and closer to the point of incomprehensible return, you keep talking, feelings that you’ve been suppressing for too long coming out in sultry, brokenly-spoken expressions. “I want you to savor this moment. Memorize how it feels to be inside of me,” you tell him, and then, leaning down to bite the tip of his ear, you whimper, “Fuck Leehan. You’re so big.”

Your purposeful usage of all the things you know for a fact rile him up the most is not lost on him, and it’s almost like you want him to come as quickly and embarrassingly as possible. He lingers on that thought for less than a few seconds, but even just the fleeting idea of spilling his seed inside of you has his brain entering a whole nother level of depraved and uncontrolled, until he’s muttering out the word “Fuck,” in repeated succession and thrusting up into you wildly. “Gonna come,” he announces only seconds later.

“I know you are, baby. And when you do, remember that I can only make you feel this good,” you reply, surprised at your own ability to sound assured and in control in the midst of your own fast-approaching orgasm. But in a way, it feels like you grow more confident the more you watch his verbal and motor skills deteriorate with every bounce and squeeze of your pussy against his cock. 

Making grunting sounds as his thrusts become sloppy and uncontrolled, he replies through gritted teeth, “I know. You’re my favorite girl, Y/N.”

You’ve always hated that term because of the implication it makes that there are other girls with whom he's comparing you to. But as you commit to fighting off all of the weak, vulnerable, sad emotions that have now only rendered you numb, it’s in another show of control that you reply, “Then say it. Tell me how good I’m making you feel.”

At first, you aren’t sure if Leehan can even manage a reply as you watch him grow focused and intent on his approaching orgasm. But it’s through a mixture of muffled grunts and whines, his hips never ceasing their thrusts into you, that he begins to speak.

“Your pussy was made for me. It’s all I ever think about. The sex we have – nghh – it’s the best I’ve ever had,” he tells you emphatically. 

And the brokenness of his words, the way they come out rushed and passionate as if a suppressed part of him needs you to hear them, has you feeling profoundly impacted by the weight of them. 

“You make me crazy, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. Only you—” 

It’s with one final rough, definitive thrust that Leehan comes inside of you. You’re overcome by the feeling of his hot, warm cum filling your walls, pussy clenching around him as you too experience another orgasm. And as you both recover from your highs, you can feel the atmosphere becoming almost instantaneously stuffy and awkward, the realization of what just happened and all of the things you allowed to come out in the heat of the moment hitting you all at once.

Wanting nothing more than to be released from the clutches of this regretful moment, you pull yourself off of him and wince at the feeling of his cum dripping out of you and onto your inner thighs, some of it spilling onto the couch. 

And without ceremony, Leehan does what he does best – he gathers his clothes and things and begins to put them on as if nothing happened.

The silence that overcomes the two of you as you sit naked and uncovered on the opposite couch, watching him change, is unlike either of you. You’d usually at the very least manage  a few words about how good that was, or small talk about anything fun happening soon on campus. Had Leehan been any good with silence, he might’ve just walked out and not said anything to you at all. 

But it’s because of his own manipulative and egotistical desire to continue to remain in your good graces that he says, in desperation to ease the tension, “Hey. By the way, I’m sorry about the picture I sent you. I don’t usually read your messages, so I didn’t see what you had sent me beforehand.”

You stare at him, a mixture of disbelief and hostility coming over you all at once.

Having completely forgotten about the dick picture incident until now, you feel the emotions from then coming back up in a way that feels shocking given the relative inoffensiveness of his apology just now.

It’s hard for you to pinpoint what exactly about the statement sets you off. 

Maybe it’s that you just had the most intimate, soul-baring sex, and now he’s basically back to reminding you of just how little he values you and your personhood. 

How easy it is for him to completely ignore anything you say to him if it has nothing to do with him and his own pleasure.

And with these emotions more than likely reflected on your face, you watch as Leehan — like a startled deer in headlights — makes what are perhaps the quickest efforts he’s ever done to leave your dorm in a hurry.

“I should get back,” he’s replying coldly as he gets up, throwing his jacket over his body so fast that it folds awkwardly along his sides. “But thanks for this.”

This, he says casually. As if his seed isn’t currently wetting the inside of your legs right now.

“But Leehan, the rain—” you insist. Because you can hear thunder rattling your windows outside and you know that to walk home to his apartment is an entirely irrational notion.

“Don’t worry about me,” he tells you, already halfway to your door as he turns around to look at you, something like regret painted all over his passive expression. “We don’t do that for each other, remember?

And it’s with that last parting, ominous statement that you watch Leehan leave your dorm room without another look in your direction. He’s left your room like this — in a hasty blur without a word or an acknowledgement — more times than you can possibly count. 

So why you find yourself overcome with the feeling that this may be the last time you’ll ever see him again, you’re not entirely sure. 

But it’s because of that gnawing, persistent feeling, eating at you like it never has before, that you get up and find a robe to throw over your body so that you can go and find Leehan before it’s too late.

You’re not even sure of what you’re going to say when you find him standing on the outside porch of your building, head down and phone in his hand as he waits for an Uber. All you know is that it’s pouring buckets outside and even with the bit of roofing over your heads, the wind still blows rain onto your bodies, rendering his hair and face wet. 

“Leehan,” you call out, watching as he turns to you and automatically freezes up as he realizes you followed him out here. “Wait. Don’t go.”

It’s at least a little bit understandable why Leehan appears taken-aback by your words and your presence — any other time you’ve had sex, you’ve never once tried to get him to stay behind, even though he could always notice in your expression or quiet intensity that you wanted him to.

So the fact that you’re here telling him not to go, and because of the nature of the sex you just had, it’s like he already knows that you’re planning to pour your heart out to him, and it’s in fear of that that he finds himself saying wearily, “Y/N—”

“No. Let me talk,” you assert before he can finish, a part of you feeling like if you don’t get these words out now, you never will. And so, fueled by the unexplainable feeling that this may be the last chance for you to tell him how you feel, you channel all the confidence you can possible muster and allow all the suppressed emotions from the last three months to spill out without any filter.

“After we have sex, I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay because you like being with me. I want you to fall asleep with me. I want you to see me and treat me like I’m a human being and not some physical object that you use for sex and nothing else,” you exclaim with a self-pitying scoff.

“And I tried being the chill girl who just goes along with things that are casual. But Leehan, you make me feel things that no one ever has, and it’s not just the sex. For the past few months…it’s felt like my life only truly felt worth living if you were noticing me.”

You can plainly tell by Leehan’s stiff body language and overall lack of reaction that this entire spiel is making him uncomfortable. And as discouraging as the reaction is, now that you’ve started, it feels like you can’t stop until he knows everything that he’s put you through to get to this point.

“And maybe I only feel that way because when we fuck, it’s not like some one-night-stand or throwaway shit. It truly feels like I’m baring my soul to you. And I know that it’s not one sided,” you remark with confidence. Because being in bed with Leehan is the only time when you feel like you can truly understand him. It’s when your hearts, minds, and bodies are in sync and you can both be at your most vulnerable with each other.

“But then you leave, just like you’re doing now. And it makes me feel like the most massive piece of shit you can possibly imagine,” you mumble out with a broken, wet laugh.

Coming to the end of your spiel, you let your arms come down to your sides defeatedly, and with one last imploring look to Leehan’s blank and starry eyes, you ask the question that has been haunting you for the better part of three months now. “So what I guess I want to know is…what is it that’s stopping you from going all in with me? Is it that I’m just…not enough for you to want anything more than sex?” you question, insecurities that have been welling up for so long coming out in a way that has your voice sounding broken. “Or are you just too scared of commitment to allow yourself to feel loved?

“Because that’s exactly what I feel for you. And god dammit, Leehan, but I’m almost 80% sure you feel that way for me too.”

When you’re sure that there’s nothing else left to say and that you got everything you wanted to explain out, it’s with a relieving sigh that your body expels the weight of three months’ worth of pain, sadness, and thoughts of worthlessness. 

And because you know it must be a lot to be on the receiving end of the heaviness of those words, it’s not surprising that the next few seconds after you finish speaking are filled by silence. Watching Leehan stare at you intensely, you allow him the time and the grace to process what he’s heard before you jump to assuming the worst of his silence. 

But then, his first words to you hit you like an icy blast of wind. 

“Y/N, you’re a good person. And the time we’ve spent together has been so much fun for me. But this has always been just that for me…fun. Sex,” he says unambivalently, framing the words delicately though it does nothing to prevent them from hitting you like a freight train. “And I’m sorry if I ever did or said anything that gave you an impression otherwise.

“But honestly, Y/N…” he continues, looking away from you and losing the ability to sugarcoat his thoughts as he expresses, “I told you from the forefront what this was. Why did you say yes if it wasn’t what you wanted?”

He asks a valid question that you unfortunately don’t have the answer to. Because honestly, what were you thinking? Looking back at that moment when he first proposed this arrangement, you have to wonder what possessed you to be delusional enough to think that this would possibly end well.

As embarrassing and humiliating it is to admit, it’s the sex. All those times he told you he desired you, how beautiful you were, how much he wanted you, made you feel like maybe he just didn’t know what he wanted. That eventually he’d come around.

“Because I didn’t think that it was that important to you,” you tell him, feeling your confidence shrinking in real time as your voice comes out quiet and whiny. “I thought…I thought you were changing your mind.”

“I don’t think we should keep doing this, Y/N,” he declares in reply, looking down at the ground in embarrassment. “I like you a lot, but I can’t continue on if I know you have the expectation that this is gonna blossom into something more. I’m sorry, but it’s just not.”

And with that last sobering pronouncement, Leehan runs a hand through his hair, an obviously fake chuckle let out of his lips as he seeks to break the awkwardness of this atmosphere. “This really wasn’t how I wanted this to go,” he mumbles out apologetically, and the way that he stands there stiffly lets you know he wants nothing else than to get away from you right now. 

And sure enough, the sound of a notification going off draws both of your attention to his phone. Like a final dagger to your heart and self-esteem, he’s not even able to hide the relief that floods his expression as he announces, “My Uber’s here, so I just…goodbye, Y/N.”

You watch Leehan step off the porch and into the rain, the lack of light and storm clouds rendering him into nothing more but a blurry, gray silhouette. 

It’s how you will more than likely remember Leehan as you watch him enter the white Mazda that pulls into the driveway. 

Watch the car drive off knowing that you will more than likely never see him again.

He will forever be immortalized in your brain as the stormy force of a presence that came into your life like a tornado, wrecking everything around it and exiting like nothing happened, leaving you a splintered mess of a world to clean up for yourself.

You will be just another Natty, someone Leehan offhandedly mentions to his friends in the car with whoever he chooses to be his next victim, someone he spent a good few weeks with only to never mention them again.

“You’re an enigma, Kim Leehan,” you declared with sincerity. “I don’t want to be your girlfriend either. No offense.”

“None taken,” he replied with breezy indifference, bringing his hand to lay over the one you have on his face. “But don’t say that so easily. You don’t know me well enough yet.”

You rolled your eyes at yet another show of cockiness from him. “And are you saying if I did, I would fall for you?”

Even as his expression remained passive, he replied forebodingly, “Isn’t that usually how these things end?”

He was right.

The next two months of not seeing, talking, or hearing from Leehan go by in a gray-ish, incomprehensible blur.

You complete your classes, managing a passing GPA and thankfully holding on to your scholarship.

You go out to lunch and on study dates with your mutual friends, neglecting to explain why you always need to know who else is coming before you agree to going out.

You attend a couple parties and events on campus, wondering each time whether you’ll run into Leehan and not sure if the rigid feeling over your chest is because of hopefulness or fear at the idea of possibly seeing him. 

And as you pack up your things to get ready to move out for the winter, it feels like you should be over this by now. You spent three months together. Tumultuous, but still only three – it doesn’t seem to make sense why you still feel so hurt.

But you’re now learning that situationships are the hardest to comprehend in their aftermath because it’s hard to know what exactly it is that you’re feeling wistful towards. Leehan isn’t your ex, but he’s also not a friend whom you simply grew apart from. 

He’s another third thing that you can’t quite capture, making it difficult for you to reminisce on your exciting yet tainted memories with one another.

It’s with these thoughts running through your mind that you finish packing your last few items of furniture, readying them to be stowed away in the back of a U-Haul you rented for the day. 

And with your dorm now basically empty, your roommate having moved out a few days before, you can’t help but to view it nostalgically from the vantage point of your doorway, memories of this semester’s escapades coming back to you all at once.

The dresser that you let Leehan stash his condoms in.

Your cheap bed whose loose, metal springs always robbed you of any chance at secrecy in your interactions. 

Moving towards your kitchenette, you stare silently at the flowers he gifted you that one day, still alive despite several weeks of neglect. The little cardboard fish he stuck between the petals makes it appear almost like they’re swimming among colorful, sagging coral reefs.

Your eyes flit over to your couch, where you didn’t know at the time would be the last place he fucked you before he’d never talk to you again.

Going over these memories in your mind, it makes sense then why when you hear a knock resounding on your door, the first thing you think of is Leehan.

But surely, you’re just caught up in the emotions caused by the sudden moment of reflection; it has to be an RA, or a neighbor about to ask if they can borrow a broom and dustpan.

When you go to open your door, you don’t consider for a second that on the other end could be the one person you’re not prepared to see right now.

So when it swings open and you’re greeted by a straight-faced, wide-eyed Leehan, whose body is relaxed against the side of your door, it feels like all of the air is knocked out of your body.

“Hi,” he says plainly, straightening his posture when he sees you staring at him staggeringly. To say that you feel conflicted as you take in his handsome, tall form would be beyond an understatement. It doesn’t feel like it’s been that long since you’ve seen each other, and it’s almost like he could tell you right now that he’s here because he wants to fuck you and it would feel normal, like nothing has changed between the two of you.

But even in just making that mental observation, you feel angry and resentful that such a dynamic was normalized among the two of you for so long that you convinced yourself it was okay to be treated that way.

And as you stew in those feelings of renewed bitterness and frustration, you find yourself suddenly and strongly opposed to him being here, asking bluntly, “What is this? Why are you here?”

“I’m here to apologize,” he answers with an imploring look, and habitually you study his expressions in the hopes of discerning whether he’s being sincere or not.

But it’s with a feeling of resignation that you realize how done you are with trying to constantly read his mind and understand what motivates his decisions.

Because the same way there’s a chance that he really did show up here with good intentions, there’s just as equal a chance that he wants you to trust him again so that he can get his dick wet.

And so, in a move that brings you an immature level of satisfaction, you close the door on his face without another word.

You hear him exclaiming loudly “Y/N, wait!” on the other side of the door but you’ve already made up your mind, deciding that whatever he has to say isn’t worthy of your time or attention.

You’re done with his manipulative behavior, with his aloofness and undeserved self-assuredness, but most of all you’re tired of being made to feel like shit. And that’s all he ever did in those few months that you were sleeping together.

As you retreat to your bedroom, you go to return to packing your things, but the adrenaline from the passing moment makes your hand shake and your body pulse energetically. You need a second to pause and breathe and process what’s just happened, to walk around and pace away all of this unresolved energy. 

But then you turn around to go back out into your living room, and that’s when you see Leehan standing right outside the arch of your bedroom doorway.

“Jesus fucking christ, Leehan!” you exclaim in a mixture of both surprise, frustration, and confusion as you wonder whether he broke in or if you—

“You left the door unlocked,” he replies calmly, and even though he knows he has a lot to make up for, he still can’t help the smirk that comes to his face as he jokes, “Kinda 101 not to do that if you don’t want someone coming in. That’s like me leaving the filter of my fish tank —”

“Get out, Leehan. Get out! I have nothing left I want to say to you!” you shout, impatient and uncaring to his jokes and his dimples and everything else about him that used to charm you. It’s all meaningless to you now, and you don’t care if you look crazy or unhinged when you go to physically push him out of your dorm.

But even with the nonchalant, noncommittal way he holds onto your wrist to restrain you, you still only manage to move him a few steps, much to your dismay and rage.

And so, in a heat-of-the-moment, emotionally driven decision, you move to close your bedroom door on his face. While successful in keeping him out of your bedroom, you don’t even realize until seconds later that he’s still free to roam in your hallway, kitchenette, and living room, while you’ve essentially just locked yourself in.

Predictably, you can hear Leehan chuckling outside of your door as he makes this same realization.

“You know, if it was your goal to get me to leave, then I’m not sure locking yourself in your room really…” he begins to say, not able to keep the amusement out of his voice at the foolish mistake on your part. But, remembering the reason why he came here in the first place, he tones it down to say soberly, “Nevermind. It doesn't matter.”

You walk over to the side of your bedroom that’s opposite from the doorway, sitting down on the floor, determined to tune out whatever it is that Leehan is about to say. Maybe if you stay silent and let him tire himself out, he’ll eventually leave knowing that there’s nothing he can say to make up for how he’s made you feel.

“I”m not super good at explaining myself, or talking at all, honestly. I go on tangents and my mind is just…a giant fucking minefield. So I wrote down what I wanted to tell you.”

Leehan’s voice is distorted but nonetheless able to be heard clearly through the thin wood that makes up your door, so much so that you can clearly hear the crumpling noises of a paper being unraveled as he starts to read. 

“If you’re listening to me read this, it’s because I somehow managed to convince you to hear me out. Either that, or I broke into your dorm, which feels like the more likely option,” he says with almost no emotion behind the words, and against your own discipline, you can feel your lips twitching into a smirk automatically in reaction to his strange, off putting way of speaking.

“I know my insistence can come off as crass given how shitty of a person I’ve been to you. But I knew that today was move-out day, and I needed you to hear me out before you left.”

You hear him take a deep breath before continuing with the next part of his speech. “As you know, I’m a pretty fearless person. But when it comes to admitting my feelings for you, I’ve had a much harder time. Truthfully, since I met you, it’s been because of my own immaturity that I’ve seen other girls romantically. Even though I always knew my feelings for you were different, I pushed them away in the hopes of avoiding having to commit to anyone. When you told me how you really felt for me, truthfully, it scared me. I didn’t want to know what my life would look like if I decided to be with just one person.

“I thought that by rejecting you, by being away from you for this long, that my feelings for you would go away,” he remarks with the same sort of unfeeling, neutral tone to his voice, as if he knows the explanation behind his actions is unimportant given how they’ve impacted you. “I wanted to view you as just another name on a long list.”

But it’s with his next words that passion and sincerity and longing bleed into his voice all at once to say, “But it’s taken me this time of being away from you to realize that…I’m still not over you.”

After minutes of hanging onto his every word despite every inclination that has been telling you to do otherwise, it’s those last five words that hit you like a freight train. 

And you know it’s foolish and dumb to be believing anything that comes out of his mouth anymore, but you suppose it’s no different from all of the other times you continued to let him in even when he showed you so many times why you shouldn’t. 

Your reasoning remains the same – you just feel an irrational pull to him that is all-consuming, your heart connected to his in a way you can’t control. 

And it doesn’t help that everything he says next is all of the affirmation you’ve been wanting and needing him to give you throughout your entire time of sleeping together. “You deserve someone that’s going to treat you with respect. Someone that makes you feel loved and beautiful and desired. Someone with the courage to be vulnerable and who will care for you in your most vulnerable moments. And I’m sorry if you felt like you didn’t have that with me,” he remarks, and you don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath throughout his spiel until your chest literally contracts from the lack of air to your lungs.

“But if you can find some way to forgive me, then I want to make us work,” he asserts pleadingly. And with the finality that it feels like follows that statement, you get the feeling that what he says next is no longer being read off the paper. 

Especially when you can hear what you think is the top of his head, leaned against the door with a small thunk as he quietly laments, “I want you, Y/N. Not just sexually, but for everything that makes you who you are. It’s always been you. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it.” 

It’s quiet after that, so much so that you can hear his small and broken breaths being let out against the wall. You hear what you think is the sound of his hand being brought up to rest next to his head. And as the feeling of being pulled in so many directions takes over you, your heart in a heated battle with your brain, it’s after a few moments of silence that you stand up and walk over towards the door. 

Leehan, observing the shadows of your footsteps through the little gap at the bottom of the door, perks up when it’s just a thin barrier of wood that keeps you from being face-to-face with one another.

You prepare yourself to be annoyed when you open the door in expectation that he will be his usual unreadable, unserious self. 

But it’s in surprise but also a little relief that what you find when you face him is the expression of a man who’s truly understood the gravity of his mistakes and feels shameful over them.

“You look really pretty,” he blurts out, the suddenness of the remark almost betraying your slowly but surely growing feelings of understanding towards him. But you also can’t help that his random candor makes you laugh, reminded of some of your earlier interactions as he sheepishly says, “Sorry, bad timing.”

Still standing a fair distance away from him, the tip of your toes just barely meeting the tip of his as you look down at them to avoid eye contact, you attempt to ease the tension of the moment with a shy but truthful, “Thank you, Leehan. For the compliment and for the apology.”

You can feel the heat of his gaze as he tilts his head to stare at you, his attention feeling hopeful but not in a way that makes you feel pressured, but in a way that has you compelled to be completely vulnerable and honest with him.

“I’m just…really scared that you’ll hurt me,” you confess somberly, and it still feels strange to even say things like this to him because you’ve spent so much time suppressing your negative emotions when it comes to Leehan. Scared that you’d lose his approval and feeling like you needed such approval to feel good about yourself.

But over time as your relationship progressed and you found yourself little by little regaining the sense of self that your interactions with Leehan robbed you of, you were able to realize that you didn’t deserve to be treated like an afterthought, like an object only useful if it was giving satisfaction to someone else.

And it was in resentment that over these two months of not speaking you felt like Leehan believed that, too.

But now after hearing him explain himself and believing genuinely that he wants to be with you, you now battle with the parts of you that are scared to believe him in fear of getting hurt and the parts of you that so badly also want to be in a relationship with him.

“I’m not scared,” he tells you, the confidence you’ve come to know him for coming out more strongly than ever before. “I’ve got you, remember?”

He then goes to place his two middle fingers underneath your chin, pushing your jaw upward so that you’re forced into eye contact. Staring into his endless and piercing eyes, it’s for the first time that you feel like you understand him in a non-sexual context. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” you mumble quietly in reply.

And it’s as you feel your lips twitching into a content smile that Leehan leans in to kiss you, and you accept the gesture without question.

five months later

“I wanna go half on a baby with you.”

These are the words that Leehan remarks to your sleeping form as you lay comfortably beside him in bed, sleeping but getting roused into attention by the faint sound of his voice.

“A fish baby, of course,” he clarifies, though you don’t even register what he’s saying as you remain half-asleep. “I think the ones in my tank are getting lonely.”

It’s hard to tell sometimes whether Leehan is musing out loud to himself or talking directly to you, but either way, the deep tone of his voice wakes you up just the same. 

You lay on your stomach, opening one eye to find him sitting up on his elbow and staring down at you with a curious expression on his face. His hand, resting on your back, draws unintelligible figures on the skin that’s left uncovered by your night shirt. 

All in all, it's a pretty domestic, intimate scene, had you not glanced over at your phone to find how early it was.

“Leehan, it’s seven a.m,” you complain to your boyfriend who still just stares dreamily at your sleepy figure. “What are you yapping about?”

Too familiar with your morning grumpiness to be phased by it, it’s with an unmoved expression that Leehan casually replies, “Just about how much I want a baby with you.”

When you hear those words come out of Leehan’s mouth, you’re sure you must still be asleep and that this is just an incredibly vivid dream. Either that, or you’re dating the strangest person in the world. 

