#no preamble just here it is

[existwound]

to breathe in this mirage 

M | 52k | Completed | Keith/Lance

Chapter 4 Summary:

The warm glow of the red morning suns on Xrixa frames them in its light, glinting on their armor and their smiles, and Keith has his hair in a tiny ponytail at the nape of his neck, and Lance is slowly bleeding out right where he stands. It feels terrifyingly, viscerally real. He didn’t even know that this type of pain existed. He’s been shot before, he knows what that feels like, knows how it feels to have flesh and muscle and bone give way to an unyielding bullet, to a flash of light. And he might actually bleed out here, with his eyes glued to Keith. And all it took for him to experience this kind of pain was to feel all-encompassing, brazen love, and to have just that ripped away from him, have him plunge into a fall that he doesn’t know he’ll ever get up from if he manages to hit the ground at some point. All his life, Lance has loved too fiercely, fallen too hard and too deeply. And now, loving Keith is no exception.

or: the one where Lance unwillingly takes one for the team and wakes up ten years in the future. 

[fumifooms]

Do you think Kui retconned Kabru and Rin as a couple? It seems so strange how Kabru treats her if he views her as a sister

Rin & Kabru relationship analysis

Skip to the keep reading cut if you only want my Kabru & Rin thoughts. Tldr of the preamble is that I don't think Kui retconned anything but I don't think Kabru and Rin were ever meant to end up as a couple, but that doesn't mean that there's no way anything deeper or more complex is happening here. Under the keep reading is my pretty full analysis of Rin & Kabru, which I'll still cover in my full Kabru party analysis eventually.

1) People do debate about whether or not Kui changed her approach to a lot of her characters halfway through the story, Kabru, Thistle and Chilchuck to name some of the biggest ones. I've heard it be an explanation for the shapeshifters even, that it's a meta joke on how characters' old behavior and appearances have now become out of character. I personally believe nothing has been retconned, that all the characters are coherent and, perhaps more importantly, that regardless of later intent the early writing makes the characters more interesting and layered. Not that the idea of there being or needing retcons has no merit at all, for example forest goblins are in-world common knowledge to be found on the second floor, but we also learn later that "goblin" is a slur against half-foots, and knowing Dunmeshi's philosophy about humanoid monsters it's odd that they never ever come up again if they exist. The anime -and iirc adventurer's bible- kept there being goblins on the second floor of the dungeon, so much like Thistle's early appearance I have to believe it's a part of canon that's not meant to be retconned, ie that's canon and accepted as such, with some degree of intent. We do know that the climax of the manga was going to happen differently with what Kui was planning in the earlier manga days, with demon king dunlord Laios, too. Regardless of all this, for better or worse we have what we have now, and we must take it all into account as the whole picture of the work's story, setting and cast– starting to pick and choose what's actually canon from the canon story is just giving up and letting the world burn lol.

2) Kui is fearless when it comes to presenting us with complex layered relationships without feeling the need for them to explain themselves or offering full closure. Marcille canonically sees Falin as a friend. Laios' succubus was undebatably Marcille. Mickbell sees Kuro as family. Were the Touden parents bad parents? Is Maizuru? Is Milsiril? Ambiguity in Dunmeshi's case is a feature and not a bug, and perhaps this short story of Kui's shows why she prefers not to cast moral judgement as a narrator on various acts and characters. There's this very neutral approach to her writing where the cast does its own thing and she just tells us what happens, and as I said closure isn't a given. I've talked about the matter of whether or not Chilchuck's wife accepts him back before, something that bothers and lingers for a lot of readers, but an example that haunts me is Mickbell and Kuro. It's explicitly stated that Mickbell continues to "still being worked hard by Mickbell" after canon, and though we have one hint of how it might get better with Kuro learning common slowly but surely, there's no 1) conclusions as to what their relationship is exactly and 2) discouraging or encouraging framing for it, there's chiding but ultimately whether the relationship is more healthy than it is unhealthy and more salvageable than unsalvageable and "worth it" isn't answered. What happens will happen, and we just have to come to an answer that satisfies us on our own :') Or hey, how Falin only starts finding herself in post-canon! It offers a nice end to her arc in canon of having a very malleable unpresent identity, but it starts another of self-exploration growth that is left open-ended. So, it's not because a relationship feels wrong or unfinished that it wasn't well-written or intended.