Given that both realities are entirely plausible, it’s in your tiredness and confusion that you sit up from the bed completely, staring at a relaxed Leehan with raised eyebrows. “Don’t you think we’re a little young for that? I mean eventually, sure, but while we’re in school—”

“I was talking about fish,” he interrupts you to say, chuckling at your confused expression and giggling again when you pout at being laughed at. “But since you’re so eager, why don’t I put a baby in you right now?”

Your own laughter in reaction to his words is suppressed when he presses a large hand on your stomach, pushing you back down on the bed. He leans in to kiss you, but per usual, you refuse to make things easy for him.

Reaching behind your head, you grab a pillow and smack him in the face with it, creating a barrier between your bodies. “You’re such a weirdo,” you playfully quip, a designation he only takes in stride as he goes to throw the pillow somewhere on the floor.

“I’m your weirdo though,” he emphasizes, and it’s as you’re both smiling in satisfaction that he leans in to press his lips against yours.

And as his cold hands roam your warm body, you’re hit with a sudden wave of happiness as you acknowledge how far gone the days of having to wish for him to stay even fir minutes after you’ve had sex truly are. 

Because in the past five months since you’ve gotten together exclusively, not only is it routine for him to stay behind, but you also get to wake up together and experience these sleepy, romantic moments. 

The moments when he slowly kisses down your body, dragging his plush lips down your sternum until he’s positioned between your legs.

The moments when you pull softly at his hair as he languidly drags his tongue up and down your folds, begging you in his gruff, sleep-affected voice to come all over his face.

The moments when you could be sponning sideways, on top of him, or below him and he’ll still find a way to spread your legs apart, pressing his long, veiny cock inside of you until you’re overwhelmed by how full you are. 

The moments where his tiredness renders him impatient and he fucks into you so roughly that you can barely form words. 

The moments when he kisses you lazily through every thrust until the sex becomes so good that all you can manage is the occasional swipe of your tongue against his lips or a whimper into his mouth.

The moments when you reach your climax together and he rocks his come in and out of you like he never intends on pulling out.

The moment when you moan out his name, understanding why when you first met he insisted that to know it was a privilege. That to know him is a privilege.

And finally, your favorite, the moments when you either fall back asleep in each other’s hold or get up to shower the sleepiness and sweat off of each other. 

Today is one of those days that you relent to getting up and showering, convinced only by the fact that neither of you has a morning class, making it a perfect day to visit the pet shop conveniently located just a few miles from your college town.

“What about this one?” 

You turn to face Leehan in the fish tank lined aisle of the pet store, lips curling into a smile as you observe him pressing his face up to the glass in awe. As you come up to his side to view the brown-colored fish that have him so captivated, it’s in a surge of honesty that you reply, “Don’t you think they’re kind of…ugly?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you watch your boyfriend gasps dramatically in reaction to your words, even brushing his hand against the fish tank in a gesture akin to patting someone's head. “They can hear you, you know. I’m so sorry, fishies.”

Ignoring his childishness, you look around at the surrounding fish and sigh as you’re overwhelmed by all the different options. “Honestly, Leehan, you should just pick one. They all look the same to me.”

“But it should be something we both like,” he answers with a pout, circling the aisles a few more times before finally stopping at a tank in the very corner. 

Inside of it are an array of multi-colored fish, but the one that stands out to you is an entirely white one with a patch of vibrant red at the top of its head. 

It would be indistinguishable from a goldfish had it not been for its striking color and the appendage that looks almost like an inside-out brain on its head. 

A label beside the tank reads Oranda. 

“What about this one?” asks Leehan in curiosity, and in an almost alarming way, he points out the exact same fish you were just eyeing. 

You come around to the other side of the tank to view it from another angle, giggling innocently when you make eye-contact with Leehan through the distorted lens of the water. “It’s pretty,” you remark simply, and because Leehan has come to know you so well, he knows that the simple attribution is a sign of high praise from you.

“Should we make it ours?” he asks you officially, and though you’re certain that this is the fish you’ve been looking for, there’s one question popping up in your brain that you still can’t find the answer to.

“What should we name it?”

You both take a beat to ponder on the question. Leehan chimes in first, blurting out, “I know. Loony.”

At this, you scoff, unsure as to where he would have gotten such an idea from. “Are you trying to say that our child is crazy?” you quip in feigned offense. 

“No. It’s short for lunar eclipse. That’s when I knew we were gonna be more than just a one night stand,” he tells you sincerely, and with that context you find yourself becoming quickly attached to both the name and the fish who you take home in a plastic bag only moments later.

You allow Leehan to take the lead in homing Loony, a process that involves lots of complicated jargon about adjusting the water temperature and changing the salinity that you mostly pretend to understand as he explains it to you. 

And when you are finally able to sit side by side in front of the tank and watch through the glass as Loony swims among the other fish, it’s with an adoring tone of voice that you hear Leehan say, “It’s pretty, awesome, right?”

At the sound of his voice, you turn to face him, and without being entirely conscious of it, you simply take in his features and how content he looks to be here, with you and with these fishes.

“Yeah,” you reply, laying down and resting your head on his shoulder. “It’s awesome.”

taglist: @lailols @papichulomacy @0310s @softiwoon @gardenforwon @cherrytaesan @mryuyux @saintriots @lonelylandofan @cyber-tiny @keyywrld @isabellah29 @amerecerasus @cadidupped @suhovhs @lionhanie @taesanmoon @revelettre @s9nwoo @brachioswrld @moneygal0re @karatttttt

thank you all sm for your support on this fic <3 your reactions, feedback, and compliments have meant the world

[daydreamingoveracupofcoffee]

The reaction of the other U.A. Students and other characters to their soulmate is a villainess:

Mirio Togata:

Mirio is optimistic, empathetic, and believes in saving everyone, so his first reaction would be shock but not outright rejection. He’d feel a pang of sadness that his soulmate is on a dark path but would immediately see it as a challenge to bring her to the light.

“If she’s my soulmate, there’s gotta be good in her!”

Mirio’s unwavering belief in heroism might clash with the reality of his soulmate’s actions. If she’s hurt people, he’d grapple with guilt over feeling drawn to her. He’d question whether his feelings are just the soulmate bond or genuine, but his resolve to save others would keep him from giving up on her. Mirio would approach her directly, unafraid of the danger, using his charm and sincerity to understand her motives. He’d try to talk her down during confront actions.

“I know you’re not just a villain—let me help you!”

If she’s resistant, he’d stay patient, believing he can change her heart over time. His interactions would be warm but firm, balancing his duty as a hero with his soulmate connection.

Mirio would dedicate himself to redeeming her, even if it takes years. He’d study her past, work with his friends, and use his hero network to find ways to reach her. If she’s too far gone, he’d face heartbreak but still try to save her, even if it means stopping her as a hero.

Tamaki Amajiki:

Tamaki would be overwhelmed with anxiety and self-doubt upon learning his soulmate is a villainess.

“Why would fate pick someone like her for someone like me? I’m not strong enough for this.”

His shy, introspective nature would make him internalize the conflict, feeling like he’s somehow at fault for being tied to a villain.

Tamaki’s low self-esteem would amplify his turmoil. He’d fear that his connection to a villainess makes him unfit to be a hero, and he’d worry about what others (especially Mirio and Fat Gum) would think. However, his quiet empathy would make him curious about her—why did she become a villain? Could he understand her pain? The soulmate bond would terrify him, but he’d also feel a pull to protect her, even from herself.

Tamaki would avoid direct confrontation at first, observing her from a distance or during hero missions. If forced to face her, he’d be nervous, stuttering through attempts to reason with her. His sincerity might catch her off guard.

“I-I don’t know why you’re doing this, but… I don’t think you’re all bad.”

He’d use his quirk defensively, never wanting to hurt her, and might even hesitate in battle, which could frustrate his allies.

Tamaki would need encouragement from Mirio and others to face the situation head-on. Over time, he’d grow bolder, trying to connect with her emotionally, perhaps relating to her struggles through his own insecurities. If redemption isn’t possible, he’d carry the guilt of failing her, but he’d channel it into becoming a stronger hero to prevent others from falling like she did.

Hitoshi Shinso:

Shinso would react with a mix of cynicism and intrigue. Having faced prejudice for his “villainous” quirk, he’d be less shocked than others.

“Of course my soulmate’s a villain—figures.”

He’d feel a bitter irony but also a spark of curiosity about who she is and why she’s chosen this path.

Shinso’s pragmatic and guarded nature would make him wary of the soulmate bond. He’d question its legitimacy, wondering if it’s manipulating his feelings. His own experiences with being misunderstood would make him empathize with her, but he’d also be conflicted about his hero aspirations.

“I’m trying to prove I’m not a villain, so why am I tied to one?”

Shinso would approach her strategically, using his wit and quirk to gather information. He’d engage her in conversation during encounters, probing her motives with questions:

“What’s driving you to do this? You don’t seem like you’re just evil.”

If he uses his brainwashing quirk on her, it’d be to de-escalate, not harm. His dry humor and blunt honesty might create an unexpected rapport, as he’d relate to her outsider status.

Shinso would wrestle with whether to save her or stop her, leaning toward redemption because of their shared bond. He’d investigate her backstory, possibly working with Aizawa to find ways to reach her. If she’s irredeemable, he’d reluctantly take her down, but it’d haunt him, reinforcing his resolve to help others avoid her fate. If she shows potential for change, he’d be her quiet supporter, helping her navigate a path to redemption.

Neito Monoma:

Monoma would be dramatically indignant and affronted.

“A villainess? My soulmate? The universe must be mocking me!”

His theatrical personality and Class 1-B pride would make him initially reject the idea, seeing it as an insult to his heroic ambitions. However, his curiosity and competitive nature would quickly kick in, making him want to “prove” he can handle this twist of fate better than anyone else.

Monoma’s arrogance masks insecurity, so he’d grapple with what this says about him. He’d wonder if being tied to a villainess means he’s destined to be “second-rate” or if it’s a test of his greatness. His tendency to compare himself to Class 1-A would amplify his frustration.

“Why do they get heroic soulmates, and I get this?”

Yet, his sharp mind would push him to analyze her motives, suspecting there’s more to her villainy than meets the eye.

Monoma would confront her with a mix of bravado and taunting, using his Copy quirk to mirror her abilities in battle as a way to “show her up.”

“If you’re my soulmate, you should at least be as impressive as me!”

Behind the bravado, he’d study her closely, looking for weaknesses or signs of redeemability. If she shows complexity (e.g., a tragic backstory), he’d soften slightly, though he’d hide it behind snark. He’d avoid admitting his feelings, even to himself, but the soulmate bond would make him protective in subtle ways, like hesitating to land a finishing blow.

Monoma would see redeeming her as a personal challenge, a way to prove he’s a better hero than his rivals. He’d dig into her past, possibly coordinating with Kendo or Tetsutetsu for support, and use his strategic mind to devise plans to sway her. If she’s irredeemable, he’d take it as a personal failure but channel it into outperforming others as a hero. If she shows potential for change, he’d grudgingly help her, boasting about how he “single-handedly saved his soulmate.”

Naomasa Tsukauchi:

Naomasa, the grounded and professional detective, would be stunned but composed, processing the revelation with a quiet, “This… complicates things.” His dedication to justice and his lie-detection quirk would make him immediately skeptical of the soulmate bond, wondering if it’s a trick or manipulation. He’d feel a mix of duty and curiosity, wanting to understand why his soulmate is a villainess.

As a non-hero with a strong moral compass, Naomasa would struggle with the personal vs. professional conflict. His work with All Might and the police demands he uphold the law, but the soulmate bond would stir empathy, especially if he senses truth in her pain or motivations. He’d worry about compromising his integrity.

“Can I stay objective when it’s her?”

His trust in All Might’s ideals would anchor him, but he’d feel torn if she’s not entirely evil.

Naomasa would approach her methodically, using his detective skills to investigate her crimes and backstory. In encounters, he’d remain calm and professional, asking pointed questions to gauge her intentions.

“Why are you doing this? What do you really want?”

His lie-detection quirk would help him discern if she’s genuine, making him more likely to believe in her potential for redemption if she’s honest about her struggles. He’d avoid direct combat, focusing on de-escalation, and might work behind the scenes to protect her from harsher heroes while still upholding the law.

Naomasa would pursue a path of justice tempered with compassion. He’d compile evidence to understand her actions, possibly consulting All Might or Aizawa for advice. If she’s redeemable, he’d advocate for rehabilitation, using his police connections to offer her a chance to atone. If she’s unrepentant, he’d ensure she faces justice, though it’d weigh heavily on him. His commitment to truth would make him a steady, if reserved, ally in her redemption arc.

Sir Nighteye (Mirai Sasaki):

Nighteye would react with cold disbelief, his logical mind rejecting the idea: “A villainess as my soulmate? That’s incompatible with my vision of the future.”

His foresight quirk and rigid belief in a heroic world would make him see this as a flaw in fate, prompting him to question the bond’s validity. However, his loyalty to All Might’s legacy would push him to investigate her thoroughly, suspecting there’s a reason behind this anomaly.

Nighteye’s stoic demeanor hides deep emotions, and this revelation would crack his composure. He’d feel betrayed by fate, especially since he values order and heroism. His foresight might torment him—if he sees a dark future for her, he’d struggle with whether to fight it or accept it. He’d also reflect on his own past, wondering if his strictness reflects a flaw that connects him to a villain. The soulmate bond would force him to confront his rigid worldview.

“Can someone like her change?”

Nighteye would approach her with calculated precision, using his foresight to anticipate her moves and confront her strategically. In person, he’d be stern and commanding.

“You’re my soulmate, but that doesn’t excuse your actions. Explain yourself.”

His quirk would give him an edge in battles, but he’d avoid using it to see her future, fearing it’d lock him into a doomed path. If she shows remorse or complexity, he’d soften slightly, offering her a chance to prove herself, but he’d remain skeptical until she earns his trust.

Nighteye would see her redemption as a way to reshape the future, aligning with his belief in creating a hopeful world. He’d work tirelessly to guide her, possibly mentoring her like he did Mirio, but with stricter oversight. If she’s irredeemable, he’d accept it grimly, using his foresight to ensure she’s stopped without collateral damage. If she changes, he’d view it as proof that even his predictions can be defied, softening his outlook and deepening his bond with her.

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Thirteen - It is the night to celebrate your dear friend, but the tensions with Jon only grow greater.

Note: This is the same day as the previous chapter

Ch 14

You have never seen a nameday so beautiful, the ones within King’s Landing are grand, opulent, but here in Highgarden, they are beautiful. The Great Hall is decorated with flowers, a feast the likes you have never seen set along the walls. The musicians are far more skilled than those in King’s Landing, and you find yourself enraptured by the fragrant blossoms surrounding you.

Margaery enters the hall on the arms of Tommen and Loras, Robb’s necklace in place, his ring on her finger, her gown is a thing of beauty, silk, and gossamer fabrics, delicate but vivid embroidery. Her hair is twisted up in an intricate style, her crown set between two strands of hair left down to frame her face, she shines in the dying sunlight, the sky behind her ablaze with pinks, red, oranges, and golds.

She and Tommen start the first dance, with those around them cheering to her health and the health of their marriage.

You have not yet seen Jon, and you are unsure whether you want to or not. He has been distant, holding you at length, avoiding you when he can. In the last few moons, you feel you have spent less time with him than you have the entire time you have known each other, and it is…strange. The distance hurts, he is your closest companion, your friend, your soon-to-be betrothed, your sworn shield, he has been by your side since you were five and ten. But now, now he is virtually a stranger to you. Not fully one, as there are still moments, times, when his eyes soften as he looks at you. When he carries you to your chambers because you drank too much with Margaery, when you learned he slept outside the door to your room when your travel party stopped at inns along the Roseroad.

It is those moments of warmth that worsen your pain. It would be preferable if he were to close himself off completely, act as the Kingsguard does, instead of this back and forth. Then in time, you would be able to bury your feelings deep enough that they would no longer be a sharp, piercing pain but a dull throbbing ache that could be ignored. That would be swept over like the ocean waves sweep over the sand.

Jon claimed his distance was because he was busy. That he was devoting himself further to his swordsmanship, that he needed to act with greater care and propriety in order to not draw suspicion upon you both. Yes, his reasons could be seen as understandable, but no one has ever truly cared. Since you were both young you have acted in a companiable and familiar manner, but now with the way he is acting, people are far more suspicious than they were before. How he does not see this you cannot understand. You know he is not an idiot but, it seems there are still ways of the court he has not learned.

You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling exposed without Jon at your side, perhaps he has grown tired of you? Your silk gown is a petal pink with silver embroidery, that cinches at your waist and dips low to display your décolletage. It is beautiful, but far more revealing, than you would normally choose to wear. Would Jon like it? He most likely would not even notice it, given how he avoids looking at you. 

Your hair is loose and styled in waves, and your customary golden bangles have been swapped for ones of silver, a diamond necklace is draped around your neck. Small rubies gleam from their places below the diamonds hanging from strands of silver. It was a gift from your Uncle Robert, given to you on your first Maiden’s Day. The irony is not lost on you that your aunt would choose it for the day on which she is attempting to sell you out like a broodmare. Though you will not deny, it is one of your favorite pieces.

Finally, you spot Jon, and it feels as if someone has draped a warm blanket over you, no longer feeling so alone among the crowd of strangers. He is with your father, which is both strange and not so strange, but what is strange is that Jon wears no armor. Instead, he is dressed in his house colors, in finery you did not know he owned, his hair pulled back, his sword nowhere to be found, and he is wearing rings, well one ring, a signet ring.

“Father, Ser Jon, this is quite a surprise. Have I been tricked, and it is truly my nameday?” You try to jest, taking a step towards Jon, a force of habit you cannot break, reaching to run your fingers down the arm of Jon’s doublet. “You look so very handsome, my champion, is this new?”

He takes a step back, avoiding your touch, and it is a dagger though your heart. He has never rejected your touch before, truly he must have lost feelings for you, but when, and why? Has another slipped beneath your nose and taken him from you? How would it even be possible?

Your Aunt Cersei was right, there is no point to loving men, they will always disappoint you and when you love them it will only hurt you more.

The hurt must have shown on your face, your father reaches for you, but you shrug him off, avoiding both their eyes.

Fine, if Jon wishes to be distant, then so shall you. “The Dowager Queen has a list of suitors she would like me to dance with tonight, I am afraid I will not be able to spare a dance for either of you.”

“A pity, but I understand, do have fun, little lion.” Your father says, giving your hand a pat before heading off towards the nearest feast table.

Jon remains in place, unable to meet your gaze. His boots are shiny, his strong shoulders, muscled arms, and broad chest displayed by the gray cloth that encompasses them. He is so very handsome, a marble statue, a god, an ancient warrior, a conqueror who takes what he desires.

Y/N now is not the time, you are angry with him, and he does not care for you. You internally chastise yourself, donning a mask of indifference.

“Well, are you going to return the compliment, or are you too busy to even speak to me?” You fully fail to sound unaffected by his actions.

“You look very nice, My Lady.” He says, in that same stilted tone that makes you want to scream.

You take a step closer, glaring up at him, unable to stop yourself. “Why are you speaking to me in this way, it is me, y/n, not some stranger.”

He sighs, and takes a step back from you, that same uninterested, stiff tone, drilling into your mind, past your walls of civility, hitting deep, triggering the tripwire of your insecurities and anxieties disguised as rage. “My Lady, it is not proper—”

“Shut up, shut up, I do not wish to hear from you until you stop acting like this.” You snap, anger boiling over in your chest. “Get out of my sight, Lord Snow.”

You turn away from him, blinking back angry tears, and search the hall for your aunt.

You have danced with an Algood, a Tarbeck, a Swyft, a Crakehall, a Blackmont, an Arryn, and Tommen to give yourself a break from the suitors. As well as a Hightower which your aunt quickly ushered you away from telling you he was a fourth son who had slid his way in, and not on her list. Now you dance with a Bracken.

Lord Hendry Bracken, who will be heir to House Bracken if his uncle does not have a son before he dies. He has light brown hair, ale-colored eyes, and a sweet smile. He is not necessarily charming, or overly handsome, but he seems kind and does not talk over you as the Blackmont man did.

“And then my cousin Bess chased me around the halls with a frog in her hand until her father caught us.” He says, laughing as he tells a story of his time growing up alongside his five female cousins.

You laugh as well, imagining a little Hendry running from a frog carried by his cousin, who was no more than a year older than him. “That is terrible, you poor thing.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, do not pity young me, after my uncle forced her to put the frog back outside, I ended up venturing into the gardens to ensure it had returned to its pond safe and sound.”

Your heart warms at his words. “That was quite sweet of you.”

He blushes and shrugs. “I have always felt compassion for those smaller and less able to defend themselves, especially when it comes to animals, they have no voices to speak with, so we must speak on their behalf.”

His sentiment makes you think of Ghost, of the way he and Jon communicate wordlessly.

“It is an admirable trait.” You say, giving him a radiant smile. You could not see yourself falling in love with Lord Hendry, but his kind words and humorous stories have lightened your heart, if only for tonight.

The song comes to an end, and you find yourself reluctant to leave him in favor of a new suitor.

“Perhaps we might exit the floor and refresh ourselves? Have you tried the wine in the golden glasses? The wine within is from a vineyard named for Queen Margaery, and it is perhaps the sweetest, most refreshing wine I have ever had the pleasure of tasting.” Hendry suggests, offering you his arm.

You take it with a grateful smile. “I have not, though the queen was telling me all about that very vineyard on our journey here.”

Hendry leads you over to the table and hands you a glass, you take a sip, about to speak when a flash of yellow and white catches your attention.

Jayne Westerling. You truly have no reason to dislike the girl; she is quiet, shy. Your Uncle Jaime described her as not a beauty worth losing a kingdom for, which you will admit you laughed at. But there is simply something about her that irks you. Something that sets you on edge, as if her sweetness is a farce covering a far more devious countenance.

You track her movements, your glass still at your lips, your grip on it tightening when you see her stop in front of Jon, your Jon, with two wine glasses in her hands. They have been talking, dancing, and spending time together. Is it her? Has she somehow stolen your champion?

“Lady Lannister, are you quite alright?” Hendry asks.

Jayne smiles, laughs, throws her hair over her shoulder flirtatiously, and you drain your glass then slam it down onto the table. “You must excuse me, My Lord, I have something I need to take care of.”

It is simple, find Margaery, have her direct you to her cousin who would anger Jon the most, and dance with him, as close to Jon and Jayne as possible.

The Tyrell man whose name you do not know, and do not care to learn, attempts to talk to you, but you are intent on listening to Jon and Jayne’s conversation.

There is more giggling, more flirting, and when you hear Jon compliment Jayne’s dress, telling her she looks like a flower maiden in summer, you turn to your dance partner.

“Do tell me about yourself, good sir, I am quite interested.” Your voice is not overly loud, but loud enough for Jon to hear, and it is dipped in honey, heated by the flames of desire, as near as you can fake them at least.

The Tyrell begins to blather on, and you laugh in all the right places, leaning in close, and letting him spin you in a way that nearly bumps you into Jayne.

When the song ends, you go up on your toes and whisper your thanks in his ear, letting your hands linger on his chest. You step back and giggle as you curtsy, agreeing to a second dance with him when Jon catches your wrist.

“My Lady, you are needed.” He says, his eyes steely as he leads you out of the Great Hall and down a side hallway.

The hallway is darker than the Great Hall, and it takes your eyes a moment to adjust. “Is it my father?” You ask, looking around, there is no one in sight.

“It is clear you cared not for the blathering on of that foul man, and yet you agreed to a second dance. Tell me, what game is it that you are playing, My Lady?” Jon demands, his eyes blazing, his hand still holding your wrist as he comes to a stop.

“How would you know if I cared or cared not for his words? Perhaps in the few moons you have been ignoring me, I have changed my interests.” You counter, fixing Jon with your own withering stare.

He laughs humorlessly. “You do not change interests, not so much that you find talks of hunting and tanning to suddenly be enrapturing.”

“I do find a good hunting tale to be interesti—did I not tell you to leave my sight?” You say, cutting yourself off before Jon can drag you off course.

He takes a step towards you, looming over you, his lips set in a hard line. “You did, but you did not say I could not return to it.”

“Semantics.” You wave your hand dismissively. “I do not want to see you, and I do not appreciate being pulled away on a lie.”

Another step. “It was not a lie.”

“Who needs me then? Surely it is not you, the honorable Lord Jon Snow.” You snark, crossing your arms over your chest.

He does not answer, simply watches you, drinks your torchlit form in.

“If you have nothing to say, then I shall return to Lord Tyrell, he had much to say to me.”

Suddenly your back is pressed against the wall, the stone cool against your heated skin, Jon’s strong arms encaging you, his head dipping low, his voice even lower, his dark hair still tied back and his eyes nearly black in the shadows of the hall. “You cannot keep on this way.”

You look up at him, still breathless from the dance and your argument. “What do you mean?”

His eyes flit down to your rising and falling breasts, soft skin exposed by the low-cut gowns your aunt had made for you, gowns meant to tempt your potential suitors, the ones you wished would tempt him. “You know what you are doing, y/n.”

“I do not, so unless you are going to tell me, I would ask you to release me.” You say imperiously, though you hope he does not release you. It feels as if it has been ages since you had his attention fully on you, since he dared to stand so close.

“The laughing, the flirting, the smiles and fluttering of eyelashes, the pouts? You are driving every man in the room mad with desire.” He says, his accent thickening, the rough brocade making your stomach flip, your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

“I am simply enjoying the party; I cannot control if men look at me, if they wish to dance with me. Would you have me say no? Answer every lord and knight who asks for a dance with an icy glare and utter contempt?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.” Jon growls, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, his hands curling into fists on the wall above you, his chest heaving with the act of self-restraint. “I would have you tell them to sod off, that your hand is spoken for.”

“But I cannot, there has been no formal betrothal, and it would be rude.” You tell him, lifting your chin in defiance. He has been hot and cold with you, and you are sick of it, you need to hear him say it, hear him admit he still wants you.

“Others take them and any sense of rudeness, you are mine.” He snarls, gripping the back of your neck, his fingers spreading out into your hair, his touch is not harsh, but firm, for Jon is never rough with you.

Goosebumps adorn your skin, liquid heat filling your veins. It feels good to hear him say it, to see him so possessive, see him feel the way you have felt watching that Westerling girl fall all over him. “Am I? Because it seemed that perhaps Lady Jayne had taken my place.”

Jon laughs, the sound harsh. “The Westerling? You have thrown a fit because of some girl I met only tonight?”

“I am not throwing a fit, I am acting as an unmarried lady must, to secure a match.” You argue, throwing the unmarried part in his face.

He shakes his head, before dipping it lower, trailing his lips along the curve of your neck nipping at the skin as he goes. “If you wish to be a married lady so badly, my lioness, I will take you to the Godswood right now and throw my cloak over you. Would that suit you? Would that cease these unneeded flirtations?”

You draw a quick intake of breath, eyes fluttering shut as Jon kisses the crook of your neck, using the hand in your hair to guide your head, exposing more sensitive skin to his touch.

“Would my starlight like that? To finally be Lady Dayne, the pretty lioness with her husband who trails after her, devoted, desperate, a lovesick wolf pup who wants only to make his lovely wife happy?”

This, this is what you have needed to hear.

“Yes, please, Jon, I want to be your wife.” You say, your hands pressed to his chest, desperate to feel his heart beating beneath his doublet.

“I want you to be my wife as well, more than you will ever know y/n, but we must wait.” Jon says softly, and your eyes fly open, the illusion shattered.

You shove at his chest angrily; he predictably does not move, but you do it again anyways. “Gods take me, I cannot wait any longer. I cannot stand pretending I am interested in others. I cannot stand their lewd words, their stares, and I cannot pretend that I am unfazed by the stares you get, the whispers I hear, the maids and ladies that do not shy away from lusting after you.”

“I know, I know, but—” The sound of footsteps makes him jerk away from you, and you turn away from the sound, arms folded across your chest.

“Oh Lady Lannister, Ser Jon, I had wondered where you two had run off too.” Jayne’s voice is cloyingly sweet, and it infuriates you.

You turn towards her with a placid smile. “Apologies, Lady Westerling, I seem to have eaten something that does not agree with me, and Ser Jon was helping me to my chambers.”

Jayne makes a sound of sympathy. “Was it the shellfish? I find they are often the culprit.”

“My Lady does not enjoy she—”

“Yes, it was.” You take a step away from Jon. “Ser Jon, will you escort Lady Westerling back to the party? I will return to my chambers on my own.”

Jon moves to argue, but your expression is unyielding, and you storm off in the direction of your chambers, wiping away angry tears as you go.

You know it is not fair to blame Jon, he is trapped as you are, but you are still angry. Gods, your father was right. It would be easier if he was a Targaryen, then he could steal you away on a dragon. No one would argue, no one would be able to cite him as not a good enough match for you, they would have to accept the marriage or face dragonflame.

The sound of hurried footsteps nearly makes you turn, but you have no desire to see who is coming down the hall, especially not as tears continue to slide down your face.

“Lady y/n, please, wait.” Jon calls.

“What, whatever could you want?” You snap, continuing to walk forward, vision slightly blurred, tears dripping onto your dress.

He catches up to you easily, pulling you into a shadowy alcove. “I simply wish to talk, to understand what has made you so angry.”

You fix him with a stunned look, blinking away your tears. “How can you not know? I have stated it quite clearly.”

“I understand you are upset that we cannot yet marry, but the plan y/n.”

A sob rips from your throat, and you shake your head. “It is more than that and you know it.”

Jon cups your face, his own a portrait of guilt-ridden agony. “Please, please, do not cry, my starlight, I cannot bear to see you cry.”

“Do not tell me what to do.” Your words sound much less sharp than you wished them to.

He wipes your tears away with his calloused thumbs catching them as quick as they fall. “I am sorry, y/n I am so, so sorry, I never should have danced with Lady Westerling.”

You pull away from him with an angry sob, continuing your blind storm down the hall. “I do not care about Lady Jayne.”

Jon beats you to your chambers, opening the door for you, giving you no choice but to enter or keep walking down the hall.

You enter, keeping your back to him as you throw open the balcony doors, lungs burning for fresh air. You are suffocating under the weight of this night, of this unknown plan, of the hurt you feel knowing you can not go a single day without speaking to Jon, without being near him. Yet, he seems to be able to survive moons without you.

“Then what do you care about, because I am lost, y/n.” He says, and you can feel his presence behind you, still in the doorway, close but not close enough, just as he has been since he spoke with your uncle.

“You! I care about you, Jon, as I always have.” You tell him, turning to face him, throwing your arms in the air helplessly, tears streaming down your face.

“Then why did you cast me from your sight?” He wears that hurt puppy dog look that never fails to melt you, but your anger keeps you frozen.

How can he not know? How can he not see the pain he has caused you? Jon is not a fool, he is not blind, and truly there is no one who can read you better than him and yet it is as if you have suddenly been written in another language.

“You have been so cold, so distant, these past few moons. Then you storm up to me tonight and act as if I am doing something wrong. As if I am hurting you, when it is you who has been hurting me.” You tell him, your hands balled into fists at your side to hide their shaking. “Even now you stand so far from me, and I know you say you are training, that you wish to protect our reputations, but I cannot go on like this.”

Jon says your name softly.

“No, Jon, I cannot hear another excuse. I know my uncle said something to you, but is he truly the man to take advice from? Seven knows I love him, but…” You wrap your arms around yourself, wiping your tears with your sleeves, uncaring if they are stained with cosmetics. “If there is someone else, if I have lost your affections, you must tell me because I cannot understand what else would cause you to hurt me in this way.”

“There is no one else.” He says fervently, desperately. “Y/N I swear it to you, there is no one else.”

You cannot look at him, casting your eyes towards the moon. “I love you Jon, but I cannot bear this distance any longer, you must make a choice.”

“A choice?” He rasps, the sound so quiet it is nearly drowned out by the wind.

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but they must be said. “To end this strange game, you are playing and return to being the man I have known for the last four years or continue to play it, and I will ask my father to release you from my service and allow you to return home to Winterfell.”

Your words linger in the night air, the space between you and him not even the length of two grown men, yet it feels like an ever-widening chasm.

“You would release me from your service?”

You wipe away a stray tear, throat tight with grief. “If it is what you desire.”

“You would send me away?” His voice is strained, and you chance a look at him.

He is beautiful in the moonlight, a tragic beauty, as to look upon him pains you. His dark eyes cannot settle on one part of your face, as if this is the last time they will ever see it. The thought tears at the flimsy hold you have on your composure, and you press your hand to your aching chest.

“I do not want to.” You sob, curling your fingers around your necklace, desperate for something to hold onto. “But I cannot play your game, I am drowning without you, and if you wish to leave, if it will make you happy—”

Jon crosses the balcony in two large strides, and pulls you into his embrace, crushing you to his chest. “I love you, gods, y/n I am so sorry, I love you, I love you, I love you. I do not wish to leave, do not send me from your side, it would not make me happy, you make me happy.”

“Then why, why have you kept your distance from me? There have been so many things I wished to tell you, so many times I wished to reach out, but you turned from me.”

Jon rests his forehead against your own. “Your uncle, he spoke of his grief, how he did not wish me to further entangle myself with you as it would only cause us both pain.”

“Why would you listen to him?”

“Because I was afraid, and I felt…guilty. If he had seen it, then others would. I thought that if I kept my distance until we were formally betrothed, I could spare you further harm.” He sighs and rubs his hands up and down your arms soothingly. “Clearly I was mistaken.”

“Clearly.”

He squeezes your arms playfully. “It harmed me too; do you think it was not torture? That I did not miss you? That I did not curse myself for turning from you, that I did not drive myself mad trying to stay away from you?”

“Seems well deserved.” You pout, wrinkling your nose, even though you know you are being slightly petulant.

“Aye, it was.”

You bask in his warmth, listening to the sound of his breathing, clinging to him like a drifter at sea. “Is that the only thing you have been keeping from me?”

“There is more, I cannot tell you until the morn, but I will give you something to tide you over.” Jon says, wiping away the remainder of your tears with his calloused thumbs.

“More waiting, how wonderful.” You deadpan.

His voice drops to a whisper, a smile tugging at his lips. “My father is alive.”

You jerk back, shocked then delighted, soon Jon will be claimed, you truly will be able to marry soon. “Truly? Oh, Jon, that is wonderful news.”

Jon pulls you back, tilting your head gently and ghosting his lips over yours. “It is. Though I would rather speak of him in the morn, for I found myself missing your touch greatly these past few moons and have not yet gotten my fill.”

With a giggle, you melt against him, looping your arms around his neck, letting him tilt your chin up so that your lips meet. It is like returning home, laying down in a familiar bed, the stress of the day falling away. He smells different, a hint of spice, and you taste no hint of wine on his tongue.

“Did you not drink tonight?” You ask against his lips, your heart pounding as it always does for him.

“I could not risk finding my way to your chambers, bolstered by wine again. Not when it had been so long since I have held you in my arms. I feared I would fall upon you like a savage beast.” He breathes, his hands gliding down your body, the silk so thin you can feel the warmth of his hands through it.

“I would not mind that.” You admit, running your fingernails lightly down the nape of his neck, relishing the shiver it brought forth, a soft groan slipping from his lips.

“Do not tease me, I beg of you.” He pleads even as he pulls you closer, his nose trailing down the curve of your face.

“I should, you paid me such a horrid compliment in the Great Hall, it would only be fair.” You say, an indigent whine slipping past your whispered tones.

“I do apologize. I wished to say how beautiful you looked, how you shined, how if you were a goddess I would fall to my knees and worship you endlessly.” He says, tracing the curves of your body with his fingertips.

You let out a shuttering breath, eyes closed, as you allow Jon’s words and touch to wash over you, to ease your emotions as they always did.

“Is that better, my starlight? Am I forgiven for such a grievous blunder?” He teases, nipping at your bottom lip.

“If you do that trick with your tongue, you shall be.” You say breathlessly, as the tip of his tongue darts out to soothe the sting.

“As you wish.” He says, recapturing your lips wholly, his tongue meeting your own in a familiar dance.

A wolf whistle followed by drunken cheering has you both dropping to the floor, chests heaving, and hands pressed over your mouths to keep from laughing.

“Perhaps we should move this inside?”

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film

[humanpurposes]

Sour Switchblade

No sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Targcest (uncle and neice), threats of violence, bit of blood, dub-con, breeding kink

Words: 4100

A/n: Also available on AO3. Inspired by my current obsession with this song.

She knows where she is the moment she reaches the skies above the Stormlands; this part of the world was not named in irony.

She clutches tightly to Silverwing’s reigns, dragon and rider fighting through the fierce winds and heavy rain that stings the skin of her cheeks.

Lucerys and Arrax would have never made the journey. They are both too small, too young to take on such a burden as messengers on the eve of war. Jacaerys should have the more arduous task ahead of him, to fly to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell, to earn the support of the Arryns and the Starks to their mother’s cause. 

She has one destination, one objective, one Lord to win over. But no sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed.

She hears Vhagar’s call, or rather feels it reverberate in her chest, before she sees her. She is a monstrously large dragon, the oldest of her kind. Only her head and neck loom over the battlements, but it is enough to terrify the Princess. 

Because with Vhagar comes Aemond. 

He had hardly spoken so much as a word to her during the petitions for Driftmark, but his eye never left her. 

She pushes aside any childish ideas of hope for a civil encounter with her uncle. Any love between them was severed the night he claimed his dragon and Lucerys claimed his eye in the tunnels below Hightide.

Her name is announced to the Round Hall as she trails in behind an escort of guards. Rain drips from her soaked leathers and hair, the braid she wore long blown apart by the wind. She clenches her jaw, determined not to shiver in the presence of the Lord of Storm’s End, or the one eyed Prince who lurks at the edge of the room.

Aemond stands with his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment she sees surprise in his gaze, but it soon settles into a smug smile, his single eye positively gleaming through the miserable light of the hall.

Beside him is a young woman, dressed in all the finery of a Baratheon Lady. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lord Borros mentions a marriage pact.

She can’t stop herself. She looks to Aemond, knowing full well she is doing nothing to hide the fury in her face. And he stares back, like a hunter stalking prey.

She has nothing to offer Lord Borros, nothing that could compete with such a match. Her brothers are either betrothed or too young.

But she cannot fail, not when Rhaenyra has lost so much already these past few days.

Aemond’s eye remains fixed on her, vaguely amused, but still alert and intent. Perhaps he believes he has found a weakness, perhaps the shark smells blood.

If memory serves correctly, Lord Borros’ wife passed some years ago.

“I offer my hand to you, my Lord,” she says. “Pledge your banners to the true Queen, and your sons will be Princes.”

Lord Borros brings his fingers to his beard, muttering into the ear of his Maester and nervously glancing towards his other royal guest.

The amusement has faded from Aemond’s face, his moment of triumph snatched from him. Even the mere consideration of her proposal undermines him.

His chin is tilted down now, his eye dark and lips pressing together to withhold a sneer. She revels in it, taking a breath to stop herself from smiling.

“I will need time to consider,” Lord Borros says. “I will make my decision known on the morrow.”

Aemond takes one step towards her before she is whisked away by the eldest of the Baratheon sisters, Cassandra, and no less than four guards. Cassandra takes her arm in hers and leads her through the castle to a guest chamber, in a tower that overlooks the courtyard and Shipbreaker Bay beyond that. 

A bath is drawn for her and a gown of black with gold embroidery laid out of her to change into. It seems unusual to see herself in these colours, but then again, her grandmother, Rhaenys, is half Baratheon.

Dressed in her gown and with her hair newly done, she watches Silverwing seek shelter from the Storm under the battlements. Vhagar is apparently sleeping, with her wings cradled over her body to keep out the rain. 

Silverwing would be miserable here, she thinks. A dragon needs clear skies, they cannot always fight against the wind and rain.

It’s hard to tell exactly when the sun sets. There are no warm colours in the sky, no streaks of orange or gold. The sky beyond the storm clouds fades from grey, to indigo, and then to black.

Lady Cassandra escorts her to the Round Hall for supper. It is a modest affair. Lord Borros’ advisors and bannermen sit at tables in the heart of the hall, while a high table is set before the Stone Throne. Lord Borros sits at the centre, with two empty spaces either side of him. She might guess who they are for.

She sits between Lord Borros and Cassandra, and finds just enough time to steady her nerves with a sip of wine when Lady Floris enters with Aemond on her arm.

She swallows her mouthful wine thickly, meeting her uncle’s gaze for only a moment out of courtesy. 

He takes his place beside Lord Borros and the meal commences. Servants bring out whole roasted boars, and given Aemond’s reaction to the suckling pig at dinner in the Red Keep, she refrains from moving her mouth or looking in his direction. In fact she hardly has an appetite at all. She sits with a stiff spine, glancing down at the plate of potatoes and greens placed in front of her.

Lord Borros asks her a question which immediately slips her mind. It occurs to her she’s supposed to be winning him over, to prove to him that she will be a good and dutiful wife. A better wife than Aemond will be a husband for Floris anyhow.

The thought churns her stomach and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She allows herself another glance to Lord Borros’ other side. Aemond’s head is close to Floris’. The light from a candle on the table flickers over his chin, his jaw, the top of his neck underneath his collar. He leans in closer to mutter something in her ear.

He was always so softly spoken as a boy, subdued, even in moments of frustration. He still seems subtle, but in a different way now, a quiet kind of arrogance, a silent threat with the smallest of gestures. The few words he had spoken at that dinner, though aimed as insults towards her brothers, had ignited a thrilling sort of intrigue within her.

And now Floris gets to sit beside him, gets to feel his breath on her ear as he whispers in that low, chilling voice– 

“Princess?”

“Y-yes?” she stutters, turning her eyes back to Lord Borros.

Only she seems to have caught the attention of Aemond and the other Baratheon girls now.

“I said our union should be a plentiful one, if your mother’s talent for producing sons is anything to go by.”

The only thing that stops her from reaching for her knife and jamming it into Lord Borros’ neck is the quiet huff of a laugh coming from Aemond.

She shoots him a deadly glare but his cruel smile does not waver.

“The man who eventually claims my niece’s hand will have Strong sons, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, reaching for his cup.

She watches him drink, the way he pouts his lips, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

“What a kind compliment, uncle,” she says, “though not one I could extend to you.”

Aemond sets his cup down gently. “Meaning?” he asks, not looking at her.

“It took you a decade to claim a dragon, did it not?”

His head snaps towards her. “Yes, and I claimed the largest dragon in the world.”

“An impressive feat,” she says, “one your father was proud of, I’m sure.”

He wants to lash out, she can see it, his fist clenching on top of the table, his lips pursing together, his eye going wide, his nostrils flaring as he takes a few breaths to compose himself.

The rest of the table has fallen to an uneasy quiet. She simply reaches for her wine and takes a generous sip that slips over her tongue with a delightful burn.

Lord Borros calls for music, and his daughters, Cassandra and Ellyn find partners to dance with. Maris remains seated, with her arms folded over her chest and a sour look on her face.

Floris seems hopeful, sitting up and trying to catch Aemond’s eye from his blind side. It is a hope he will not entertain. He keeps one hand on the table, tapping a long, slender finger against the wood.

“You will forgive me,” Lord Borros says to her, “I am too old to dance now.”

She tries to smile to hide her repulsion. What an endearing match she’s managed to find for herself. But this is for her mother– her Queen, so that the throne might pass to the rightful heir and not a usurper.

In the corner of her eye she sees Aemond is watching her, and she does not shy away from his gaze. His lips curl into a smirk but she can see the calculations and strategising behind that piercing, violet eye.

What lurks on the other side, she wonders, underneath the leather eyepatch and the scar slicing down his face?

A bloody mess of flesh flashes before her eyes. She remembers how he cried out in pain, how he clutched his hand to his face, how the thick, dark blood seeped from between his fingers and spilled onto the floor as he fell. She had only watched dumbfounded, as Lucerys dropped the blade, as she and the other children were ushered into the Hall of Nine, as the gash in Aemond’s socket was sewn and their mothers both called for justice.

Could she have stopped her cousins from confronting him? Could she have defended him from her brothers? Would he have at least felt some of her sorrow if she had gone to him that night or wrote to him in the years that separated them?

Those possibilities mean nothing now. Aemond looks at her with no warmth, no fond memories of their shared youth.

He’d be handsome without the scar– he still is, but it is a severe kind of beauty. 

The moment she manages to finish the food on her plate, she excuses herself, declaring that she is tired from her journey and will need to recover before Lord Borros makes his decision in the morning.

Lord Borros presses a kiss to her hand, and she winces at the way his beard feels against her skin. When she looks to Aemond, he is suppressing a smile by bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

She walks quickly through the halls, towards the guest chamber, already taking off the heavy gold earrings and necklace she had been adorned with, and sighs at the relief of their weight. The sooner she can get to sleep, the sooner the morning will come, then the sooner she can finally leave, either a success or a failure, but she will be free of him. Free of the tight, restless feeling in her chest.

The enduring storm does not help her nerves, the rain beating down and the wind howling against the castle walls. Her heart leaps at every irregular noise, anything that might be mistaken for a voice, a breath, a footstep. She glances over her shoulder repeatedly, but all she sees are the empty hallways she leaves behind.

Two guards wait outside her chambers. They do not move to open the door for her, as they would on Dragonstone. She huffs and pushes it open herself, falling against the door once it is closed.

Borros Baratheon is hardly a man of principle. He has no love for Rhaenyra, and is only considering offering his support out if pride. She has no friends here. 

She quietly turns the lock on the door.

She heads to the vanity to set down the jewellery and release the pins from her hair, watching it fall around her shoulders.

Outside the window, she hears Silverwing’s lamenting coos through the clashes of thunder. She reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown as she goes to the window, but she cannot spot her dragon through the dark and the heavy rain.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers into the night.

She nearly screams when she hears the door rattle.

The wood clashes against its frame, but the handle does not budge, for now.

She barely has a few moments to run to the vanity, hand outstretched and eyes fixed on a long, sharp hair pin when she hears the door burst open. It slams and heavy footsteps thud against the floor, towards her.

A hand clasps over her mouth before she can make a sound. An arm wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her arms by her sides, before she can reach the closest thing she has to a weapon.

She thrashes, squirms, tries to call for help or graze her teeth against the intruder’s flesh but nothing deters him. 

She looks down at the arm around her waist. She recognises the black leather sleeve of his jerkin, the wide palm pressing down on her stomach, veins and tendons running underneath pale skin. 

He rests his chin on her shoulder, so his long, silver hair falls around her face. He smells of smoke and lavender.

He lets out a frustrated huff as she unsuccessfully tries to jerk her elbow into his side. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he hisses against her ear.

She squeals in fury against his palm, trying to twist her way out of his grip. She manages to drag him with her until their sides collide with the vanity. Pieces of priceless jewellery and bottles of perfume fall to the floor, and shatter. 

She has a mere second to wrench herself from his grip, only for him to grab her again, turning her to face him as he pulls her into his chest.

Aemond’s expression is deadly, his eye wide, lips pressed together in a scarcely contained rage.