3) Kui doesn't lie but characters can. Characters can be unaware of things or even wrong, even with their own feelings, like Chilchuck saying he doesn't care about the party etc etc, or more widely Marcille thinking orcs are scum, or people at large in Dunmeshi believing in a modified truth of history, a version of it without the demon. These can be wrong objectively, but furthermore they can be disproved by the text, the way that Dunmeshi shows us orcs can be communicated with and peaceful etc etc and every character's racism ends up narratively or implicitly discouraged and disproven, kobolds included. The story is told by us through the characters and their actions, so it's their flawed perspective and incomplete information that we have.

So, okay. Relationships are very complex but Kui doesn't tell lies, there's no info or moments that really have been retconned. The reader is left to make their own interpretation of canon.

... OKAY LAST TANGENT but we have to acknowledge something about canon quick too: This is gonna sound ironic considering what I said earlier but while all extras are made to be in-character they're not all canon to the storyline, so to speak. There are sort of three types of extra comics context I can think of, there are comics set in pre or post canon, like the one about the way Marcille was welcomed into Laios' party, or Falin's answer to Toshiro's proposal, which we have no reason to not believe happened in the canon timeline. Daydream Hours extras are exceptions because they're usually looser than Adventurer's bible extras, for example the comic about Milsiril visiting Kabru has a "what if" phrasing to the blurb, implying it didn't happen. Then there are extras set vaguely in time that if during canon could simply happen off-screen, like Chilchuck's extra about hearing the party members going to the bathroom, a lot of monster tidbits also fit into this, which again I have no reason to assume haven't happened. But now we get to the last type, the one set at a precise moment in canon that is impossible. My go-to example is the tidbit about werewolves, it's set during the Laios vs Lycion fight with Kabru present, and those chapters in the story had quite tight plotting, it makes no sense to consider that extra within the reality of that moment, it breaks the tone and story continuity and timespan of the scene, it can't be canon to the canon storyline. This is to say that again, although in every extra the lore is correct and characters are in-character, some extras are not "canon" to the story's timeline and can't have actually happened. And since it happened with one extra that didn't have any disclaimer of being different than any other, it does put other extras' canonity into question a bit too. Ultimately, what we get in the actual manga is above everything else in both relevance and credibility. This is about extra comics, but I don't call into question all the extra info through text we get in character blurbs and about the Dunmeshi world within the Adventurer's Bible at all, especially since it was specifically made to inform us more about canon. This is all just something to keep in mind, when talking about Dunmeshi canon.

Okay, now. In terms of rin & Kabru's relationship, as for what we see of it...

The quickest summary of how they see each other:

Rin's line reflects how she follows him out of worry, thinking that his ambitious manipulating ways will fail him and get him in trouble eventually, and how that worry is out of care and love. Kabru's line... Is more ambiguous, but we'll get into it.

We don't see Kabru and Rin interact a ton, but we do see him bring her up/think of her unprompted this time, which reveals a bit of how he sees her/feels about her and what his priorities are.

He "wants to help her get away somehow", and this out of what? Duty? Charity? Care? The companionship they once shared? Sympathy, knowing how it feels like to be under inadequate care by elves? Kabru is empathetic and wants good for people, cares about people and community, is rather concerned by the greater good instead of individualistic gain etc etc, so this attention isn't necessarily uncharacteristic on its own.

What makes their bond unique is the history between them.

It's implied they spent a lot of time together growing up, which led to Rin wanting to stick with him. Perhaps as some trauma-fueled-bond hero, but in her own words mostly because she's worried he'll get into trouble if he's left alone. She expicitly loves him romantically, started presumably before canon and presumably hasn't stopped by the end of it either.