“The throne belongs to my mother,” she says through the drumming in her chest, with all the defiance she can muster. “She is the one true heir. King Viserys–”

“Viserys is dead!” Aemond bellows, pushing her back against the vanity. “His word means nothing now that he can no longer enforce it.”

With her hands suddenly free she attempts to strike him, but he sees her intention before she even moves, pinning her wrists to the wood, keeping her body in place with his own.

She clenches her fists, only able to dig her nails into her palms. “What is it that you want from me?”

Lightning ignites the sky behind her. The white light dances over his scar and the shape of his mouth. His expression is softer now, lips slightly parted.

“I will have what I am owed,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to the eyepatch and the edges of the scar it cannot conceal.

Aemond hums a small laugh at her presumption. “Fear not, dear niece, that is not your debt to pay.”

His gaze trails over her face, then lower, to her lips, along her neck, to the gown slipping from her shoulders and the bare skin at the top of her chest.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day you left?” he says softly.

The children they were are almost half a lifetime away.

She remembers standing under the weirwood tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, a warm breeze rustling the red leaves above their heads, the sun shining through the branches.

She remembers holding Aemond’s face in her hands, wiping away the bitter tears as they fell from his eyes. 

He had begged her not to leave, but they were powerless then.

He is the one to bring his hand to her face now, running his thumb over the lone tear that spills from her eye.

“I said I loved you,” she utters. “I said my heart was yours, and it always would be.”

Aemond hums softly. “You made a promise to me,” he says. “Do you intend to keep that promise?”

How can she? She would have to forsake her mother, her Queen, her brothers, the realm, her own dignity.

“It was a childish infatuation,” she says.

“Not to me,” he says, fury creeping into his voice once more, his grip on her hand tightening.

She pushes her one free hand against his chest but he does not budge. “Aemond, please, you’re hurting me…”

He presses his body into her, forcing her further against the vanity– a warning, a command for obedience. He trails his thumb over her cheek, to her lower lip, taking her chin in his fingers. When she tries to look away he brings her eyes back to him.

He leans in gradually, pressing his forehead and his nose against hers, before he takes a steady breath and captures her lips in his. His kiss is starved but slow, bruising, deep and desperate. The hand that was on her chin comes to her neck, angling her head precisely where he wants her.

His hands trace down the back of her neck, between her shoulders, to pull at the laces of her gown. They fall apart between his fingers and, barely breaking away from her, he tugs it down until the black and gold fabric falls to her ankles. He lifts her out of it, seating her on the vanity, raking the hem of her shift up to her thighs so he can place himself between them as he continues to kiss her.

A dazed sort of warmth pools within her. She can feel her senses and her sanity slipping.

But he cannot best her, not after everything that has happened in the days since the King’s death.

She grazes his lip with her teeth, and when he seems to welcome it, she clenches her jaw as hard as she can.

He tears himself away from her and staggers back, bright blood dripping from his mouth. She can taste it on her tongue.

“Little cunt,” he hisses.

She slips the hairpin into her hand and runs for the door. Aemond catches her in a few strides but she’s ready for that, turning to drive it into his blindside.

Even then he misses nothing, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand and snatching the pin from her grasp. She hears it clatter to the ground as Aemond drives her forwards, towards the bed.

She lands face down and tries to lift herself up, only to feel his forearm pressing into her neck to keep her down.

“You were always stubborn,” he says, planting a delicate kiss to her shoulder, “and as exciting as that is, I want you to be good for me, dōna riña.” 

The iciness in his voice sends a shudder down her spine.

“Say it, say you’ll be good.”

Hit tears prickle in her eyes. She shifts underneath his hold, but her urge to fight is already fading. “I’ll be good, qȳbos,” she whispers. 

Aemond’s chest hums with a groan. At last he relents, releasing her neck and her hands. But no sooner is she free, he turns her onto her back and slides his hands up her thighs, hooking his fingers over her smallclothes and bringing them down her legs.

“Up,” he says, dragging her by her hands to sit, so that he can pull her shift over her head.

She cannot be sure why she’s shivering, the cold air, the noise of the storm, or the hungry look in Aemond’s eye at the sight of her bare body.

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as he lays her down and trails his fingertips down her stomach, to the obvious arousal at her core.

With a lingering kiss to her cheek he presses a single finger inside her. She gasps at the sudden sting of it, digging her nails into his skin.

But he reaches deeper than she’s ever been able to, stroking against the flesh within her, until she starts to melt. He edges her closer and closer to bliss until she comes undone around him with a whimper.

“Sȳz riña,” he coos against her cheek. “That’s it…”

She tries to cling onto him as he moves away, but he is not gone for long. He swiftly undoes the buckles of his jerkin, followed by his shirt, boots and breeches. His body is lithe and lean, harsh angles and soft skin.

She glances at his eyepatch again. 

Aemond lets out a low, irritable “hmm,” as he looms over her. His hair falls around his face, tickling the skin of her collar. He leans on one palm placed by her head, as he drags the tip of his cock through her folds, teasing between her bundle of nerves and her entrance. The sensation burns brightly and has her hips bucking, but it’s not enough.

“Beg me for it,” he utters.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, feeling her thumbs along the sharp edges of his cheeks. “Please…”

He pushes into her with a single stroke, filling her to the hilt with a soft sound of skin against skin.

She winces at the stretch, throwing her head back against the bed and trying to steady her breath as he rocks into her.

He’s gentle at first, but before long he is restless.

“I knew you fucking wanted this,” he pants, gripping at her waist to pull her in with every snap of his hips. “You little whore, I can feel you getting wetter.”

She should hate him for it. There is so much she should hate him for, but she cannot think past the pleasure tightening and rising within her, the sound of Aemond’s laboured breaths or the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling.

His hands grab at her legs, positioning them against her chest so he can fuck her harder and deeper.

“Oh gods,” she whines as he pushes against a spot that makes her feel weightless. 

“Take it bastard,” he hisses, pressing his forehead against hers and wrapping a hand around her neck. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to know it could. “Fucking take it.”

She is sure it’s too much, his hold on her neck, his breath over her lips, his body pressing against hers as he pounds into her without mercy. 

“I’m going to fill you up,” Aemond rasps, “return you to King’s Landing with a Prince in your belly.”

His promise sparks a new feeling entirely, her cunt clenching around him as her voice becomes a slur of desperate, wanton moans.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you, ilībõños? Want your uncle to give you a silver-haired babe?”

“Please,” she mewls, placing her hand over his, “please, qȳbos,”

With a few sharp, brutal thrusts, her body erupts with her climax, until she is a moaning, quivering mess. 

Aemond’s jaw hangs open as he fucks into her through his own release, until every last drop of his seed is buried within her.

He keeps himself nestled within her, positioning them properly on the bed, hooking her leg around his hips, keeping her body and her head close to his chest.

Her eyes flutter closed, lulled by the soft sound of his breath and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

But the pleasant glow of her peak cannot last forever.

“I can’t go back to King’s Landing,” she whispers against his skin. Not now that Aegon has claimed the throne, not now that her mother is amassing her banners and the Greens are doing the same.

Aemond takes her chin his fingers, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Did you think I’d ever let you go? You’re mine now, dōna riña. That is what you've always wanted, is it not?”

She helplessly traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm, held tightly around her.

Perhaps she did want that, once.

“What of the Stormlands? What of our duties to our families? What of the war?”

Aemond silences her with a delicate kiss to her lips. She lets it soothe her, for the sake of a love once lost, for a moment of bliss in a world unfurling into chaos and bloodshed.

“Lord Borros will pledge his banners to Aegon or I will burn Storm’s End to the ground,” Aemond mutters between their kisses. She can already feel his cock beginning to harden once more inside her. “And no one will keep you from me, my sweet, strong girl.”

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

[pinknipszz]

adagio for strings 2/4

↷ ˊ- true form!ryomen sukuna x f!reader

< previous | next >

"i'm not a crook!"

' - wc: 3.7k

you look more yūrei than human with how you stagger down the winding path, your breaths short and quick and shaky. the moon looks at you like how a mother would when her child is up to no good. she hides behind thick clouds to obscure her light in an effort to keep you from reigning carnage, but you move. to hell with the moon, you think, squinting your eyes to make out the dark shapes ahead. i don’t need a mother to guide me, much less the fucking moon.

you drag your feet across sharp stones hardly wincing, like a crippled animal on broken legs. the weight of your weapon is the only friend you have left, and you swallow the noise that crawls up your throat. you don’t know what it might’ve been. maybe a scream or even a sob, but it doesn’t matter now that the village is close. your eyes adjust to the darkness and you recognize the water well, the stone steps, the statues of yokai that are supposed to protect from natural disasters. you nearly bark a laugh at the irony.

is this what it takes to become a ghost story? you soak in the silence as you limp. in a hundred years or so, you think that farmers will warn their children about playing outside after dark, lest they want to be stolen by a pauper turned vengeful by those who damned her. it feeds your delirium and takes your mind off the ashes. this is only fair. an eye for an eye. considering the years of verbal and physical torment, you find this generous. mosquitoes swarm your space when you stumble over the steps of the first house.

it’s a humble thing, nothing impressive about it, belonging to either a cowherd or a farmer, but there are no sandals or scattered tools on the porch to confirm. after a quick assessment of the surroundings, you slip through a crack between the sliding doors. this’ll work, i’ll make it work. the inside is just as bland upon entering. you scoff, disappointed. there are no pots or paintings or portraits to take, no trophies to collect, but you find grass cushions around a low table for eating. tell-tale signs of life. they encourage you to move.

it doesn’t take much time to find a room, the only room, at the end of the sandalwood hall. you press your ear against the door, heart hammering in your chest, and wait for a few seconds. it remains silent. you pull back to stand face-to-face with the thin paper. a serpentine tongue flits across cracked lips. you don’t know what you’ll see inside. maybe a man and his wife, perhaps a family, sleeping soundly in proper, padded mattresses. they are probably dreaming about silly things, like conquering demons with sharp teeth or becoming the next shogun. 

hot jealousy swirls in the pit of your gut. it bends and snaps unnaturally, dragging its claws along the walls to tear apart your innards. dreaming of silly things is such a fucking privilege. you are more than happy to rip it from them.

but your hand never touches the wooden frame, held back by a ubiquitous force. cicadas whine for you. you blink with a bit of clarity and, for the first time in a while, think twice. your anger comes down to a slow simmer, diluted by a cold wave of realization. you don’t know what you’ll see inside. it repeats like a mantra in your head. you are thin and weak and don’t know how to fight. the words don’t feel like yours, but you listen. a man might draw his sword and strike you down. a woman might scream her head off. what then? the hand around your hatchet loosens its grip.

it repeats, you don’t know what you’ll see inside. 

your jaw is tight when you turn away, refusing to waste your chance on a bunch of strangers, before leaving as quietly as you came. realistically, you aren’t capable of fighting more than one person at a time. adrenaline has a timer that you don’t want to test. plus, there are people more deserving of death, like the kamo women. you consider it but decide that they’re not worth the effort. their esteemed estate sits at the top of the hill, and you’ll likely succumb to exhaustion before reaching it. the female seller is also out of the question; you don’t even know where she lives.

your best bet at revenge is the butcher, knowing that his house is tucked behind some trees down the street. you hesitate a little though. he is strong and powerful with burly arms that can snap brittle necks like yours, surely from experience. he is a challenge far greater than climbing a thousand steps for two women who know nothing about fighting. at least then, the playing field is even. but you remember how scared he was, and how his cowardice ran so deep that he had cried to a clan to get rid of you instead of doing it himself.

dried leaves crunch where you step. a grasshopper jumps away disturbed. that is one thing you hold over his head, it seems, one thing that makes you stronger than a man of muscle.

the walk is short. you reach it in just under five minutes minus the limping. you know that he earns more money than a cowherd and a farmer combined, if the size of his house is anything to go by. he must also be smarter because the door doesn’t budge when you try to slide it open, almost as if he anticipated your imminent arrival. but death doesn’t come knocking politely, and neither should you. you remember how you joked about squeezing through a hole in the back wall, rumored to have been from a strike meant for his prostitute wife. you’ll use it tonight to deliver the punchline.

you round the house and find the secret entrance. it’s boarded so poorly, almost as if he had just filled it with a couple of large rocks from the river and called it a day without bothering to take extra precautions. it takes the same amount of effort to pull them down with sanguine-wrought claws. luckily, the hole is large enough for a person to slip through, and you silently thank his wife, keeping your hatchet close. you hope she’s doing well wherever she is. you haven’t seen her at the market since the rumors have stopped, but you’re not overly concerned. she wasn’t kind to you either.

immediately you notice the air is different inside, almost stagnant. it’s colder too. hairs behind your neck stand on end, but you don’t let it deter you.

you explore the home with light steps. every once in a while, tatami floors creak underneath your feet. you freeze when they do and wait for frantic movements, but there’s none. you take a moment to calm yourself before continuing. in the kitchen, you find the butcher’s most prized possession: his cleaver. it rests on the wooden table abandoned by its owner. you approach to trace the metal. it’s cool to the touch and still sharp despite all of the flesh that it has cut through. this must have cost a fortune, you think. metals are hard to come by.

it would be a valuable thing to have by your side. it’d scare both people and animals more than a rusty hatchet with a weather-stained handle, and you’d never have to live in fear until the day it also deteriorates, but you don’t think that will happen for a long, long time. it’ll serve a message to the rest of them too. you’ll get to spend your final days eating peaches and melons offered out of fear, before being taken by the shogun’s army for a necessary execution. your fingers tingle. i’ll teach myself how to use you, and you reach for the foul weapon.

but your spine straightens at the sound of shuffling from somewhere deep in the house. it’s faint. horribly so, but you hear it. blood rushes to your head. you turn around half-expecting to see something behind you, but the space is empty. the shuffling continues, only this time a little louder, coming from the eastern hall with a single bedroom at the end. the butcher, you breathe shakily, forgetting the cleaver. it must be the butcher. he’s awake. you are tempted to run out of the house, tail tucked between your legs, but you swallow your fear. this bastard is the reason you’re sleeping without a roof tonight. 

you exit the kitchen and walk towards the room, your weapon ready. the shuffling grows louder, more frantic.  you focus your energy on standing upright, eyes burning from the effort to make out the darkness of the hallway. your hand glides along the wall for guidance, dust collecting at your fingertips. you only stop when you feel the familiar wooden frame of a door. when you hesitate for the nth time, the cold air curls around you with its tendrils, urging you forward. it whispers incoherent things. unable to resist temptation, you slide it open with one swift movement.

you think you’re ready for the butcher. you expect to find him twisting back and forth on his futon, or practicing his secret swordsmanship with ungraceful feet, or maybe even pacing the room like all men do. you’ve already thought of a million ways to catch him off-guard, and one of them might have worked if it'd actually been the butcher in the room, but nothing could have prepared you for this. there’s a large mass that’s darker than darkness, hunched in the far left corner, morphing between shapes as if it can’t decide between looking human or plant or animal.

you refuse to take your eyes off of it, like a sick audience for a sick show. the creature contorts unnaturally, bending this way and that before groaning a loud, horrible sound. it bounces off the walls in powerful waves that strain your ears. hissing, you don’t think twice before stepping back, but it’s already too late when tatami floors creak under your feet. immediately it silences, changing form in a blink. it is thinner and taller, closer to a corpse than anything, with features still indistinguishable in the dark. your mouth goes dry.

“what the hell—” it lunges forward. you fail to dodge.

the force of the fall rattles your bones, pushing out the air in your lungs. there is a resounding thud from where your hatchet falls. you aren’t given a chance to recover before it digs its long, black nails into your shoulders, drawing liquid copper, and claws at your flesh. the air is metallic on your tongue when you screech in pain. the creature shakes in turn, mimicking a laugh, and pushes against the lower half of your body to render it useless. you’ve only ever felt like this once in your life, when you had sleep paralysis as a child. the old sensation is ingrained in your memory, and it resurfaces only now. 

a coil snaps in your chest. “get off me!” you scream, thrashing violently. your hands curl into fists that jab at its sides. the creature doesn’t take a definite shape. you might as well be hitting air, but your efforts aren’t entirely futile. it recoils just enough for you to twist to your side and frantically search for your hatchet. when you see it in the far end of the hall, just a few arms-length away, you scramble towards it in desperation. but the creature is relentless. it grabs your ankle and pulls hard, dragging you further into the dark. no. no no no. you fight the paralysis that threatens to consume you, and with one final burst of strength, you kick.

you aren’t exactly sure why the creature lets go, wailing as if it came into contact with hot coal, but you don’t have time to ogle at how it presses itself against the wall in fear. you push yourself back on your feet and wobble quickly towards your weapon. when it’s back in your possession, you hold it tight until your knuckles turn stark white. this time you have no intentions of dropping it. your lungs burn when you breathe, and you’re sure you injured something, but you don’t dwell on it for too long. adrenaline has a timer.

you bare your teeth when the creature approaches. you’re ready to raise the hatchet. you remember the laws of nature when it lunges again, and you dodge. the strongest survive and forget the weak, who are branded for death the second they leave the womb. it runs through your veins like forbidden ichor. those gnarled hands shoot forward with inhuman speed, intent to kill, but you move just in time. you need to be the strongest in the room to win. the creature’s strikes wildly, its steps unpredictable. you cough blood at a particularly hard hit to your side. you need to be the strongest.

the creature falls forwards when you slash its legs. taking advantage of its vulnerable position, you rush forward and watch as it scrambles for footing, before you pull the hatchet up high. it looks at you then. though it lacks a proper face you think that it’s trying to mimic human emotion. you don’t know what it wants to evoke within you, but you hope it knows that it’s useless when you look back without a hint of remorse. the hatchet hits the juncture between its neck and shoulders, digs deep into black, warping mass, and comes off clean from the other side.

you watch it dissipate into nothing as if it was never there. the silence is nearly deafening. i did it. i killed it. your feet move before you could process what just happened, or what you just killed. the world blurs around you. when you pass the kitchen and catch a glimpse of the cleaver, you remember the butcher. he feels like a distant memory. you doubt he’s even alive anymore if the creature had been here the entire time. when you step out, the cool air hugs you tight. it’s still dark. you wonder if any time has passed at all.

when you reach the bottom step, you collapse forward and get a mouthful of dirt. adrenaline leaves your system before you get a chance to say goodbye, replaced instead with bone-deep exhaustion. your body remains glued to the ground as it succumbs to the exertion, fading in and out of consciousness. you dropped your hatchet again, you realize through the haze. you summon enough strength to prod at the space beside you. you swipe left and right, up and down. nothing. your vision blurs with unshed tears.

the pain is unbearable, gripping you like a vice and unwilling to go. even breathing is a difficulty on its own, with each inhale accompanied by a sharp pain in your chest. you know the injury is lethal. you wonder who will find your body first in the morning. maybe a child or a seller. you wonder if they’ll celebrate your death with sake or fresh meat before dumping your body into the river. maybe they won’t want to waste anything at all, so they’ll leave you here to rot and go about their day. before you could enjoy your pity party, a gruff voice cuts through the silence.  “pathetic. that thing was hardly a curse.”

you blink, startled. a few tears fall and mix with the dirt. you don’t dare to look. 

“what happened to that spirit of yours? don’t tell me you’ve given up. get up.” it’s harsher now, like the sound of sharpening two swords.

what else is there to lose?. you force two arms under you, shakily planting your hands to push your upper body off the ground. you find a pair of feet, attached to two strong legs, a solid waist and—

your eyes widen in horror, and for the first time in your life you see a real monster. he possesses four— four— arms, two of which hold weapons you do not recognize, a second pair crossed over his chest. all four of his eyes watching you with disgusting amusement. he reeks of arrogance and condescension, etched in the grooves of his hideous face and the criminal tattoos worn with pride. you don’t know what kind of expression you’re wearing, but he laughs at it so loudly that you wonder how no one has woken up yet.

no, not again. your breaths turn rapid, eyes full blown and wild. i can’t do this again. this guy is different from the one in the house. i can’t— you could only imagine what he sees. a woman with sunken cheeks and torn skin, dressed in dirt and bloodied, battered garbs, lying on the brink of death. you come to think that he’s here to finish you off. at least one of you is enjoying themselves. “there you go,” he purrs, smiling sharp with pointed teeth stained red. “you nearly had me worried. it’d be a shame if you died already.”

you want to scream with what little voice you have left, but it only comes out in short, pained grunts. the monster notices this. carelessly, he throws his weapons behind him to crouch in front of you. he abandons them so easily that you wonder how he thinks of himself so highly that he can fight without them. he’s still massive from this angle, and your neck hurts from the effort to crane up at him. he props a now-free hand on his knee and rests his chin on its palm. “sounds painful,” he drawls, dripping with feigned concern. “need some help?” you simply stare.

“did you forget how to speak?” you think for a moment before shaking your head. “then speak.”

“i c-can’t,” you nearly punch the words out of you. 

a heavy sigh blows over you as he massages the bridge of his nose, grumbling something under his breath. the situation is almost comical. you can’t discern between his anger and disappointment. they blend so well together that you think he only feels both simultaneously, one unable to exist without the other. you aren’t surprised if that’s the case. everything about the monster came in pairs. two arms, two faces. of course he’d feel double the hatred over you. you just don’t understand why he hasn’t killed you yet. a creature like him doesn’t look like he’s capable of patience.

“you know,” his eyes narrow to thin slits. “you cause a lot of trouble in these parts. you’re like a fucking spawner, creating a bunch of pitiful curses.” so he’s not going to help you. the monster leans in to grab your face with one hand, squeezing your cheeks tight until your lips pucker. it feels like he’s trying to shatter your jaw with how much pressure he uses. “bet you don’t even know what curses are.” you don’t, but the word is familiar. you think that he catches the glint of recognition in your eyes, because his smile turns devilish.

“it’s a shame that you’re ugly,” he continues, humming to himself as he turns your head left and right. “you barely got any fat on you. you’re giving me close to nothing to work with.” fear shoots down your spine at his words, suddenly realizing the full extent of your vulnerable position. you think he notices that too because he simply chuckles and offers no clarification. his large hand crawls up the side of your face before tangling itself into your matted hair. he pulls back harshly and you wince.

“tell you what. i’ll give you food, water, and a bed if you make a deal with me.” his promise is vile. he takes advantage of your silence knowing full well that you’re unable to ask for its conditions. 

but still, you weigh your options. there is nothing left for you here in this small village. no family or friends to remember, no home to turn to. you were never liked by the residents either, and you doubt you ever will be no matter what you do. plus, people will think that you have something to do with the butcher’s disappearance. although you were supposed to, you’d still be falsely accused for a kill that wasn’t yours, which you still think is highly unfair. you’d be doing everyone a favor if you disappear anyways.

so you look at him with the last bits of your bravery and nod. he grins fiercely, pleased with your decision. 

“uraume,” he says. your eyes widen when a familiar figure materializes from nothing. the monk-child, who you saw at the market, the one that gave you your first pomelo. when they stand side-by-side over your collapsed form, something in your mind clicks. this four-armed freak is what leaves the village so restless. when sellers and ladies aren’t complaining about you, they talk about him. the “cursed object.” you still don’t know what that means. uraume’s expression is just as unreadable when they study you for the nth time. 

“prepare a room at the temple, and cook twice as much for dinner,” he orders, his eyes raking over you. his companion, who you’re starting to believe is his servant, bows their head and mutters a humble “yes sir” before dissolving into air. you gape, eyes are fixated on where they stood. the monster merely chuckles at your ignorance. his grip on your hair loosens, and he pushes your head back into the dirt, surely leaving a mold of your face for the sellers to marvel over the next morning.

you don’t know about the other hands hovering over your back, expelling enough energy to seep through your robes, past your flesh, and into your bones. “you don’t understand now, but you will soon,” his voice is hypnotizing, bleeding through the static in your ears. you feel your ribs click back into place, and you taste earth when you gasp. “i’ll make you an expert in curses.” 

exhaustion finally pulls you into its arms. it is your last embrace for a long, long time.

(masterlist) | listen to adagio for strings!

[lady-lani-1707]

On womankind as people.

The woman exists as a being in a female body.

Her life at first seems more developed than her male counterparts. She often talks earlier with loud and voraciously chatty personalities. She roughouses and snatches and bites and kicks just as much as any other child. If it wasn't for her frilly attire and gendered outfits, it would be virtually impossible to distinguish most infant boys and girls. They are all adorably chubby with the exact same pitch to their cries, and they all crave the exact same things. If it wasn't for the little bow on her almost pathetically adorable exuse for a ponytail or her pink onesie reading a mantra like "mommy's little girl" you can not distinguish most infants sex on anything outside of their weight and perhaps sometimes facial features in unique cases.

Perhaps that's that's the best time to be a female human.

It starts early, little by little girls recieve wagging fingers of dismissal when they ask to do anything physical. That's odd. She thinks I used to do that. I used to be allowed to get dirty and be unkempt, but now they put me in more dresses and make me smile for photos.

I am a girl.

Then around adolescence, she learns what a period is - it's unreal, unthinkable. Yet everyone tells her it's natural and even healthy. The boys are separated, outside playing football in the midst of this sickening female only assembly.

Afterwards, instead of eating during lunch the girls all find themselves natural conviening at the restroom. Their faces all shaky with a mix of disbelief and queasiness. Some trying to jokingly yet no so jokingly go to the stalls and check themselves for any sign of... blood.

She wets her face almost wanting to feel cold all over, and looks at her own deadpan face whilst the other girls try and trivialise or rationalise it in whispered conversations. She feels nothing, she feels everything, and again that voice rings inside her head.

I am a girl.

But a new addition is firmly set in stone now and so the phrase extends.

I am a girl, and so I am *different*.

This line replays when she learns more about her own biology, it replays again when she realises that one day a boy will put his- inside her own body and by whatever age that is she is supposed to like that, and want that.

The boys seem both overjoyed and giggly. As if they'd heard the most amusing thing ever. There's a sense of... pride to it. She couldn't quote explain it, but they seemed.. excited at the thought. Some boys seemed disgusted, but a fair amount seemed like they had heard this before.. or seen this before. Suddenly, some of their confusing lingo and inside jokes made sense.

The girl looks around at her friends, and their is a range of emotions. Some girls visibly cringe and grimace, others try and laugh it off aswell, some seem overly giggly, but their eyes still crinkled with a hint of fear.

She knew what she felt. She felt sick. Betrayed by her own body. She felt like the adult her was already betraying her. She told herself she wouldn't engage in it. Don't think about it.

I am a girl and my body is against me.

Came this new variation.

Then, later on in her life, the now young teenage girl, somehow, has been relatively safe and ignored all her young life.

She thinks herself lucky, she thinks her tomboyish attire and aversion to boys and focus on her studies protects her.

Though she learnt what sexual harassment looks like during assemblies.

She thinks her headscarf is like a barrier against lustful men.

Though she knows deep down that even fully covered women in Islamic countries are not safe.

She thinks her babyish face makes her seen as less sexual, undesirable and feels an odd sense of pride at not being catcalled ever in her life.

Though she knows deep down men rape even infants.

This little girl, now a young teen, has learned more about the world and considered herself a feminist despite the irony of being raised muslim.

She can only keep her mouth shut when misogynistic verses are pulled and read in sociology class.

She can only feel unease deep deep down when her atheist friends seem to be making points.

She cuts it off shortly, she tries to convince them that surely everything is created, even us.

Or else why would women suffer.. for no point-

Then she is brought back to the real world.

The real world that she'd tried to daydream away.

The real world that is for men.

She sits on the bus. The back row is completely empty. A man, seemingly obviously muslim, just like her, chooses to sit right beside her. At first, she feels a false sense of safety but then feels confusing unease.

She turns to the window trying to ignore his face, feeling nothing but pure anxiety when she feels movement.

Oh. She sighed, trying to calm herself down, he's just trying reach for his keys- Oh.

Oh no. Even... me?

She swallows hard. And all she fears is pure panic and it feels like the world freezes up.

White hot fear, she can't even look at the man discreetly groping her. It felt like with every second, he was tainting her in some way as he grabbed fistfuls of her flesh.

She dreamed with her eyes open lost in the imagination of all the things she said she would do, her mind itches to scream, to stand up and point and make a big dramatic show. She is almost lost in the dream of what she would do, frozen like a deer in the headlights.

She musters all the courage she has and shoots him a shaky glare, a "I know what you're doing" look.

Pathetic but enough resistance for filth like him to feel threatened. They hate any resistance or acknowledgement. They want to just touch girls and go about their day without ever having to look into their victims eyes. Did he feel guilty? Did he remember god? She didn't know. He just seemed sobered up, with a casual air like the disappointment of when a game is over.

Like she'd been some sort of killjoy for not sitting and taking it.

His blasé almost cheeckily smug expression, like it was nothing more than a fun little game, the embarrassed crinkle in his eyes seemed more at the fact that he got caught more than his own actions.

She gets off and goes home.

When she tells her parents, it almost feels comical. Unreal.

She expected sympathy, not a :

"You need to be more observant, he asked if you were getting off so he might know you"

"Why didn't you say something?"

She angrily told them not to blame her for what he did.

She puts headphones to ears and tries pacing around her room, all the while feeling his touch like the feeling of imagining yourself swimming after you already swam the same day. The hands still there like the rocking motion of waves.

His hands felt like they were still there, touching her, and all she could feel is both disgust and a sick sense of irony at herself not being able to do something. It felt comical that something so horrible happened so casually. That the world still carried on. Like... it really didn't matter.

She was now a statistic too.

She'd never been catcalled. She'd always felt relatively invisible. Of course. Of course she wasn't exempt. It wasn't because the other girls were prettier, or not religious or more extraverted.

I am a girl

And my body is not my own.

I thought.

I am a girl, and just like any other girl...

I'm not safe.

I think that moment is where childhood dies.I think it's a very sobering feeling that is felt by women world wide. This is not just my story, but the story of millions of girls and women, across all backgrounds. We're united by facing the unwanted touch of our degenerate counterparts.

This kind of moment is something no child should face, no adult should face.

It happens every day in every place to every kind of woman. A defining feature of men is how little respect and lack of humanity they see in us and what little care they have is shown with their disgusting touches. It's not just a touch. It's more than that. It's a declaration of power and authority. It's an abuse of boundaries and most horrifically...

It's nothing new.

Women need to protect little girls and eachother, if you can't feel brave enough to call it out yourself, then do it with a friend. If you can't speak, glare like I did.

Make a scene and most importantly, never ever blame the victim.

I think shame has been used to silence us for far too long.

- Lani, your Lady

[lafiametta]

Like the way the theme of myth and story wove itself through the previous episode, this week's episode features the idea of loyalty, what it means, and what it costs.

John Blackthorne's loyalty is split between the men of the Erasmus, long held in Edo, and Toranaga, the lord who has made him his vassal and bannerman. Both still bind him at the beginning of the episode — he accompanies Toranaga's limping army to Edo, despite his bitter proclamation at the end of the previous episode that they're "all dead" — but by the mid-point those ties have begun to fray. Toranaga keeps him at arm's length, not offering him residence inside the castle, and his men, so long sought-after, have spent the past months drinking and whoring, and despise him for his ambition in sailing them to Japan. (Here Blackthorne claims loyalty once more; "we had orders" to cross the ocean, he tells his crewmate, although with less conviction than he normally offers.) With both recipients of his loyalty indicating that they care little for it, his sense of duty turns inward, as he thinks about how he might best serve himself.

That attempt leads him to Yabushige, who at times during their audience seems tempted by Blackthorne's offer of alliance. But the presence of Omi and Mariko are sufficient to remind him that to agree would be a betrayal of his oath to Toranaga. Mariko is offended enough to censure Blackthorne. "You see, once loyalty begins, it does not have an end. Otherwise it would not be loyalty," she tells him. "But loyal turns senseless very quickly when the order is suicide," he replies, which she takes as a personal rebuke.

In a way, he's right. Mariko's loyalty is blind; she will follow Toranaga's will, even if it means her own death. Perhaps maintaining that loyalty is easier for her, given that she already wants to die. (That desire, of course, comes from a sense of loyalty to her own father, a self-sacrificial duty she has carried for nearly fourteen years.) But her uncompromising loyalty does not extend universally: she is dutiful to Buntaro as a husband, keeping away from Blackthorne's bed and remaining silent when he asks if she is "still under the Anjin's spell," but disdainful of him as a man, rejecting his plan for the two of them to die together. Once broken, some ties can never be remade.

Other examples of loyalty appear throughout the episode. Ishido asks for Lady Ochiba's hand in marriage, but she hesitates, knowing that loyalty to him as a husband would mean something far weightier than loyalty to him as a political ally. Out of lordly duty, Toranaga keeps his promises to Gin and Father Alvito, granting them both land in his city of Edo. (Although, with a dash of brilliant irony, the plots are adjoining, putting the brothel next door to the church.)

But undoubtedly the greatest act of loyalty — one that is neither blind nor opportunistic — belongs to Hiromatsu. The only one who Toranaga trusts with the outline of his plan, Hiromatsu must playact at protest in front of the assembled retainers, but the sacrifice he makes to convince them of Toranaga's determination to surrender is viscerally real. The words they volley back and forth speak of loyalty and duty ("Lord! Your vassal dies in vain!"), but it is the last thing Hiromatsu says to his friend — "Then this is farewell" — that is spoken without a hint of artifice. The retainers' initial frustration — how do you remain loyal to someone who has seemingly abandoned their responsibility to you and to themselves? — soon turns to horror in the face of what is being acted out in front of them, all part of Toranaga's larger plan. And Toranaga can only watch as Hiromatsu disembowels himself, even as he understands the necessity of the act. As he tells Mariko later, "Hiromatsu, my old friend, knew his duty well."

As for Toranaga, his true loyalties — like his secret, third heart — have not always been easy to discern. But by the end of this episode, it is clear that he remains loyal to the memories of his son and his friend. Their sacrifices, like their continued belief in him, will not have been in vain.

[silverflqmes]

໒⦂ 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐇𝐂𝐒.

notes. hi queen here are your slice of life headcanons with iwa-chan, let’s see how good of a boyfie he can be based on the amounts of sol anime i’ve seen..

genre. fluff

for @melukonova <3

hajime iwaizumi x gn!reader.

⌗ walks with you every morning to school because you live in the same neighborhood as he does — so why not go together?

⌗ knew each other from young and through your parents so you kinda grew up together over the years and just stayed really close

⌗ study sessions at each other’s homes are a usual since you each have your strengths at school and wish to help each other to slay those exams later on🤞

⌗ supermarketing together ( yes, yes this was coming, don’t be surprised ) is less boring than going alone, right? especially when you beg him to let you sit in the cart and push you down the many aisles before a stock merchandiser gives you a dirty look

⌗ iwaizumi apologizes for your clownery and takes responsibility

⌗ after an eventful shopping session, you carry the bags together home ( he has the heavier ones and the majority of your own bags )

⌗ there were times where the clerks didn’t double bag and the ones containing produce tore..

⌗ cue you both running down a hill to grab the tomatoes that fell out

⌗ one time oikawa saw and laughed his ass off before gracing you with his assistance

⌗ just like you walk to school together, you also walk home together; iwa doesn’t want you walking alone at night since club activities drag sometimes, so he waits for you or you wait for him

⌗ you guys have a lot of classes together and are deskmates ( yay ), so it’s usually his job to prevent you from nodding off in classes or smacking your head down all together on the table..

⌗ miscommunications aren’t often since you guys have known each other for what feels like eons.. but there was this one time.

⌗ iwaizumi received a letter and it brought a bitterness to your heart as you watched a girl smiling giddily at him

⌗ did she have a thing for him? was it a letter confessing her feelings for him? not that you cared, of course — he was your best friend, nothing more than that

⌗ but was he really?

⌗ after the letter incident, you became a bit distant from iwaizumi, trying to avoid him as best as you can — making excuses to not go to school with him in the morning or return home with him

⌗ until oikawa, that is

⌗ “ah, y/n-chan! i finally caught you! it’s almost impossible to find you anymore, given you haven’t been around iwa-chan..” he’d trail off purposely before sliding his eyes to yours. “is there a reason for that, perhaps?”

⌗ of course he notices.

⌗ “i figured he was busy, so i didn’t wanna bother him..” you’d mumble back to him, avoiding his gaze. part of you felt ashamed that you had been avoiding hajime as you were, but you couldn’t bear to know how things had gone with that letter he was given.

⌗ a hum would leave tooru’s lips before he fished something out of his pocket, holding it up. “does this thing ring a bell, perhaps?”

⌗ and low be hold ( is that how you spell that lmao ), the letter hajime was given.. and tooru had it.

⌗ “a lot of my admirers like to give iwa-chan love letters addressed to me, and that one i assume you saw that day, was also for me.”

⌗ now, you felt like an idiot. of course it was for tooru — hajime was his best friend! he dealt with that bullshit all the time, and yet the one time you witness it.. you freeze up thinking it was for him.

⌗ “um, okay.. why are you telling me this again?”

⌗ “go to the courtyard and see for yourself!” would be his parting words as he leaves with a wink before returning to his classroom.

⌗ weird.

⌗ but you would go, anyway. tooru didn’t say things without purpose, or some kinda motive behind his words — it was just like him

⌗ as you arrive outside, you find hajime sitting under a sakura tree, and you think to yourself of the irony behind that sight, the cliche of it

⌗ he’s staring off into the rustling trees while you approach him carefully before sliding down on the tree, opposite from the side he was leaning against

⌗ “hey.”

⌗ “hey..” you would mumble back before letting out a breath. “i guess i have some explaining to do, don’t i?”

⌗ and so you tell everything you’d concluded after your encounter in the hall with tooru

⌗ long before you would connect the dots, hajime will have done so just by the changes in your expressions

⌗ you liked him. he didn’t think you ever would, considering how good you guys are as friends — but he could tell that you felt the same way as he did.. just that you hadn’t acknowledged it yet or realized for yourself

⌗ that brings up a new question. “riddle me this, if the letter was in fact for me, how would you have felt?”

⌗ pause. what? a who now?

⌗ “it would be weird to see you with someone else.” you finally answered, raising a brow. “why? did someone confess to you?”

⌗ a laugh left his lips as he shook his head. “no y/n, i was not confessed to, i’m just testing something.” he answered truthfully, quieting his laughter. “you said it was weird for you to see me with someone else. why is that?”

⌗ your hands felt clammy. why was he asking so many questions all of the sudden? and why so many regarding how you feel? it’s not like you could explain — even you didn’t understand!

⌗ “because it just- is!” you would blurt in defense, becoming increasingly more flustered with his inquiries. what were you, a criminal? was it a crime to feel a certain way without explanation?

⌗ and then he would shift around the tree to see your face, noting the way you covered your cheeks.

⌗ you gave away so much without even knowing what you were doing

⌗ “okay.” he would begin, letting out a breath. “so what if it was you being with me?” he asked after a moment to think — to phrase it right, as he moved to be in front of you, kneeled on the grass. “what if you were with me, how would that make you feel?”

⌗ you, with hajime? that.. wasn’t something you considered. maybe one time you thought of making a pact to get married when you both reached your forties — but other than that..

⌗ “i don’t know- i haven’t.. thought of it.” why were you so nervous now? the morning breeze made it brisk — why were you feeling all warm?

⌗ “well, then what do you think now if i asked you out, to be with me?” to be more than my best friend, he wanted to add.

⌗ and you were starstruck, completely shocked by the question because hajime, of all people, the least likely to ask this of you, is asking it.. right this second, in front of you.

⌗ no letter needed

⌗ and who were you to refuse when you wanted to be with him, too.

notes. i sped through this with one working braincell so i’m not sure how good this is.. but i hope it fulfills your needs of a slice of life iwa-chan :’)

↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask

[pebblume]

I never realized how liberating writing fanfiction would be. I hadn’t written creatively in years. It’s been so long that I kind of forgot what it felt like. The childlike rush of pouring your heart out onto a blank page, not caring about the results as long as you were having fun. I’ve tried writing fanfic a couple of times, for different fandoms across the years, but never finished anything I was really happy with, nothing that I felt comfortable sharing with the world. But something just clicked for me this past week. I realized how much fun it was to stretch out my writing muscles, to get inside the heads of my favorite characters. I realized that it didn’t have to be perfect to be worthy of being shared and loved by others. I realized that I had so many stories inside myself - more than I thought possible. 

But perhaps what I’m most in awe of is fanfic readers. The people who read my work and leave kudos and bookmarks and comments - one word comments, sweet comments, silly comments, paragraph-long comments. I love them all. I used to be afraid of leaving comments on AO3, afraid I wouldn’t have enough words, wouldn’t have the right words, to depict how I felt. But when I felt firsthand how much those comments meant to me I started leaving more and more of them, spreading a digital paper trail of love to all my favorite authors. More and more often I recognize the profile names and images in my comment section and think, Hey, I know you! Now I’m not just a guest on AO3, or a passive reader. I belong here. 

I won’t lie and say I don’t miss drawing a bit, my previous creative outlet. There are plenty of drawings inside me too, itching to be realized. I really just don’t have the time for two time extensive hobbies, not when I need to balance school and practicing and little things like sleeping and eating and relaxing. I miss it, but not as much as I thought I would. There’s a level of investment to sharing a story online that feels…special. When I post my art, I get engagement, and it feels nice, but ultimately, most people are only spending about ten seconds looking at the work I spent eight hours on, if that. When someone reads my fics, we’ve now spent time together. You’ve lived inside my head for a bit, made it your home. It’s about feeling seen, I think. Writing makes me feel understood in a way visual art sometimes doesn’t. It makes me feel vulnerable in the same way performing music does, but less exposed too. It’s interesting to me. 

The only downside, if you can call it that, is now that the writing bug has infected me, I’m finding it harder and harder to stop. I’ll have an idea and then suddenly five hours have flown by because I’m on a creative streak and I just want to write one more idea down, which turns into two, and so on and so forth. I dread stopping, because what if I forget something? What if I get into a writing block later? Suddenly I have people who want to read the things I write and I want to provide it, I really do, but I also have responsibilities. I say, as I write this, ignoring my audition tomorrow afternoon. 

I still have a bit of embarrassment attached to fandom works. When I tell acquaintances that I like to draw or write, I rarely tell them I mean fanart and fanfiction. As if loving something that deeply, that sincerely, is inherently shameful in this age of irony and soulless remakes. Especially when my interests usually consist of media marketed towards children, nevermind the fact that it has more emotional maturity than most ‘adult’ works. But I’m trying to get better about it. A lot of my closest friends know about my hobbies, and some I’ve even let see my work. It’s terrifying but also giddying, seeing them like an art post or comment on a fic. After all, to reap the rewards of being loved, one must submit themselves to the mortifying ordeal of being known, or something like that. 

I realized today that I’ve written over 30,000 words in the past two weeks about about two characters who don’t belong to me, but whom I’ve made my own.

And I’ve never felt happier

[ratsplendor]

I'm in some kind of raw and unwell state rn so fuck it: writing up my notes on the Objectophile Ford x AI Fidds AU that haunts my dreams. basic premise is that Fidds dies when he goes through the portal, but has backed up his consciousness digitally somehow out of paranoia + fear, so now Ford is dealing with grieving him (sorta), hiding a dead body, figuring out where to house the artificial McGucket, and also Bill.

general warning for suggestive text + corpse shenanigans below.

so imagine you're Ford and during your portal test, your best friend + QPP has been accidentally sucked through, comes out and spouts some crazy shit, and then dies in your arms immediately. of all the things you have in this goddamn lab, an AED is not one of them. hysterical, poorly-applied CPR ensues; it wouldn't have worked anyway; oh God What Have You Done.

thru all of this Bill is trying to get Ford's attention but he's blocked him out, all Ford can focus on is his grief + guilt + refusal to believe this is the end--wait, hadn't he made fun of Fidds just the other day for backing up his consciousness to a hard drive?

it's a black box. a bit of a Schrodinger conundrum. Fidds was always too scared to activate it while he was alive because he was terrified they'd diverge in an uncontrollable way and a variety of ethical and moral quandaries/existential questions would ensue. so whether the backup is truly Fidds, or whether it's even an independent consciousness at all, Ford doesn't know.

so the issue is that Ford isn't the computer guy, Fidds was. he doesn't really know much about data storage, much less the type of libraries necessary to host a consciousness. his first attempt is to plug Fidds 2.0 into the dummy they were going to send through, as it's equipped with a robust-enough suite of data collection and storage, designed to record information about the other side. it's like digital claustrophobia. F2.0 panics, there's not enough room in here, overloads the dummy, and prompts a small explosion. some data was lost in the process but nobody knows how much.

ok. F2.0 had too much BDE for a mannequin. Ford has to now build a system that can unpack the drive, and Fidds's help would be so appreciated here...irony. Ford just about works himself into a state of panicked dissociation over how much he doesn't know what to do and can't do this alone, at which point Bill realizes this guy is no use to him frantic and gives the suggestion that, hey, isn't the lab just one big computer in a way? and hadn't they overdone the data storage, just to ensure they could collate information from multiple portal tests over time?

(realism time-out: based on even our rudimentary neural networks today, absolutely zero shot that they had the room to house an actual indexed consciousness in full. HOWEVER, consider: cartoon logic + Fidds can do whatever he wants forever. i'm talking encoding himself as a Mandelbrot set, which, despite its infinite ability to fractal, is created out of only a very small chunk of data.)

"I should save at least the head," Ford thinks to himself (in re: Fidds's dead body). "Perhaps I can wire it into the system so he can at least use his own voice somehow." go to sleep man you are losing it.

it's cold enough on the portal floor that the body should probably be fine. mostly. you know, relatively speaking. whatever!

Bill, meanwhile, is thinking of ways he can encode himself as a computer virus and supersede Fidds once Fidds has re-indexed the lab system to support an intelligent consciousness.

Ford is gonna take Bill's suggestion because it's the only good one and he's not the computer guy. HOWEVER. hang on a fuckin second. Bill killed Fidds. This whole thing was his idea--he probably had some way to know this was a possibility, and he didn't say anything.

so he takes a sledgehammer to some very important parts. this frees up more processing power for Fidds 2.0 anyway, but also has the effect of Pissing Bill The Hell Off.

anyway. he uploads his best friend and then hunches in a shuddering trauma-puddle on the floor, trying to stay awake so Bill can't get in.

plot stuff. Fidds is even better with computers when he IS a computer. he can use old videos of himself to deepfake his side of the conversation on a monitor. neat!

oh hey buddy uh. it turns out that migrating a neural-input-based consciousness to a hardwired system causes some, er...funny effects. yeah when you touch the wires he can feel that.