We see his priorities here. It's notable that besides Rin being the sort of by default second most important kabru party character, she's also the one he thinks of first, understandably since he knows her best. Like above, he speaks very matter-of-factly and coldly about it though, and he seems surprisingly apathetic. It's not the thought of hostages that drives him to eat those monsters and keep strong, it's the thought of learning the mystery of dungeons and how to prevent Utaya tragedies

This moment below may seem like nothing, but it's also pretty telling of their dynamic:

Rin in the moment negatively assumes he's only frivolously interested in Namari, and although Kabru doesn't shut it down instantly with a "this isn't about personal interest" he does imply clearly with "friends" that his intent isn't to woo her (the fantranslation uses the word lovers instead iirc, so the original japanese word might be more revealing. Considering how Kabru sometimes teases Rin and provokes her jealousy on purpose like with the mermaids, it's not impossible the word was an euphemism). Rin ambiguously disbelieves this and/or disapproves. It does feel like Kabru keeps this sort of persona air when answering her, so it's not entirely hard to understand- it's true he was keeping his real reasons and intent secret: only later on does he give his party the "Laios party" spiel and mention Namari was part of it.

This can also be seen as an example of the chaperone "big sister" effect of her nagging, and of her recurring bad faith towards him. Rin chastises Kabru for behavior and stances that are understandable, like telling him he shouldn't just smile and gloss things over when being belittled, but she does have the habit of being easily jealous and lashing out because of it. But again, if you see it from her stance, your childhood friend always thinks he an handle everything alone and acts like he has the fate of the world resting solely on his shoulders, and he keeps shutting you out and leaving you to guess for his intentions, and being someone under his leadership on top of a friend makes this more alarming and frustrating. Loving him as you do, knowing him for as long as you have, you'd wish Kabru was open with you and that'd create frustration.

Yet despite everything there's trust here. There's familiarity and a degree of comfort, even when Kabru always refuses to fully open up. A promise from Kabru means something to her, it's worth something, she does trust his word and morals even when she knows he can be dishonest. She's used to Kabru, and through thick and thin she wants to be there to support him in his goals and look after him.

But below, his priorities are reaffirmed. He literally pushes her out of his way in that first page, to get to laios who represents his goals, and then figuratively by brushing her off. I think it's very interesting that the look her gives her feels alike to the look he gives Laios shortly before, those sort of empty eyes. They make me think it's his mask-on "business mode" look, and when it's a matter of business things have gotten serious and he will not entertain irrelevant matters. Like Rin's feelings. My first instinct's always been that his look at her meant a resounding "shut up", but it's true it could also easily be a "come on, catch up", especially since he goes on to explain that they mustn't have meant harm in the first place.

It's not only the look that's cold though, because you'll remember, "catching the culprits" was the promise Kabru made to her, the one she trusted that made her agree to their party's plan at all in the first place. Even though the phrasing wasn't precise on that front, by giving up on confronting or punishing Laios' party at all he's breaking his promise, and doing so very dismissively.

It's the distance of it, in how cold he is to her, how distant from him and pushed away by him she feels. It seems to say that yes, the teases he does are meaningless bones he throws at her, the moments they share are below him and below his goals, this is what's important to him and this is how Kabru wants to treat her when push comes to shove. With harsh chiding of his own and then calm explanations, as if while she's heartfelt with him he's indifferent with her.

Although, like how in the end he doesn't want to kill Laios despite it being the safe choice, there's much to say on wether or not he would actually throw her under the bus in the end even if cornered. He always steels himself for the worst, but he's also more talk than bite when it comes to truly being effortlessly ruthless and he prefers to find peaceful and humane solutions. In the end though, the hostage situation more or less tips the scale both ways, even if it'd be easy to say he was simply hiding his concern.

Okay and now to quicken things up this is where I start dividing interpretations as "good faith" as in believing Kabru's explanation that he has a strictly sisterly attachment to her, vs "bad faith" where there is potential for considering romantic interest on his end.

To start with the least questionable:

"We're talking about how cute your smile is, Rin." Good faith: He's complimenting his friend, wants her to not feel insecure, wants her to feel more confident and likeable desirable, because he's nice or because he cares about her. It does make her happy in the end, after all. Knowing it would, he might even have said it just to demonstrate his point to Mickbell with her reaction. Bad faith: You know she likes you, isn't this weird to go out of your way to say? He's not lying exactly, but they were moreso talking about her attitude around smiling, and he could just as easily have deflected or said "Oh, nothing much". Bringing up her appearance or how cute she is could also have made her self-conscious, she's not really the kind that likes public attention- but he knows her the best and it shows, after all. In the end, it doesn't sound like something you'd just tell someone you know pines after you that you want to turn down or discourage from pursuing you.