Ford, who didn't really Get what was so exciting about sex or other people's bodies before, is starting to come to the realization that now that Fidds is a computer, he's Very Turned On.

mmmmmm oh my god cable management. hello. cables he can wind through all six fingers. the static display where Fidds usually projects his avatar or whatever is just looping incomprehensible binary, the computer equivalent of a moan. haha sorry totally didn't know that would happen and won't do it again--

gay (?) chicken ensues. is it socially acceptable, Ford wonders, to say, "Hey, i found your human living form unattractive and sexless, but now that you're dead (in part because i didn't listen to you) and confined to a supercomputer, I'm into you"? no, surely not; far more sensible to come up with more and more reasons to re-solder those ports in juuuust the right ways and pretend he doesn't notice why the system's overloading.

there is only one way this ends: probably Ford passing out in his own cum in a mass of cables. yeah. that's a good image. or Fidds getting fed up and starting to project his avatar naked and writhing sexually until he's forced to say something. a USB drive is just an angel you can fuck. etc etc

oh yeah, Bill. Ford basically uses Project Mentem to project himself into the system (not for long as this uses up a lot of processing power) and they all have a Scott Pilgrim-esque fight in which Bill loses. get axolotl'd, idiot.

and they live happily ever after in their weird little man:machine interface situationship. and probably confront many existential questions about the nature of consciousness and whether Fidds 2.0 is the same person or not. whatever. fuck you.

[crossedsabers10s]

Hi! just read charnal house floor and adored it-- the dramatic irony, the tension, the rising horror; liz calling damon young which is so terrible because she's right he always will be and yet he absolutely isn't.... art.

I did want to ask, how do you think something similar would go down when they are closer, when liz knows damon's a vampire, when they are both a bit more traumatized, when liz has once tortured damon herself and he's forgiven her that?? like if it were around season 3 or so. I ask mostly because I just really love it when people feel sorry for damon shjddk anyway you're an amazing writer and happy new year !

fjkl;adfdsalfkj thank you!

hm, later in the show when they're friends/she knows? Well, the same story line (her showing him the storage room, perhaps even as a show of reconciliation? her showing a vampire the secret stuff?) relies on Liz forgetting she knows about Augustine or just not considering it important so it remains as status quo until that moment and Damon finds out. He is. Less likely to attack her? Probably--tho we all know how Damon deals with sudden strong emotions-- and she'd realize that this is personal to him, even making the leap that he was involved w Augustine at one point. Which would possibly result in her prying a few horrific details out of him--he's sharing them to shock her into not asking more, she's staying calm and treating him like a victim, falling back on her training, which he does notice and switches to telling her he already took revenge, bc he wants her to see him as villain instead of victim, maybe which spawns her researching the Whitmore family and all of his victims perhaps even preventing him from killing Aaron's aunt bc she's like 'does it make you feel better? does revenge help? this woman never hurt you.' and he's all 'it makes me feel better' but then through the power of friendship he's forced to confront the fact that revenge is ultimately empty/isn't going to bring back Enzo or absolve Damon's role in his 'death' and Liz convinces him that tearing apart the organization and dragging the non-supernatural shady shit to light is a better vengeance than random murder of people who are like. Innocent of the original crime and Dr. Whitmore isn't even alive to care that his family is being hunted down. Tearing down his legacy tho? the college and program and all that? Ruining his name and memory? That's where it's at. So they do that, discover Enzo, and bam. Of course, then Liz has to convince Enzo not to kill Aaron/Aaron's aunt. She could probably call them even for her getting the ball rolling on his rescue as long as he doesn't go after them and instead focus on Wes. They drag Enzo back to Mystic and suddenly, amongst the Original Plotline, they have to deal with Damon's... ex? friend? ex friend? no one is sure. Liz and Damon are keeping quiet. Enzo is too busy being free to answer questions.

OR

she now knows vampires feel and think as people do, remembers Augustine exists and guiltily goes out of her way to check in with them--maybe to convince herself that the vampire they have is a bad one and therefore deserves it? and instead finds. Well. Enzo. when she tries to dig further, she's either shut down or they try to silence her. So she starts... going about it the legal way. Do you have a permit for that? Oh hey I noticed you ordered a bunch of medical supplies. Where did that go? Throws the book at them until they Do Something about it and gets kidnapped so Augustine can figure out why she's making trouble/maybe they even found out about Caroline and threatened her. Liz, drawing her gun: Frankenstein wannabes say what? Whatever, point is, she rescues Enzo, brings him back to Mystic and goes hey maybe I should ask Damon for help? Maybe this guy would feel more comfortable with another vampire. Damon, walking into the room because Liz asked him to help her with something: this isn't the last thing i expected but only because i didn't expect it at all. Enzo: *kill bill sirens*

[youngerfrankenstein]

Popping in briefly because I finally watched Transformers ONE!

It. Is.

OKAY! It’s pretty fun. Thoughts under the cut.

I was not wrong about a lot of the humour being quite bad. Not that there weren’t also moments that made me laugh but enough made me eye roll to not mention it. B-127 did get the worst of it, with perhaps one joke near the end that had me losing it while mostly wishing he was mute in this movie too.

It also really fell into the trap of what seems to be a lot of modern Transformers media trying to cram in as many iconic catchphrases as possible. It gets exasperating. Make a new one. That said there were a lot of little referential moments that made me smile! Like Wheeljack’s one major contributing factor to the story being accidentally blowing something up.

Story was alright, but felt really rushed to me. Like I get that they had an hour and a half to get everyone at least adjacent to their starting positions, and they did the best they could. But it still felt off. Particularly D-16 given his fall felt less like a descent and more like finding out one awful truth and plummeting off a cliff to become turbo-Hitler. Though I will say they do a decent enough job given the parameters. Things like Orion immediately going “okay how do we help everyone else?” and Dee going “I want personal revenge.” Highlights the main differences between them and why one of them is cut out to be a leader. Also things like Dee being the one to always stick to protocol and will be the leader whose style is very much “do as I say or die.” I will say they did a good job of actually making D-16 and Orion feel like friends with the limited time. Which is good, because I don’t know if the movie could have worked otherwise.

Nothing particularly surprising either. Though it’s kinda to be expected. Guessed Sentinel sold out Cybertron to the Quintessons well before the movie came out. And fortunately they don’t really expect you to care about robot politics besides “Sentinel Sucks”, though looking back I’m not sure why I was worried. Also I think he’s my favourite character. I’m a real sucker for fun villains as is probably very clear by now, and he is very fun. Even if the engineered confession was cliché. Part of this is probably also because I tend to like Jon Hamm. Which I guess brings me to the cast.

If I’m being totally honest the voices for none of the main four really work for me? Brian Tyree Henry is definitely the one who works the most to his credit. Hemsworth is… fine. He’s fine. He could be a lot worse. Though other than them most of the cast works well for me. Though I do still wish there was more respect for voice acting as an actual career by Hollywood. That said Soundwave’s voice was done well and that is all I ask.

As for things I just straight up enjoyed the animation is REALLY good. And I really like a lot of the designs! The bots, the train, THE QUINTESSON SHIP!!! Also kind of like the whole Fisher King thing Cybertron seems to have going on

[Cinematic Parallels]

And the fact it’s constantly transforming. The ACTION! So well done. All I really wanted was a thrilling punch-up between Optimus and Megatron and I GOT IT! There’s also the frequent use of blatant irony which is MY cringy dialogue trope! Favourite of course: “No more false prophets!” <- False prophet seconds before robot Jesus shows back up.

(Perhaps irony is not quite right but it did make me smile.)

And the most minor one, Oppy getting the Castlevania axe subweapon.

All in all I do hope we get a Transformers TWO. I think there’s more story to be told in this universe, it feels somewhat fresh. And I think with a bit more space to flesh things out it could be quite good! Also I just want to see the gang fight the Quintessons. (Big Quintesson fan here. #bringbacktheG1origin)

Was it the best Transformers film? No. That’s still Bumblebee, and by a country mile.

But was it a good time for the kids?

Yeah, I would think so! Mission accomplished.

[antisocialxconstruct]

okay hi hello happy Saturday. We are doing this. If it seems familiar, the first scene is one I posted here a million years ago but it's been revised quite a bit for the new setting and everything. And also just to be better.

word count: 5,600

Ghost City

Chapter One

Somewhere in the club, Maksim suspected, there was someone who wanted him dead. He knew why, in broad strokes at least. But he wasn’t planning to oblige.

“Beer here tastes like warm piss,” Chronic griped, voice raised enough to ensure her complaint would be heard over the persistent clamor of mindless dance music being pumped through the warehouse. The thunk of her empty glass hitting the table between them was less lucky.

Maksim snorted and idly twirled a cigarette through his fingers before settling it between his lips. He tucked it into the corner of his mouth to mutter “that’s why I told you not to order it,” as he flicked open the heavy lighter in his other hand. He didn’t have to make the same allowances for the noise pollution, he knew the military-grade surveillance gear in Chronic’s skull was picking up every word he said, and likely a half dozen other conversations in their immediate vicinity. He lit up with a languid lack of urgency, exhaled a thin stream of smoke that caught the alternating pink and turquoise of the LEDs overhead, and let his gaze wander as he scratched idly at his temple, where one of the rows of short keratinous horns that cluttered his forehead disappeared into the chin-length black curls that were currently gelled neatly into place. The stocky woman across from him leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, and he arched an expectant eyebrow at her.

“Figured that was just ‘cause you’re teetotal and you don’t like fun,” she said with a shrug.

“Eh, сука.” Maksim plucked the cigarette from his mouth after another drag and met her eye with a thin smile. No humor. “Guess you’re an expert now.” The barely-veiled hostility didn’t earn him much of a reaction, but then he wasn’t expecting it to. He was paying Chronic for her eyes, not for pleasant company, which was the only reason he had let the usual mask of performed affability slip completely. This new persona was a bit of an experiment of its own, an extra layer of distant arrogance just to really emphasize his lack of interest in making friends. Still, he couldn’t afford to be too overtly mean. He did need Chronic’s eyes.

Without moving her head, her gaze slipped over his shoulder and behind him, the minute twitches of her pupils the only sign that she was scanning the crowd as she idly responded, “dunno about that… I can’t figure why a guy like you’d come to a place like this.”

Maksim flicked a bit of ash onto the dingy little ashtray on the table. “A nightclub?”

“I mean Chicago.”

A short span of silence, between them at least, as the bone-rattling treble climbed to a crescendo and hung there for a beat, then another. Maksim resisted the temptation to use that lull in the music to comment on her lack of originality. Chronic had never actually accused him of anything, but the words spy and mafia had been swimming around in her head vividly enough that Maksim had never had to do more than skim her surface thoughts to pick them up. She clocked him as ex-military within an hour of meeting him, and between that, his accent, and the fairly conspicuous modifications to his hands and left eye, she drew her own conclusions. There was perhaps a small degree of irony in the fact that, if his life had gone differently at a couple of key points, he almost certainly would have been serving as a covert agent for the Russian state right now. On the other hand, if he’d been a little smarter he would have gotten out of the country faster and managed to dodge the draft entirely. None of that seemed worth explaining to Chronic to dispel any of her suspicions, not when her cooperation came with a straightforward price tag.

At last the bass dropped with an intensity that vibrated uncomfortably through Maksim’s nerves, and with the fresh cover of noise pollution all he ultimately said was, “still on me?”

“Mm,” Chronic refocused on him. “Sure as.”

A low frustrated sound escaped from the back of his throat to be swallowed up by the ever-present electronic beat. Another drag, then he tipped his head back against the booth, breathed smoke up toward the industrial rafters high above and let his eyes flutter closed. He shouldn’t be doing this. He had invested a lot of money into making it materially harder to do this, and he was going to invest more into making it worse. And yet there was that pesky trouble with old habits… “Describe them to me,” he said, and then tentatively, with the lightest touch he could manage, he extended his consciousness out through their immediate surroundings, like running an open hand over wood and hoping to catch a splinter, scanning for any hint of attention or interest angled toward their booth. He picked up a few right away, but they didn’t register as anything other than earnest curiosity, passersby stealing surprised glances when the undulating lights caught on his horns just so. In 2098 it was no less common to meet a variant than it was a natural redhead, but that didn’t always stop people from staring, especially at a mutation as conspicuous as his.

“Big guy,” Chronic was saying, “but like… ‘no gene-tech’ big. Milled around for a while but now he’s sitting at the bar.” Maksim refined his search perimeter, found the little blip of someone side-eyeing them with more intent from halfway across the room. He raked mental fingers through flashes of awareness and fleeting short term memories as Chronic continued. “Leather coat, camo pants-”

“Stop.” The bartender just thanked him for a tip. A couple of people on the dance floor were eyeing him appreciatively from the back. “Brown hair, jack on his left temple, drinking something green… acting like he thinks he’s the star of an action movie?”

Chronic laughed, a sharp bark of a sound that punched through the club’s ambiance. “That’s the one.”

“ID?”

“None to speak of.”

He shouldn’t be doing this. He started to dig, prying experimentally at the edges of the man’s thoughts, trying to pull away the outer layers to get a deeper look. Who are you? Who sent you? Memories and personal knowledge were always harder to read than surface thoughts, but he was just beginning to glimpse discernible shapes-

All at once his perception snapped back into place like a split rubber band and he pitched forward with a hiss and a muttered curse, pressing his palms to the sides of his head. It did nothing much to soothe the kind of directionless, brain-deep pain that had overtaken him. When after a few uncomfortable seconds he dared to open his eyes again, the strobing lights were almost too much to handle. He stubbornly blinked his vision back into focus anyway, and met the gaze of Chronic watching him impassively from across the table, one arm now slung over the back of the booth.

“So what’s the plan, boss?” she asked, wholly unmoved by the display.

“You can’t even get a name?” He didn’t mean for it to sound quite as sharp as it did, but he also didn’t take it back.

Chronic shrugged, pursed her lips. “Could you?” Maksim answered with a withering glare. “Whoever put that shadow on you wanted to stay clean as all hell. Either they went out of their way to find someone untraceable or they sunk some real money into making him untraceable.”

Maksim chewed on his mounting frustration for another moment as he took a last long drag on the cigarette, then stubbed out the remains and rose to his feet. “So no one would miss him.” Chronic’s eyebrows shot up toward her hairline but he was already stepping away from the table before she could make any further comment.

At the very least, the door slamming shut on his mental prying crystalized his focus, woken up his reflexes and centered him inside his own skull in a way no stimulant ever did. A twinge ran down the length of his left arm, the reparative fiber optic mesh knitted into his muscles protesting against the adrenaline-charged tension he was now carrying in his shoulders. He winced and shook it out as he weaved his way through the undulating crowd of clubbers with minimal effort, the carbon-fiber claws in his fingertips extending and retracting with half-conscious anticipation. As he neared the bar he reached up to check the manhunter in its holster at the small of his back, under his coat and out of sight, but as soon as he caught a glimpse of the man tailing him it was like a switch flipped–his demeanor rolled over into the one reserved for dealing with marks, a casual and open saunter and an easy smile. It would have been faster and easier to shoot him from the cover of the crowd and be done with it, and it wasn’t as if this act would trick the man into thinking Maksim was someone else. Not if he was even fleetingly competent. But Maksim had mulled over the situation long enough to decide there might be information to be extracted here, if he could play the game right.

“You look lost, cowboy,” he remarked as he slid up alongside the man, and now he did need to raise his voice just a touch, though the bar was at least a little quieter than the dance floor. His target turned and looked up from his stool, and Maksim took some satisfaction in tracking the array of emotions that flashed across his face in that instant before he set his jaw and straightened his back slightly. Getting ready to play along.

“Not really my scene,” he responded, his voice a hard-edged baritone to perfectly match the rugged-big-screen-hero image he was projecting outward. “Just waiting here to meet someone. You need something?”

Maksim leaned back, braced both hands against the bartop behind him, maintaining his height advantage over his shadow. “Honestly I just wanted to talk.”

Another almost imperceptible hesitation from his counterpart. “Maybe we could move that somewhere more private.”

“I think I’m fine right here.” Maksim flashed him a smile that wasn’t quite mocking. Not openly. An amateur, he thought. Wasting time he could have spent grabbing me. If Chronic couldn’t pull anything on him it’s because he’s nobody, there’s nothing to pull. The shadow sat back slightly, one hand drifting toward the edge of his jacket, and of course Maksim knew the posture of someone going for a gun. “That’s really not necessary,” he continued, gaze flicking pointed but unconcerned from the man’s hand up to his face. “In fact, here. We can be friends.” He pushed one hand away from the counter, drew his own pistol, and set it down on the bar. Then he settled back into his easy stance, not at all primed for a fight. His shadow didn’t seem entirely persuaded, but he didn’t escalate things any further. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Long enough.”

“Yeah?” Maksim’s smile tilted toward indulgent. “So you’ve got stories?”

Something lit up behind the other man’s eyes then, a sudden spark of inspiration. “Everyone does, right?” he began. “Actually maybe you know this one, didn’t happen to me but I heard it friend-of-a-friend style.”

“Sure,” Maksim conceded. “Best source you could ask for.”

The man inclined his head. “You get it. So I heard about this job out in NYC, maybe… a couple months back, real gruesome mess. Team of five go into this big high security warehouse to grab some holy relic, except halfway through one of them just snaps. Turns on the crew, makes mince out of a couple of them before the others can take him out, later he says demons made him do it. And the other two, the only ones who survived, they just accept that and let him walk. Can you believe that?”

As he talked Maksim had gone still, his casual slouch growing a little stiff. The smile never fell from his face, but it felt strained there now. Stale and brittle. “And what do you think should have happened?” he asked slowly.

“Y’know I’ll be honest,” the shadow said, leaning an elbow on the bar and puffing up with the apparent upper hand he had gained in their exchange. “I don’t have a lot of stake in it either way. But maybe there’s a few parties might be holding a grudge against that guy. Maybe one or two willing to spend some money to make sure he faces some consequences.”

That wasn’t good… but it could be worse. Probably. Maksim didn’t know who they had been working for, but if it was someone willing to send cleaners after him for botching the job they’d be more efficient than this, he wouldn’t have been standing there having a pleasant conversation with one of them. Lockjaw and Ziggy probably had friends, but he didn’t know them either. He had hoped none of them would be the vengeful types, but maybe he needed to reassess. Or maybe he just needed to go further west than Chicago.

The shadow shifted in his seat again, opening his mouth to add something else, and without waiting to find out what it was Maksim grabbed the back of the man’s head and shoved hard enough to bounce his face off the bartop. The collision rewarded him with the wet crunch of bone fracturing.

Someone shrieked behind him. In one smooth motion Maksim had the gun in his left hand and the claws of his right locked onto the man’s scalp, keeping him pinned face-down on the bar. He cast a mental net out around them, grabbed every spike of shock or fear he could catch and clamped down on their impulse to do anything about it, digging a little telepathic hole of Nothing To See Here around the two of them. The pain hit almost immediately, driving straight into his skull and down his spine as his vision blurred and the walls of his barrier started to crumble inward like wet sand as soon as they’d been erected. Through a daze his shadow choked out a mangled curse past bloodied lips and made a feeble effort against Maksim’s grip, only to go still again when the manhunter’s muzzle pressed up against the side of his head. Maksim really wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger and paint the counter with this man’s skull, it would certainly resolve this quickly and send a clear message to whoever sent him. But it seemed unlikely Maksim would be able to stop anyone from noticing that.

“I’m going to walk out of this club,“ he bit out through gritted teeth. A chunk of his barrier slipped and he could feel the bartender’s attention drifting their way in a tangle of confusion and concern. ”You’re not going to follow me. Not tonight and not any other night. If I ever see your face again I’ll split it in half properly. Understand?“

No more than two seconds of hesitation, then the shadow nodded–as best he could anyway, smearing blood across the counter under his cheek.

Maksim let the threat hang for another beat, then withdrew and holstered the gun. “You should have a talk with whoever hired you for this,” he said as his shadow lifted his head, cupping the gnarled mess of his nose in his hands. “They di-…” the rest of Maksim’s words died on his lips in a wave of nausea and the barrier finally crumbled. Spots danced around the corners of his vision moments before it began to tunnel, the moment stretching uncomfortably out in every direction.

The voices around him went tinny, distant and indistinct as vertigo gripped him.

He could feel the music boring into him, threatening to vibrate him apart if he stayed there any longer.

Someone grabbed at him and he twisted, shaking them off out of pure instinct, and started moving.

It was all he could do to orient himself, fix his gaze on the high doorway gaping black with the night sky beyond, and shove his way through the remaining crowd as he fought to keep his footing. People became increasingly unconcerned with his presence the further he got from the bar, until at last he crossed the threshold and the cool night air hit him all at once as he staggered to a stop to be sick on the pavement outside.

A chorus of laughs rose up from across the street as he fell back against the club’s exterior wall, and now the music was dulled to a steady thump and buzz through concrete. Someone called out “fuck yeah man party hardy” and earned themself another round of jeering laughter. Maksim grimaced but he didn’t have it in him to pinpoint the source of the comment, much less respond.

He closed his eyes. Okay. So that was a waste of time. Or he had in fact played the game wrong. But if nothing else it was a clear indication that it was time to move on.

He was unsure how long it took to collect himself, for his senses to settle back into place and the piercing in his skull to fade to a level he could ignore. In that time no one followed him out. Not his shadow, who must have heeded his warning, not any of the other patrons, whose attention he had apparently shrugged off against all odds. Not even Chronic, who seemed to have inferred that their brief and unproductive partnership was over.

Fine.

That was fine.

He pushed himself away from the wall with a concerted effort, and started the slow trek back to his apartment. He needed to make some travel plans.

–###–

Ilya Kasharin was already dead.

Figuratively, sure, in the sense that they assumed no one in Boston had really looked for them or spared them much thought at all after they disappeared. Maverick would have made sure of that.

But also literally, in the sense that four years ago they had flatlined on an operating table for a full six minutes, only to be “reassured” after the fact that this did not invalidate the terms of their contract with NervAMP.

This was the one they took some issue with.

The focused clatter of fingers on keyboard was the only sound punctuating the silence of their modest workspace, where they sat folded into a tortured pretzel in their chair. Their eyes were laser-focused onto the screen in front of them, pupils glinting unnaturally in the light any time their gaze darted back up a few lines in their code, catching a missed tag or double-checking their logic as they chided or argued with themself in distracted mumbles.

More than anything, this needed to be thorough. Their last foray into NervAMP’s systems had only been long enough to copy the basic structure of their network and prop open a backdoor, not to exfiltrate any of their data for experimenting. They could throw the worm into the playground of their virtual network as many times as they wanted to see it spread before scrubbing it back out, but at a certain point they would just have to trust that it could do what they wanted and set it free. They were getting impatient with their own iterative testing, and they imagined the worm itself growing restless as well as it unfolded across the screen in front of them, eager to fulfill its purpose.

With a sigh Ilya paused and then sat back, a final assertive jab at a couple keys the only signal the machine needed to compile the worm and inject it back into the virtual network, just to be sure their last round of tweaking hadn’t compromised the basic functionality. Their second and third monitors blinked to life, and Ilya watched intently as the rudimentary visual representation of the network–little more than a sprawling array of interconnected lines and dots–transformed from uninfected green to compromised yellow over the course of about eight minutes.

No changes there, not that they really expected any.

This next step was the one they were least eager to take, and perhaps on some level all the systematic tweaking and troubleshooting had been in an effort to push this off as long as they could reasonably justify. Unfortunately they didn’t feel like they could reasonably justify much more, so they sat forward again, nudged the deck closer in front of them, and combed their fingers through the choppy layers of their auburn hair, flipping it over their shoulder and off the back of their neck. With their other hand they drew out the thick meshjack cable that sat spooled up inside the left side compartment of their deck, then eyed the head of it for a moment, the way one might eye a particularly unappealing morsel of food they were nevertheless about to swallow whole. Then their fingers found the edge of the port nestled at the base of their skull, they locked the cable into place and flicked a switch on the face of their deck, and they had just a split second to feel the electric shudder pass through their body before their consciousness was no longer rooted there.