"When she furrows her brows, I assume she's smiling inside" is also weird to me. Sure she does have this weird situation with emoting going on, but claiming Rin is never angry is factually wrong and always dismissing that anger feels belittling. But this approach to reading Rin and interacting with her would explain why he always teases her, I suppose.

But this is kinda what I mean when I say they are close, in a way, the way he knows how she is with smiling, the way he's comfortable saying things like this to her despite not being someone you just have to interact with occasionally. There IS familiarity there IS intimacy, it's just odd and inconsistently applied.

Kissing her: Good faith: This is an urgent dangerous situation and kissing her is the quickest and most direct way to shut her up, which in his situation he does not have the luxury of time or ressources to think through solutions better. We don't fully know the details of incantation magic's workings, had he slapped his hand over her mouth maybe her lips could have continued moving and chanting so she could have still finished her spell, compared to kissing where it stop both lip movement and sounds from coming out. Plus, kissing her has the added effect of heavily shocking her. In a 'what if' bluray bonus comic Kabru's party faces shapeshifters and he suggests everyone get naked as a quick solution, so it is implied there too that physical intimacy and privacy aren't something he puts above practicality. Bad faith: Gag her. Hell, shove your finger down her throat. 'Master of human anatomy and psychology' here decided he had no other choice than kissing her. In that 'what if' extra I mentioned, Kabru did find another much less practical way to deal with the shapeshifters and went through with that instead, knowing no one would be happy getting naked. Also "It's too bad she looks like a monster", hello what? Neutral: Perhaps he chose, because either way in any case he did choose to, to kiss her precisely because he's mr. master of psychology, because knowing it was Rin he decided kissing was the best approach specifically because it's her, knowing it'd shock her etc etc, regardless of it being tactful or not or if it'd hurt her or even encourage her love for him.

"It's too bad she looks like a monster." Good faith: It's a neutral enough statement that he could mean a couple of different things with it, including wishing he could see her reaction better or speak with her more easily. If we go with the "I wish I wasn't kissing her as a fishman" angle, well, he really hates monsters to a traumatized degree so pseudoincest may be preferrable over monsterfucking. Fair enough. Bad faith: The fantranslation translates it as "it's a shame" instead of "it's too bad", which does lend itself to a less neutral reading, but wether that's reliable and telling or not would depend on the original japanese sentence of course. He could have meant "I wish she looked like anything else but a monster", but "I wish she (at least?) looked like herself when I kissed her" is the most direct interpretation, and then, well. That's pretty damning. To me it sort of feels odd that'd have been the phrasing if that was the case, especially since Kabru especially has noticeable reactions to monsters like shaking, horrified faces and dramatic thoughts. This is his internal thoughts and "Too bad she looks like a monster" feels very casual- the same type of casual that he has when deflecting not being interested in Namari to Rin, aka him being more playful. "I wish she looked like herself when I had to kiss her", like man. Okay. There's a lot of leeway you can give him but it's still odd.

Good faith: ??? I do struggle with this one. A friend of mine has the interpretation that this is an epic own of sorts, that by "always like this" Kabru meant "unable for me to hear you" so he likes not hearing what she says. Reardless, wether his assumption is accurate or not, Kabru is taunting/teasing when he says "look at me, not the mermaids", to what could have very well been just Rin noticing his staring and telling him to focus, and "You'd be cute if you were always like this", and like always he's very casual as he does it, says it like it's nothing, so it could mean nothing deeper. Bad faith: Why do you have to say any of this, what do you think it accomplishes, this counts as flirting in most books. It doesn't make her mood better, it doesn't shut her up, so I can only imagine Kabru simply enjoys doing this, it entertains him for one reason or another. Why do you keep calling her cute why is this a pattern that is forming. Neutral: Presumably, Rin is also unable to hear him since they all wear the earplugs. This would mean that beyond his gesturing, his words aren't meant for her to actually hear.