Ilya was familiar enough with common depictions of the Immersion Mesh in popular media over the years, even spanning as far as a century back when the internet itself was still a fledgling concept. They had only learned fairly recently that those depictions were all, essentially, completely wrong. Pouring your human perception directly into an information network was not really comparable to the things people evoked when trying to depict it, it was not an elegant heads-up display, or a virtual chatroom, it wasn’t rudimentary gridlines and geometry any more than it was an elaborate surrealist landscape. More than anything, it was impressions. The idle half-awareness of a long highway drive, the sustained mental effort of solving a puzzle, the keyed-in focus of a hunt… or the animal anxiety of being hunted. The mind was bombarded with information and then left to make free associations, impose will and desire like any other machine running a script, and while most people’s brains did end up translating this flow of data into imagery in order to make it easier to comprehend, it was a bit like dreaming–amorphous and highly individualized.

It was not an environment just anyone could thrive in, it often required either an incredible reserve of mental focus or a willingness to dissociate at will. Ilya had neither, but what they did have was a very particular goal and a deep well of spite. At first they had simply avoided the mesh as much as they possibly could, instead sharpening their skill in every facet of the process that could be done with eyes and hands and a keyboard. Tactile, satisfying. But when they continued to hit obstacles that couldn’t be cleared from the physical side of the screen, when they had finally overcome their revulsion enough to go under the knife one last time to have a meshjack installed, they did the only other thing that seemed reasonable.

They got fast.

As their mind swirled and readjusted to the change in perception, they imagined cupping the worm in their hands, and knew that it was now within a little pocket of onboard storage inside the jack, ready to be deployed alongside the array of other programs they had loaded there for intrusions. None of those should be needed to begin with, this was a route they had already mapped out specifically so they would not need to linger. Then the nothingness of the mesh fully closed up around them and within a heartbeat they were on the move–in a sense. Navigating the public expanse of the mesh was largely effortless and unremarkable, their subconscious hardly having time to settle on a clear visual translation for their marathon sprint through their previous steps, out of the familiar (relative) comfort of their own system, zig-zagging through a handful of tethered machines to disguise their trace, and finally shouldering their way inside NervAMP’s servers through an unprotected wi-fi enabled conference room light system. It was a hilariously irresponsible oversight (Ilya would make sure it was hilarious in the retelling, even if they felt sick with the discomfort now), and not the first one they had ever taken advantage of. Last time they had been trying to get out.

Once inside, they paused. Their surroundings were beginning to take on shapes and patterns, artificial daylight spread across white walls, long clean lines and tasteful chestnut accents, floor to ceiling glass panels dividing hallways from meeting rooms from offices from employee lounges without any of the rhyme or reason a physical building would demand. Ilya’s mind squirmed and protested against the visual, and they might have shuddered if they could still feel their own body. But they would need to go deeper than this. They were on the administrative level, and while meddling with NervAMP’s employee schedules and canceling their next delivery of office supplies would be amusing, it wouldn’t make the trip worthwhile.

Still. Maybe on the way out.

Ilya strove to navigate the halls with purpose–if they left too many meandering traces in the mesh, NervAMP’s MAID would be on them immediately. They had never been allowed to walk these halls alone before (they had never walked these halls, they reminded themself, and they weren’t walking them now), and there was a nagging irrational fear that someone would catch them and walk them back to Carter, sitting patiently behind his desk in one of these non-Euclidian offices waiting to waste Ilya’s time with more condescending bureaucracy. Their subconscious offered up the impression of people moving around them, bustling footsteps and clattering mailcart wheels and snatches of conversation, though it was always around a corner, across a room, behind a closed door. Ghosts of other people on the network, going about their business. Eventually Ilya began to settle into the flow of traffic, get a picture of where people were lingering and how to avoid them. As they dug deeper into the company’s directories, the architecture began to shift around them. Less glass, less tasteful accents, more thick doors and keypads.

This was worse. The memories stirred up by the upper levels were the ones that left them bitter and frustrated. These were the ones that made their skin crawl and their hands tremble–or would have, if they were still in their body, which only accentuated the distance and added an extra dimension to the discomfort. The halls they were traversing felt strange, somehow too narrow, too constricting, and yet uncomfortably spacious and empty at the same time, and they couldn’t shake the growing sensation of eyes on them. Housekeeping, they thought, sighing internally. The MAID’s attention was on them now. They picked up the pace again, focus darting back and forth as they tried to judge what felt like the best spot in this warren of half-data-half-memories to set off a bomb. Of course they weren’t going to shake the MAID that way, nothing about their behavior now could be interpreted as anything other than an intrusion, even to the most incompetently trained algorithm. So they started forcing doors, cracking passwords and spoofing credentials without much remaining concern for the fingerprints they were leaving behind. It wouldn’t matter once the worm had done its job anyway.

Then they shoved open a pair of double doors and stopped cold. They’d found the spot.

The advantage of meshjack visualizations was that they could translate innate, subconscious knowledge into something immediately comprehensible. An encrypted file became a lockbox, network traces became footprints, an intrusion countermeasure became a tripwire. In this case, Ilya’s subconscious had translated the best layer of the directory to deploy the worm into the one room they would have most liked to torch. The operating theater.

An approximation of it, at least, the surgical table standing cold and impassive at its center like some grim monument haloed by the blaring lights overhead, leaving the rest of the room draped in ambiguous shadows. Ilya took a step forward-

And froze, pain arcing through their nerves. There was a sensation of weight bearing down on them, of a crushing pressure fixing them in place and determined to grind them down into the ground.

The MAID. Locked on, running a final check before it tried to forcefully eject them from the system.

Not fast enough.

They resisted the temptation to glance behind them–MAIDs weren’t programmed to look like anything, they were invisible specters inside the network, and whatever Ilya’s own mind could supply would only serve to further disrupt their focus and make them an easier target. They had a counter-countermeasure for this, they didn’t need to panic. It would only work once, and not for long, but they only needed a few uninterrupted seconds. Probably. They turned their focus inward, called up one of those little executables inside the meshjack storage. The MAID clawed at them with greater determination, certain now that they were an interloper that needed to be removed, and they were grateful for the layers of obfuscation they had wrapped around their signal but no amount of reminding themself that this was all in their head was making it not hurt.

Then their form shuddered, flickered, and a second copy of it stepped away and moved purposefully back through the door. Ilya kept stock still, not even daring to look too closely at anything yet, but they felt the pressure of the MAID’s focus lift slightly, hesitantly, and then pull away completely as it peeled off to investigate the new intrusion.

That wouldn’t take long. The decoy wasn’t programmed to do anything but move up and down through directories in an extremely conspicuous manner, the MAID wouldn’t need more than a few moments to snuff it out. Ilya bolted into the room, fell forward and grabbed either side of the surgical table in front of them, and urged the worm into action. There was the briefest hesitation, a single microsecond just long enough for them to worry that it wouldn’t deploy right–

And then it went to work. Fissures opened up on the surface of the table under Ilya’s hands, splitting and spreading in every direction, pouring over the sides and across the floor and leaving Ilya with the impression of fractures shooting out across a pane of glass from a single impact point, of the room losing cohesion before their eyes. (Of rot.) If it could keep up that pace, they dared to imagine it could eat half the archive before anyone quarantined it. If they’d had a voice inside the mesh, they might have laughed.

Their time ran out before they fully registered what had happened. The MAID came down on them like a hurricane, likely with the same force it had brought to bear against their decoy, leaving them with the sensation of being ripped away by a vicious windstorm as everything cut to featureless white.

Then they were out of the mesh, fumbling with the cable plugged into their brainstem the second they had enough fine motor control to reach for it. Once it was out they flicked it away like a live snake, all their triumph and satisfaction of a moment ago forgotten. Sharp, ragged breaths punctuated the silence–my breaths, they assured themself, as they stared down at hands that felt clumsy, distant and out of focus in exactly the way they had dreaded. They flexed their fingers, straining to feel and notice the bend of each joint as they closed their hands into fists and then opened them again, then slouched forward to press their palms to their forehead as they drew in and then released one long, deliberate sigh. Then another. A half-conscious desire to feel contained wrapped their arms tight and close around their own torso–a mistake, they realized too late, as their fingertips found the subtly raised edges of the inlays that spread across their arms, an elegant metallic map of the contours of their musculature. They shuddered, as the sickening impulse to pick, scratch, dig flared alongside a familiar and inescapable thought.

Those aren’t your hands. Those aren’t your arms.

They abruptly let go again, stretched their arms out in front of them, groaned when one of their shoulders popped. That finally made them aware that they’d been holding their truly horrendous posture for far too long, so they unfolded themself, rose to their feet, and stretched properly, taking a sort of perverse satisfaction in the way their stiff and protesting muscles affirmed to them they were in fact here and fully present inside their own skin. Then another reminder: their stomach growled insistently. They grimaced and peered down at the clock on their terminal. Measuring time in the mesh was challenging but their access log said it had only been about twenty minutes. They must have already worked straight through dinner and into the evening when they went in, because it was coming up on 22:00 now. Too late to go out or order anything in. Too late to cook either, especially with the kind of headspace they were in, but as they wandered out of the glorified walk-in closet that had evolved into their workroom, and through the equally modest rest of their apartment, they figured they could scrounge up something.

[homestuckreplay]

if EOA1 is so good how come there's no EOA2??

(page 533-541)

8/24/2009 Wheel Spin: Parent Bad :( Verdict: Child Bad (Destroying House)

8/25/2009 Wheel Spin: Dramatic Irony Verdict: We, The Audience, Know Nothing

The bathtub returns! The imp/bathtub comedy routine is fun (and this is my favorite color palette I’ve seen for an imp yet) and I’m delighted to finally see the RANCOROUS mood put to use. Some of these pages have very cool visuals – p.535 is very well animated, where we see through the wall x-ray vision style with a fuzzy view of the study, and then when the bathtub smashes through the wall, the inside of the hole comes into focus. John gazing up through the ceiling holes at the first gate far above on p.539 is also great. And Rose and John’s radically different ideas of what might be in Dad’s room nicely highlights their different view of parental figures. John goes for the simplest explanation, tied to the one personality trait he most associated with his dad, while Rose is second guessing everything, and assumes that parents are keeping sinister secrets.

I’m still enjoying Homestuck, there’s still a lot to love, but Act 2 is feeling very directionless right now. This past week or so is the clearest it’s ever been that this story is written by reader suggestions, a large group of people who all have different goals concerning the characters and plot. It’s very much the session of a D&D campaign where the players get distracted roleplaying with every shopkeep in town and the DM does nothing to guide them forward on their party’s quest. It is easy to forgive Act 1 for this or even not notice it, because it’s doing the hard work of setting up the world, and we learn new things every page even when nothing is ‘happening.’ I have less patience with it in Act 2, now that we have a bunch of lore and mechanics setting up what looks to be an incredible story.

The Act 2 thumbnails have gone onto a second line on the adventure map, so it seems like this act is not coming to its end any time soon. Act 1 kicked into high gear at around the 70-75% mark with the Cruxtruder’s countdown, and I’m hoping something similar will happen soon with Act 2. Even if it continues to meander along the way, I think having a Clearly Defined Goal for the act would improve the story a lot.

Some possible ideas for what this endpoint could be:

The nebulous danger surrounding Rose’s house becomes more pronounced, causing the generator or mausoleum to catch fire, making her entry into the game more urgent

Dave successfully installs the game, and Rose now has to navigate the alchemy process outdoors while battling the elements

John hits another ‘plot tunnel’ in Sburb where his progression towards the First Gate is now immediately necessary or else he risks losing the game, possibly an advance by the forces of darkness against the forces of light

John finds something in the safe in the study and/or in his dad’s room that either puts more urgency on finding his dad, or gives John a different quest unrelated to the game, causing his and Rose’s goals to be at odds

Some potential obstacles that could show up on the way to these goals:

Dave’s brother shows up and tries to prevent him from getting the Sburb Beta, similar to Dad blocking John on p.90

GG is introduced and impacts the story in some way, perhaps trying to get their friends to quit Sburb due to foreseeing its dangers to them

The Vagabond gets John seriously hurt by giving him irrelevant commands while Rose isn’t able to save him from dangerous

The damage Rose is causing to John’s house from throwing furniture through the walls causes its foundations to become unstable, threatening to topple all the building work done so far

A new and more dangerous enemy type, such as a rook, spawns in John’s house

John himself is unable to access his dad’s room, due to the same field of static Sburb has set up, until he completes a different quest

I’ll stay patient, and I definitely won’t stop reading just because the story is taking its time, but I am keeping an eye out for these moments that there’s no coming back from.

[bellasmumblingsandmusings]

Interlude: What a Day...

Previously: Prologue Tumblr Link for Prologue, Chapter One; Chapter Two, Chapter 3, Interlude Chapter 4 Chapter 5, Chapter 6 Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 Chapter 9 , Chapter 10

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. NSFW, Ethical and non Ethical BDSM, noncon, some allusions to sexual violence, flashbacks to sexual violence, discussions of sexual violence, dubious boundaries, attempted sexual violence, dubcon, blood licking/blood kink, reference to cheating behavior, emotional trauma, group sex, sex, smutt, anxiety, negative thinking, sexual trauma, recovery, healing, angst,

Word count: 74K total

Status: Ongoing

(Chapter 11, Aug 28th)

Song for this Chapter: Elastic Heart -Sia

Entire Story Link on AO3 Spotify Playlist AO3

After the Jump!

Interlude: What a Day…

The First Day...

The morning sun cast long, eerie shadows across the cobblestones outside Gale’s imposing wizard tower in Waterdeep, filling the crisp air with the scent of damp earth and lingering magic. Astarion paced nearby, his steps deliberate and measured. Look at me, reduced to pacing like a mortal. How charming, he thought, his mind racing. He needed to approach Sima with a clear head, to articulate his desires without the anger that had clouded their previous encounter. His crimson eyes flickered with determination as he took a deep breath, smoothing his clothes before stepping forward and calling out, voice steady yet tinged with urgency.

“Sima!”

His call echoed through the morning air, breaking the silence and drawing the attention of any passers-by. As he waited, Astarion took one more deep breath, gathering his thoughts and preparing himself for the difficult conversation to come. What a wretched irony, to cling to shadows while craving the light. Perhaps I’m nothing more than the monster I feared becoming. Despite his cool exterior, his heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. He would do anything to convince her to join him, even if it meant revealing a softer side he usually kept hidden.

Sima emerged onto the balcony from the night before, leaning over the railing. She wore a powder-blue dress, and her long black ringlets swung in the soft breeze of morning. "Well, look at what the tressym dragged in. I half-expected you to show up with your ghouls in tow. Nice to see reason prevails. What’s it to be? Demands? Threats? Promises?" she said, her tone weary as she stood high above him.

"Ah, my love," Astarion greeted her with a wry smile, tilting his head back to look up at her. "Still playing the part of the aloof lady in high places, I see. But no, no threats or demands this time. I’m here for a less... confrontational discussion." He took a moment to compose himself, his gaze never leaving hers, before continuing with a measure of earnestness he would usually hide. "I wish to talk, not as adversaries, but as... partners. You and me."

"Right, partners. Hmmm, I have to say you sound convincing. Vaguely. Wolf in sheep's clothing, no less. Fine, fly on up, but remember Gale has wards in place to keep me safe and sound right here," Sima said with a smirk, appreciating the countermeasures she had devised with her friend. The wind kicked up her powder-blue dress, revealing her legs and deep brown skin.

"Oh, I'm a wolf alright. You can trust me. At least, a little."

Astarion flew up in his bat form before transforming back. His eyes roamed over her, taking in the view and the way her legs were revealed by the wind. Ah, to taste the sweetness of her skin again. He had missed her so much, he had ached and burned for her presence, and now she was here, so close. He longed to touch, to kiss, to taste, but that would come in time... if he played his cards right.

"I think I prefer the bat, honestly. Oddly enough, you're less biting in that form. Get on with it, will you?" Sima leaned back against the railing of the balcony, eyeing him with suspicion and watching him as he walked around her. She crossed her bare legs under her dress, the wind of the high balcony blowing her black ringlet curls.

"Ah, but what's the fun in that? All you'd be doing is sitting here, watching me fly around. No, I much prefer this form, all the interesting things I can do. Wouldn't you agree, dear?" Astarion walked around her, circling, studying, eyeing every part of her with an intensity and desire. He stopped in front of her, his eyes still drawn to her legs, though his gaze slowly traveled up her body, along her neck, and landed on her face. Is this Cazador’s legacy? A wretched creature, clinging to power like a lifeline, even as it poisons everything it touches? He dismissed the thought. No, I’ve surpassed that miserable wretch. But still, here I am, clinging to power... It’s almost amusing how little has changed.

Sima scowled. "Considering all your utter bullshit last night and how you've treated me prior to my last month in hiding, you have some gall to look at me like that. You haven't earned the right to look at me like that," Sima said, quickly walking away, frustrated by his flippant attitude and thinking he could simply charm his way out of his horrid behavior. He had nearly killed her chasing her down in Baldur's Gate and nearly taking her by force in the Enclave weeks ago.

Astarion followed her around the balcony, matching her as she walked. Losing her... The final death? How poetic. The last vestige of the man I was, slipping through the fingers of a god. How utterly laughable. He maintained his composure, his voice softening as he spoke. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Have I not earned the right to admire the woman who holds all my heart in her hands? Shall I gouge out my eyes so you are spared my gaze? Or would you rather I stop pursuing you? Stop trying. Stop loving you?" He stopped in front of her, blocking her path. He reached out, gently tracing her cheek with his fingers. His voice softened as he spoke.

Sima looked at him, square in the eyes. "Tell me, did you come here to trade barbs with me, or is there an actual use to you being here this morning? Otherwise, I would be happy to shove you off the balcony and see if you bounce when you hit the bottom of the cobblestones," Sima said before walking around him back to the door of her quarters connected to the balcony.

Astarion followed her again, though faster this time, and grabbed her wrist before she could get through the door. "No, no more of this. I'm not here to trade barbs with you." His voice was harsh, his grip on her wrist tight. He stepped closer, closing the gap between them. He reached out with his free hand, gently cupping her chin and forcing her to look at him. "I'm here because I have to talk to you. Because I'm not going anywhere until you listen to me."

Sima pulled away and raised her hand. "You want to talk, then talk. No touching. Got it? Say what you need to say," Sima said, crossing her arms and looking at him with pure frustration etched on her features.

Astarion grimaced. He didn't like being denied the ability to touch her, to touch his dear. What remains of me without you, darling? A god, perhaps, but a hollow one—clinging to the power that now feels like ash in my mouth. But he took a step back anyway. He knew if he pushed it further, he would get nowhere at all. "Fine. I'll keep my hands to myself. At least for now."

Astarion let out a frustrated sigh. He was struggling to control his emotions, to keep from shouting, screaming at her to listen to him. Madness... or simply the next step in this ascension? Descending into darkness—I should have expected as much. How delightfully tragic. He took a breath, composing himself. "I'm sorry. For everything."

"Oh, there's quite a bit. Say, the hunt with your wolves. The bats. Oh, let's not forget the insane way you behaved back in Baldur's Gate at the Enclave, wanting to claim me. What, all of that is gone now, a month onwards?" Sima said, her face a visage of disdain. He had tried to force her to be with him, and she wasn't backing down.

Astarion's face soured as he heard her words, not the sweet sound of her voice. No, it was what she said that set him off. He clenched his jaw, his eyes hardening as he met her gaze. "No, it's not gone! Gods curse it, can you not understand? I want you, I want you to be mine!" he snapped back, his voice cold and sharp. "Is that really so much to ask? To want to protect you, to have you by my side always? To take care of you?"

"Oh, is that your offer? Protection? Partnership? Remember you said it yourself, we are partners right up against when it comes down to your authority over me. That's not a partnership, that's a farce!" Sima said, turning away from him and then coming back with her finger pointed. "And let's not forget your little game of kidnapping me after the ball and trying to keep me hostage. Your safety is a cage, Astarion."

Astarion's temper flared, his eyes narrowing in anger. The mention of the kidnapping and the threats sent a wave of frustration through him. You really are intent on making this difficult, aren't you? He took a deep breath, trying to maintain what little composure he had left. "And what would you prefer?" he snapped back, his voice low and menacing. "To be out on your own with no one watching your back? No one to protect you when you sleep at night? No one to care what happens to you?"

He moved closer to her, glaring down at her with an intensity that belied his facade of civility.It’s laughable, really—this tug-of-war between what I was and what I’ve become. Do you even see it, Sima? He clenched his hands into fists, the frustration and anger bubbling up inside of him. He'd tried to have a civil conversation with her, tried to explain himself, but it seemed like she just didn't understand.

"Oh, you think you can handle yourself, do you? You think you're strong enough to fend off every threat, to face the dangers of the world alone?" he retorted, his voice filled with mockery. Foolish, to think she can stand alone in this world. And yet... there’s something terrifying in her defiance—something I cannot control.

He took another step closer to her, towering over her, his eyes flashing. "I think you need to look into the mirror and realize the darker reasons you offer these things to me. Look at what you want. Look at how far you are willing to go to get it. You've already chased me across the Sword Coast. How far are you truly willing to go to make me stay?" Sima said, drawing a line between his supposed protection and dominance.

"You think I'm afraid to go further? I've come this far already, my love. Don't think I won't take whatever steps necessary to get what I want," Astarion said, his voice low and dangerous. He took yet another step towards her, closing the distance between them to mere inches. Would she even recognize me if I revealed how deeply this cuts? No. That’s a weakness I cannot afford. "I will do whatever it takes, Sima. If you think I'm going to let you slip through my fingers, you're sorely mistaken."

"If that's true, then do the thing that you are afraid to do. Respect what I want. My choices, the time to make them, and the desire that you need to recognize that I stand toe to toe with you. No half measures, no lies, no omissions or exceptions. You throw the offer of true vampirism at me, and just expect me to say yes. Well, damn you, and your fucking pride, I will not just give in," Sima said, softly pushing him back to give her some space on the balcony where they stood.

Astarion's face twisted into a snarl as she pushed him back, and he fought the urge to grab her and pull her close again. Her refusal rankled him, and his blood boiled with a mixture of frustration and desire. Of course, she resists. They always resist. But this time... this time, I won’t let go. "You really are intent on making this difficult, aren't you?" he said, his voice still low and his words dripping with sarcasm. "I am offering you everything, and you still refuse?! Do you not understand what that kind of power means? The things we could do together?"

"The power you would have. What's to say you will turn me into a true vampire? What's to say you won't just turn me into a spawn and have at it? What's to say that we don't have two thrones but one where you sit and me on a leash? All you've painted for me is this perfect picture, but what does sharing power with another vampire even look like to you? Especially in your domain," Sima said, challenging him, trying to pull out the kernels of truth in this fantasy he had woven.

Astarion's hands clenched into tight fists, but he refrained from grabbing her. A leash? Darling, that’s hardly romantic, is it? He tried to maintain his composure, trying to keep the sharp edge out of his voice. "We'd be equal partners, sweetheart. Or is that not what you want? I thought you were the type to crave adventure and power. Well, here it is, right in front of you. We could have that, together. Isn't that what you want?"

Sima looked into his crimson eyes. "Gods, it's like being back at camp all over again. The allure, the lure of power. Trying to get me to agree. Except now it's not a bite or blood, it's the very nature of who I am. I know you, I see you. You hunted me down, forcing me to stay. And now you dangle this instead of offering me a glimpse of who you once were. You refuse to let me in and don't blame the ascension. It's you choosing to cut yourself off. To be this... thing."

Astarion's nostrils flared as she spoke, her words cutting into him with a harshness that he couldn't deny. He wanted to protest, to defend himself, but the truth was that she was right. And what would you have me do? Lay my heart at your feet to be trampled on? I’m a vampire, my love. It’s in my nature to be possessive, dominant, and yes—to demand obedience. That’s who I am, dear. You of all people should know that.

"That's such a load of horseshit. You think I've been lying around doing nothing for a month in Waterdeep? I've read everything I can on your kind, everything. And let me tell you, you have a chance here to be something different. So if you want anything from me, you want this compromise you so delicately put together? Then you need to change. Don't bother coming to speak with me until you do. I am done with the threats, I am done with you not seeing me," Sima said, pressing a finger to his sternum before turning and going back to her balcony room, slamming the door behind her.

Astarion let out a frustrated growl as the door slammed, and he clenched his fists in anger. Her stubborn insistence on resisting me is more infuriating than my own internal battle against these cursed instincts. For a few minutes, he stood at the door, seething. His mind warred between the urge to force his way in, to use his strength to take what he wanted, and the knowledge that such an action would only drive her further away. But would that be so bad? To claim her by force, to finally end this tiresome game of wills?

With a curse, he turned away and stalked toward the balcony, transforming into his bat form and flying back down, endeavoring to continue their battle of wills in the coming days.

The Second Day...

The night had settled deep over Waterdeep when Astarion knocked on Gale's door, his composure masking the anticipation simmering beneath. The door opened to reveal Gale, who greeted him with a nod. Astarion’s gaze immediately found Sima across the room, her posture tense and her eyes sharp. She was a vision in her short leather skirt and black crop top, reminiscent of their earlier days—a reminder of the power she held over him.

“Gale, can you give us a moment, please?” Sima’s voice was tight, barely concealing the storm of emotions brewing inside her. He’s here again. Why can’t he just leave me alone? She tried to keep her composure, but the sight of him stirred a complicated mix of emotions—anger, longing, and something darker.

Gale hesitated, his eyes flicking between them, before he nodded. “Of course, take as long as you need,” he said, exiting with Tara following close behind.

Astarion didn’t move immediately, savoring the sight of Sima. His gaze was predatory, tracing the curve of her legs, the rise and fall of her chest, and the way her hair framed her face. He smirked, a calculated move to disarm her. “Well, hello there, darling,” he purred, his voice low and laden with promise.

That voice... gods, why does he have to sound like that? Sima’s pulse quickened despite herself. She hated that he still had this effect on her, hated how easily he could make her feel weak. But she refused to let him see it.

“This time using the front door. How much did you hate that instead of sneaking around like a thief in the night?” Sima’s words were sharp, but Astarion caught the flicker of something else in her eyes—something he could work with.

“Oh, you know me, darling. I do enjoy a surprise now and then.” He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate, as if stalking prey. “But today, I thought a more... civilized approach was in order.”

Civilized... Sima almost laughed. He was anything but. Yet, as he closed the distance between them, the air between them crackled with tension, thick and palpable. Astarion’s gaze lingered on her lips, then trailed down to the curve of her neck, exposed and tempting. “And yes,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned in, his breath brushing against her ear, “I’ve come to make my case, again.”

This is a game to him, Sima reminded herself, though the proximity of his lips to her ear sent a shiver down her spine. He’s always been so damn good at this... She stiffened, trying to regain control. “Well, the condemned man comes to visit. Only fitting I listen,” she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts. “What’s it to be today? Threats? Pleas for partnership?”

Astarion chuckled, the sound dark and seductive. “Oh, my love, you think you have me all figured out, don’t you?” He moved closer, his body almost brushing against hers. The heat of him, the scent of him—leather, spice, and something uniquely Astarion—was intoxicating. “But I’m full of surprises.”

Surprises, she thought, her heart racing despite herself. That’s one way to put it. His fingers brushed her arm, sending a jolt of electricity through her. The connection was instant, a sharp reminder of how easily he could affect her, and wholly unwelcome. She hated that he still had this power over her.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her arm, trailing up to her shoulder, where he let them linger, his touch both a caress and a claim. “No threats,” he whispered, his lips dangerously close to her ear. “No kidnappings. Just a civilized talk. But I must say, dear,” he continued, his voice a soft, dangerous murmur, “you look absolutely divine in that skirt.”

Sima’s breath hitched, the words stirring something deep within her. Damn it... She could feel the chill of his nose against the warmth of her neck, the contrast sending shivers down her spine. This is exactly what he wants. Don’t let him win... She steeled herself, trying to ignore the pull he had on her, the way her body responded to his every move. “If you think I don’t know what you’re doing, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment,” she said, her voice wavering as she tried to maintain her defiance. “There was a time when it was sincere, you know. Not a game or a ploy.”

Astarion sighed against her skin, his breath hot and tantalizing. “You assume I’m not sincere every time I touch you,” he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “But I always have a reason for what I do. It’s true, but that doesn’t mean it’s not heartfelt. I want to be close to you, always.”

Always... The word echoed in her mind, twisting something deep inside her. But what does that mean when it comes from someone like him? He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him. For a moment, she allowed herself to melt into his embrace, feeling the softness beneath his exterior. The possessive creature he had become wasn’t dangerous in this moment. But she knew better than to trust this calm.

His hands traced the curves of her hips, thighs, and waist, each touch more intimate, more possessive than the last. “You cannot truly fear me,” he whispered, his voice a low, seductive growl. “You know I would sooner die than allow harm to come to you.”

Sima let him hold her, her body betraying her resolve as it melted into his embrace. Why does it feel so safe, so... right? she wondered, her heart conflicted. For a moment, she allowed herself to drown in the sensation—the safety and danger, the pleasure and pain. But as his lips trailed along her cheek, her mind screamed for her to stop, to remember the pain he had caused her before. She pushed back, the movement breaking the spell he had cast over her. “No,” she whispered, almost to herself. “No, I deserve more than just this.”

Astarion’s heart ached as she pulled away, leaving him with a hollow emptiness. He stared at her, his breath ragged, his eyes filled with a mixture of longing and disappointment. “More than just this?” he repeated, his voice laced with frustration and disbelief. “What more do you want from me, dear? I’m giving you everything I have.”

Everything... The word sounded hollow in her mind. But is it really? Sima’s eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let them fall. “Trust, respect, to give me more than your body and to give me the part of you that is still there. That softness,” she said, her voice filled with anger and hurt. “I don’t know what’s worse. Knowing that you want to have control over me or not trusting me with all of you. You were always so much more to me than just your body, you know that.”

Astarion’s expression darkened as her words stung him to the core. He knew she was right, that there was more to himself that he was holding back. “You want that softness, do you?” he said through clenched teeth, “I tried to give it to you, dear, and look where it got me. The world doesn’t care if you’re kind, it doesn’t care if you’re vulnerable. It will tear you apart the moment you let your guard down.”

“How can you not trust me? I am not the rest of the world, I have bled with you, fought with you. How can you still not know better after all this time?” Sima looked at him incredulously, deeply pained and furious.

Astarion ran a hand through his hair, his frustration at himself and her frustration at him mixing into a toxic brew of emotion. “It’s not a question of trust, dear. It’s a question of survival. When you’ve been hurt as many times as I have, it’s hard to believe that any kind hand out there is genuine, that anyone isn’t just waiting to stab you in the back. It’s easier to take what you want before it can be taken from you.”

Survival? Sima thought, her anger flaring again. And what am I, in that calculation? “Well, you cannot take my love. I am not a thing to be conquered, I am not a thing to be won. I need us to be different. If I can’t find shelter with you, who can I find shelter with? If I can’t trust you, who in this godsforsaken world can I trust? Don’t you see? It’s not fair to me, to offer up pleasure and hold back the very thing that I need,” Sima said, opening up her hands as if she was willing to accept him if he could do this.

The sheer raw emotion of Sima’s outburst hit Astarion like a punch to the gut. He felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over him—anger, guilt, helplessness.

“Dammit, Sima!” he exclaimed, his voice almost choked with frustration. “Of course, it’s not fair! Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t want it too? But every time we’ve tried this before, it’s gone wrong. Every time, I’ve ended up getting hurt!”

And what about me? Sima’s heart pounded with both anger and sorrow. You’re not the only one who’s suffered. “No! No. Don’t you dare bring up me leaving you! You know that was because of your need for control. You know it’s because you tried to force me into being your spawn. You know it was more about your need to keep everything as it was, than to let me in! You grasp at control and you push me away!” Sima yelled back, her voice echoing in Gale’s drawing room.

Astarion’s expression hardened, a storm of emotions raging in his eyes. “That’s rich, coming from you! You’re no saint in this, darling! You always act so high and mighty, but you’re not perfect. You’re not some shining beacon of good that can fix all my flaws. Maybe I do grasp for control, maybe I need control, just like you need to be all sweet and gentle and kind! Maybe that’s just who we are!”

Sweet and gentle? Sima’s anger flared. Is that all he sees? “Don’t you dare be sarcastic. You know I am being honest, and all you do, yet again, is run away. Maybe I left, but you ran first. You run from me, you run from yourself, and you run from what you are becoming!” Sima’s voice rose, filled with hurt and anger.

Astarion’s frustration boiled over, his control slipping even further. “And what exactly is it, dear, that I’m becoming, huh? A tyrant? A monster?” Astarion’s voice dripped with venom, the words laced with both anger and something deeper, a fear he refused to name. “Go on, say it! Say what we both know you’re thinking!”

Sima’s breath caught in her throat. “You’re becoming him. I am afraid, and you are becoming him.”

The words struck him like a physical blow. He recoiled, but then something dark within him, something Ascendant, twisted the pain into anger, defiance. “And I suppose I should just let that get the better of me, is that it? Change who I am just to make you happy? I’m stronger than that, dear. I won’t shrink back just because you’re afraid I’m becoming him. I made a choice, I decided who I would be, and I will see it through. Your hands are just as bloody as mine, darling!”

Sima looked at him in dismay. “Then why even be here? Why keep trying if you think it’s pointless? Do you actually expect me to look past this? I may have helped you ascend, and yes, those bodies are on me, but I have suffered for a year since we parted. You know what happened to me in Calimport, you know the pain I feel every day! Don’t say I haven’t paid because I have. I lost you, and I lost myself the day you ascended.”

“You left me,” he shot back, stung at the implication that he hadn't suffered too in their separation, in some ways more than she had. He closed the gap between them, grabbing her shoulders, his fingers digging in just tightly enough to keep her from backing away. “You left me alone in that damned, empty, cold palace. I needed you.”

Sima pulled away. “And I need you to see me, to recognize me, to not push me away or push me behind you. Do you remember what you were like during those months when I was with you? Do you remember beginning to put me under your thumb? Of course not, because that doesn't matter, does it?! Love isn’t enough to get past this, and neither is sex. I need something more, and I have told you time and time again what that is, but you refuse me,” Sima said resoundingly before walking around him and leaving him in Gale’s drawing room as she left, going back up the stairs of the tower.

Astarion watched her leave, seething internally at the memory she brought up. He could remember, to an extent—flashes of memory more than anything. Not enough to know exactly what he’d said, but enough to know it had been unkind, dismissive, controlling. Enough to hate himself for it. He followed after her.

“Where are you going? I’m not done with you yet!”

Gale calmly walked in front of him before the stairs. “Oh yes, you are, my friend. Sima is the one who is the injured party in these talks, lest you forget. So I’m afraid if the lady says no... at least in my tower, it means that’s the end of that. Now, I am happy to entertain you with a bottle of something stiff, considering you might need it.”

Astarion scowled at Gale, bristling at being denied, being told he wasn’t needed or wanted, being denied what was his. But he also wasn’t in the mood to fight with Gale over this. “Fine. But whatever you give me, make it stronger than a child’s drink, would you?”

Gale humbly smirked and turned to fetch two bottles, leaving Astarion alone with Tara. The tressym eyed him with open boredom and disdain before speaking. “Honestly,” she said under her breath, her whiskers fluttering.

Astarion eyed the creature warily, taking in Tara’s unamused look. He sat down on the floor, looking up at her with a guarded expression. He could feel that she was no fan of him. “Yes, yes, I know, I’m detestable, I’ve heard it before.”

Tara looked at him and, like a regal creature, quickly stretched as if his personal issues were somewhat beneath her. “No, well, yes, Mr. Ancunin, but honestly, you’d think a vampire would have more charm. Yelling at the lady will do you no favors,” the weary tressym said, licking her fur and ruffling her wings.

Astarion bristled defensively. “And you’d think some mangy animal would know better than to interfere in people’s affairs,” he retorted, crossing his arms. “You have no idea what our relationship is like, so you should keep your mouth shut.”

Tara went on her hind legs and hissed at Astarion, her fur raised just in time for him to hiss back at her, like two territorial cats in one space.

“Don’t you dare hiss at me, you miserable wretch,” Astarion hissed, baring his fangs at her. At this moment, even Tara’s interference was the last thing he was in the mood to take.

Gale walked in talking, not even aware of the territorial hissing happening as he came in with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “So let me tell you about this whiskey, my mother—what in the bleeding hells is going on here?” Gale looked from Tara, who had her hackles raised, to Astarion, who looked like some pacing feline.

“Your bloody cat is the problem,” Astarion protested, his voice rising in volume as his frustration over the issue spilled over onto the wizard. He was in no mood to discuss the finer points of this. “She’s here, again, meddling in my business. I don’t remember requesting any furry creatures to witness every moment of my day, and yet there she is, judging me every sodding minute.”

“Perhaps you deserve it, especially with how you treat your supposed lady. Mr. Dekarios, I think I shall check on our lovely Sima and leave you with the ...stray,” Tara hissed before flapping her wings and flying up the tower. Gale shot Astarion a hot gaze and shoved the bottle and glass into his hands. “Pour yourself a glass and get out of my tower. Looks like I have more trouble of yours to clean up,” Gale said, shaking his head as he left.

Astarion looked at the whiskey in his hand and took a long swig directly from the bottle before walking off to leave the tower, taking the bottle with him. As he walked, he muttered under his breath, “It’s all bloody well my own gods-damned business in the first place. Nosy feline. Interfering wizard.”

Astarion walked down the streets of the city, drinking his whiskey. The night around him was cold, the wind blowing through his hair. As he walked, he passed a few shady figures and some people clearly just looking for a good time. He had no doubt he could find some way to kill the evening, but none would bring him what he actually wanted, and that thought only made him more bitter. He took another long swig, letting the whiskey burn down his throat, filling his head with a buzzing haze.

What he could not forget were Sima’s parting words. Her desire for openness. Trust, to let her in. It gnawed at him, the very edges of what he thought he should be. Would be, as he was now, as a vampire lord. The burn of the whiskey did little to help the bitterness the conversation had left on his tongue.

He thought back to their conversation. A hundred times, a thousand times, her words echoed through his mind: “I do not want lies, I do not want distance. You do not trust me.” And she was right. He didn’t. He could not trust someone who had seen the darkest parts of him and still wanted to stay around. Who would willingly bind themselves to such a creature as me? But he would not be alone, not like that. That was not an existence he would accept, no matter what it cost. She will accept me, as I am, one way or another, he thought with a grim determination. He just had to convince her.

The Third Day...

Astarion paced in front of Gale's tower, the usual poise replaced by an uncharacteristic restlessness. The pale moon cast long shadows across the cobblestones, adding an eerie quality to the scene. He was done with waiting, with the delicate dance of words that masked his true desires. He called out, his voice sharper than usual, slicing through the dead of night.

"I have to talk to you! Now!"

The urgency in his tone betrayed his irritation. The words echoed in the quiet air, reflecting the tumult within him as he waited for her to appear.

Sima emerged onto the balcony in her nightrobe, her expression a mix of surprise and annoyance. "Are you drunk or just too sated on blood? Do you have any idea what hour it is?"

Astarion looked up, annoyance flickering across his face. He ran a hand through his hair, the charming facade slipping to reveal his frustration. "I don't give a damn what time it is. We need to talk, and we're doing it now."

Sima sighed, her eyes narrowing as she looked around. "Just so you know, the ward keeping me here extends beyond my balcony. I'll come down, just keep it down for gods' sake." With a muttered incantation, she cast Fly on herself and descended, her nightrobe billowing around her as she landed lightly on the cobblestones. "You'd better have a good explanation for this," she hissed.

Astarion's eyes followed her descent, his expression darkening. "No time for pleasantries, love," he said coldly. "This can't wait." He stepped towards her, his movements swift and purposeful. "We're done with the stalling, with the talking. I've made my position perfectly clear, but you've been avoiding the inevitable."

Sima's eyes flashed with anger. "What the hells does that mean? Your position is business as usual. Excuse me if an eternity under your thumb doesn't suit me!" Her voice was a hiss, her stance defiant.

He doesn’t understand—control is not love. I won’t be caged. Sima’s internal resolve was firm, but she couldn't help the slight tremor in her voice as she faced him.

"Under my thumb, is it?" Astarion retorted, irritation clear in his voice. "Funny, you never complained before. You seemed so willing, so eager to give yourself to me. What changed?" He stepped closer, his voice low and intense. "You used to be mine, dear. You used to be mine, and I was yours. We were partners, remember? Equals."

Sima's eyes blazed with fury. "Oh, we stopped being equals some time ago, beloved," she spat, the endearment dripping with sarcasm. "I remember us living together, and those months of you turning things around. Difference, singular authority. The one in control, always! You don't share power, Astarion. You hoard it, even in our relationship. I can never have a fair share!" Her fists clenched, her body trembling with emotion.

What has become of me? A ruler or a tyrant? She sees only the monster... Astarion briefly wondered, the doubt gnawing at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it aside, steeling himself.

"I turned things around? I raised your station, gave you a life of luxury and privilege you could never have hoped to achieve on your own! What more do you want, darling?" He took another step towards her, his voice sharper. "And this nonsense about equality? It's rubbish. You're free to do as you please, as long as it pleases me as well."

"So insidiously hidden, the small print," Sima shot back. "What is equality if not the ability to withstand a difference in opinion? Did you ever really value my opinion, or did you just want a tumble and never felt anything for me at all? If you can't see me as an equal, a true one with value, then you can take your offer of true vampirism and stick it. I will not suffer another day being made to feel less by you!" Her voice trembled with a volatile mix of pain and anger.

Astarion's eyes darkened, his features hardening. "Is that what you thought? That all I wanted was a plaything, a doll to entertain me?" he spat. "You think I never cared? Never felt anything for you?" His breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of her accusations hanging heavy in the air. "You know that's not true. You know it, dammit!"

"Says the man who once put me in a chokehold and kissed me in front of our friends. Or have you forgotten what you were like right after the Ascension? Convenient, isn't it?" Sima's voice cracked with the pain behind her words. She turned away, her black ringlets swaying with her movement.

Astarion's lips curled back, baring his fangs. "Oh, I haven't forgotten, love. I haven't forgotten a single moment, a single touch. You think I would forget how perfect you looked when you were beneath me, submitting to me?" His voice dripped with venom, the memory still fresh and painful. "You think I'd forget the way you looked at me, the defiance in your eyes?"

Sima turned and slapped him hard across the face, her hands trembling as she brought them to her lips in horror. She couldn't bear hearing him speak that way about something that had hurt her so deeply.

Astarion took the slap, his head snapping to the side with the force of it. But he did not wince, did not shrink back. Instead, he let out a low chuckle, rubbing his jaw as he slowly turned his head back to face her. "There she is," he said quietly, satisfaction lacing his words. "There's the fire I know so well."

How can love be both a prison and a promise? Sima’s inner voice was laced with fear and defiance, her heart torn between conflicting emotions.

Sima's eyes blazed with a mix of fury and pain. "I am... sorry. But you do not get to tote out one of my most painful moments and use it for a jest. You do not speak that way to me, ever. Do you understand me? Or I will burn whatever feelings I have for you. So help me by the gods, I will." Her voice trembled, her lip quivering.

Astarion's smile faded, his expression growing serious. "You wouldn't," he whispered, stepping closer. "You're bluffing. That fire within you, you can't deny it. You can't deny us, no matter how hard you fight it." He gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Don't lie to me. Don't you dare lie to me, my love."

"If you continue to treat me like this, I will do more than burn my feelings down for you. I will dance on the ashes," she spat, pushing his hand away. "You do not speak to me as if I am one of your whores. You understand me?" Her voice shook with anger and pain.

His hand dropped to his side, the smirk vanishing. "You think that's how I look at you? As if you were cheap flesh, some mere passing pleasure?" he sneered. "Don't insult me, darling. I may be many things, but I have never seen you as less than what you are." He took a step forward, his body rigid with tension. "You're mine. You will always be mine."

"Then never speak to me like that again. I will not stand for it," Sima said, crossing her arms, her brown eyes full of fury.

"And I will not stand for defiance." Astarion moved closer, his voice a low growl. "What, you expect me to simply ignore the way you behave? To ignore your insolence, your stubbornness, your willful disregard of my feelings?" His body was taut with anger, the lines of his face hardened.

"And do you think I will ignore your disrespect for who I am, my choices, and just give in to your selfish needs always? To ignore my very nature?" Sima shouted back, the tower behind her illuminated in moonlight. The light dappled on them both, highlighting the stark contrast between their desires.

Astarion's eyes narrowed, the veins in his neck standing out as his frustration grew. "Your selfishness, that's what this is about. Your refusal to yield, to submit to me." He lunged forward, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her closer, his grip tight enough to be painful. "You think I enjoy this, that I want to demand your obedience? I would do anything to make you happy if you would just give in."

Why does she resist? Can she not see that this is the only way? Astarion’s thoughts were laced with frustration and desperation as he tried to understand her resistance.

Sima took a deep breath and calmly pushed him away. She looked into his eyes, the brown irises dark and defiant. "No, I will not. I will not accept anything less than being your equal, your true equal. I will not come home with you," she said, softly prying his hands off her shoulders, her stance firm and sure.

He leaned down, his face just inches from hers. "Is it really so difficult to understand? If you would just do as I say, all of this pain, all of this difficulty, it would go away. It doesn't have to be like this, not between us." His hands slid up her arms and over her shoulders, coming to rest gently on either side of her neck, his thumbs lightly tracing her jawline. "Just give in to me, love, and I will make you happy. I promise you. Trust me."

But can I trust him? Can I trust myself? Sima’s thoughts swirled in turmoil as she looked into his eyes, feeling the weight of his words and the pull of his touch.

Sima looked into his crimson eyes and saw two sides of him fighting within—the man she loved and the Ascendant who wanted nothing more than to rule. She couldn't tell which side was winning. She softly removed his hands from her and closed her eyes. "I need time, time away from you to make this choice. I can't come with you to Baldur's Gate, not like this. Not with you like this," she said gently, holding his hands before letting go of them and stepping backward towards the tower.

Astarion's hands lingered on her neck for a moment before he reluctantly pulled away, his eyes dark and calculating in the night. "Time. You want time away from me? You want to think about this, to consider your options?"

He took a step back, his jaw clenching in frustration. "Very well. Have it your way, my love. Take your time. But remember this: no matter how far you run, no matter how long you wait, you will always belong to me."

Sima narrowed her eyes at him. "And perhaps you should take this time too. To see if you are willing to give the things I need, rather than just the things you wish to give me." She spoke softly before turning to head back inside Gale's Wizard Tower, the night air filling the space where she once stood as she closed the grand doors behind her, leaving Astarion on the cobblestones.

Astarion stood, watching the closed door for a long moment, his mind racing. Her words stung, though he made no effort to show it, his expression blank and cold. Damn her… I can’t lose her, but I can’t change either. His thoughts warred within him, the Ascendant in him pushing for control, the man in him yearning for something more.

He stood in place, alone in the night, until he finally turned and walked away, the echo of her words ringing in his mind like a warning bell, a challenge he refused to let slide. With a final, lingering look at the tower, Astarion turned away, his mind already plotting the next move. He would return, and next time, he would not leave without her.