So.

My honest reaction:

Kabru what is this............. Huh. Kabru. What do you mean

The issue

It's less intimidating when analyzing each piece of interaction one by one to slowly form a wider picture, but it's still quite the puzzle. Because ultimately, what he feels for her aside, he is both pushing her away and encouraging her crush on him. He is both keeping her out and leading her on. He is both trying to keep a distance and throwing her bones to latch onto. And huh. Why though.

He's too socially savvy not to know Rin likes him right? Right? He even teases her about being jealous. He has to. He hassss to. And then obviously he has no intent of reciprocating. Especially since he's a huge flirt with anyone and Rin makes it clear she feels jealous.

Then, it feels kinda cruel...? You don't have to flirt, or taunt her because you know she likes you, and blow her off like that without ever having a serious talk. And like I said, shove your finger in there instead of kissing her. Did he do it because he prefers her being kissed over her puking? Was it out of pity? Throwing her crumbs of attention? Is him wanting her out of the elves' grasp just pity? Is it soooo easy for Kabru to tease her and kiss her despite having no feelings of his own, borderline mocking how deeply she loes him and what it means to her? Is doing all this "for her sake" too, like bringing her along was? Just. Free Rin. Free Rin of this.

In the end, what side of "does Kabru like Rin or not" you fall on pretty much depends on wether you favor a consistent "good faith" reading or a consistent "bad faith" reading, which impression you got while reading. But I hope I was able to show that both sides have reasons to think it and both are coherent interpretations of canon, neither are just being dense or difficult for the sake of it. A Kabru interpretation differs almost person to person. Personally I think the ambiguity itself is telling, which is why I usually land with a weird ambiguous situationship characterisation with them, they're a third secret thing and Kabru's feelings for her are complicated imo. He doesn't love her but he doesn't not love her etc. Dungeon Meshi largely lets the reader come up with their own interpretations of details, Kui herself said interpreting characters however is readers' freedom, and the story also avoids romance in general.

Although, there's debate as to wether he even leads her on at all, and personally I think it's pretty undeniable regardless of his intent, if anything even just going by effect.

All I can safely say is that this is not the behavior of someone smartly turning someone down.

Potential 'why's

BUT you could almost say he's purposefully trying to hurt her by being jokingly flirty and casual about it all, which could be to push her away and discourage her from pursuing him, wether it be for her sake or his own. It is a ship post, but I explore this stance a bit in my previous kabrin post if you're interested and unafraid of shippy brainstorming.

Or, inversely, maybe to him leading her on is a way to spare her feelings. Maybe he feels guilty about her liking him, or maybe he feels like he has to repay her somehow. Where his behavior when teasing her in early canon is rather provoking, most often I'd call his demeanor towards her placating if anything. We do see that Kabru prefers letting people down easy, except when shit is serious in the dungeon I guess, and he tries not to rattle people.

Personally, my favorite niche reading is I think it's his way of avoiding confrontation. He doesn't want to lose her, so he gives her just enough hope to hold onto so she'll keep following him, unknowing that Rin follows him out of a sense of duty of her own rather than romantic hope, because he always underestimates people's like of him like Laios does, assumes that people like him less than they seem because even when they do it's a version of him that's tailored to be likable. So he does this to keep the status quo going and keep her interested without having to reciprocate or commit.

I do think he also takes her for granted a bit. "Whenever she frowns I imagine it's a smile instead" what are you talking about. Like I said earlier, it feels weirdly dismissive and belittling to treat her anger as if it was something else, even assuming it to be joy- and there's merit to calling the anger Rin often shows a misdirected feeling, because yes, it's out of worry and care and love and she has a hard time emoting outside of a harsh-seeming scope etc, but is this what's going on here? His words leave me equally intrigued and concerned.

And like, her caring anger coupled by her nagging and scolding and looking after him unconditionally, I'm sure she does frustrate him sometimes and makes him feel stifled especially with his background at Milsiril's, making the big sister comparison very understandable... ... BUT THEN WHY LEAD HER ON.

What he could feel

Okay so first of. "She sort of feels like how it'd be like to have a big sister" and "I see her as a sister, I strictly see her as if we shared family ties and she was the blood of my blood" are different. Kabru being like "Man, I wished she looked like herself when I had to kiss her" does not feel like a brother-sister thing to me, personally.

But hey, going with the opposite angle too- "She's like a sister to me" can be an easy shorthand to say "I care about you but I don't see you romantically or sexually at all" and it can be "you are deeply important to me and our bond would remain no matter the distance or time we are apart" and even "I can't imagine my life without you (no romo)". In many languages like french, the word soulmate instead literally translates as 'sister soul', as in a twin soul etc etc-. A husband and a wife, too, are family. This is to say that both familial love and romantic love can run very deep, with a similar intensity just in a different nature, platonic or romantic. Kabru doesn't necessarily feel very strongly towards Rin even with the sister angle, but what I'm saying is that if it isn't just a catchphrase to let Rin down easy, whether something he would tell Rin or just something he tells himself, then it's not entirely out of the question Kabru would mix up the nature of that affection he feels for her. Maybe being childhood friends, he thinks it makes sense for it to be what he feels for her. I don't think this is necessarily farfetched because we see that Kabru neglects his own needs heavily for the sake of his goals, he doesn't recognize or acknowledge his needs for social connections or things like sleeping, cooking and keeping his living quarters orderly. I think it's in character for him to dismiss outright that he could be in love with someone, and even for him to suppress it, because he can't let anything be more important to him than preventing more Utaya tragedies. If you subscribe to the idea that Kabru wanted to be Laios' friend at the back of his mind, this is in line with that.

Regardless of the "truth"/intent, I agree Kabru treating 'his sister' Rin the way he did in canon is really mega major weirdo of him though.

He sees her as a sister, or he believes he does. With a romantic angle, it could mean: Denial, repression, having a bond that feels as deep and immutable. Leading her on because: wanting her near but still pushing her away, being interested and scared to admit it, thinking he shouldn't let himself have this, not interested but still wanting the safety net of her.

Again with my own interpretation, I think he loves her the way one loves a safety net. What I and others may mean when we say that we think Kabru doesn't love her but he also doesn't not love her. I think this is why he's both taking her for granted and caring, dismissive and considerate, her "brother figure" but also the guy who will flirt with her without a second thought. A safety net the way one is comforted by a big sister mayhaps, who's disapproving yet always unconditionally there to help. But family and comfort are so closely tied together, it's unsurprising they get entangled sometimes, a lot of behaviors can be seen as both romantic and familial and it's just a matter of the facts and perspective, because in the end what they are both is loving- and canonically, Rin loves Kabru romantically and Kabru cares for Rin like a sister.

Conclusion

I've said before that I think you can call them each other's best friend and that that's sad, and I stand by it. I think it's easy to argue that Rin is the one who knows Kabru best currently in his life, and the reverse is true for Kabru knowing Rin best. It's lonely, for both of them I think, Rin's kind of tough love is not working for him and Kabru is not filling Rin's emotional needs.

The reason why Kabru might feel like he has to get Rin out of the elves' grasp is because she has no one else, at least no one else that was deemed important enough to have been referred to or implied at all. And Rin calls him out for his shallow behavior and his unhealthy habits. They're close enough and weirding others around them enough that people like Mickbell notice when they heatedly do their song and dance and argue but hey, this is just another monday, and how Mickbell asumes she cleans his place up for him because that's what intuitively makes the most sense- it's the first thought, the most intuitive. Rin would do anything for Kabru and devotes herself to helping him, after all.

Reminder that this is the guy we're talking about:

I think her concern is worried tbh, he doesn't know what a DUST CLOTH is and he's pretty unhealthy, forgetting to eat and drinking to go to sleep, overworking himself. He'd easily work himself into an early grave. He neglects himself. I've said before in my Kuro x Kabru post that I think Kabru focuses so much on the bigger picture and saving the world that he forgets that he himself is important too, that he's truly special to some people, that he's even some people's hero, not just the world's, and I think to a degree it's good that Kabru has someone there to ground him and scold him when he's being thoughtless or overthinking, to try to show him that he's loved and valued, in her own way which he claims to understand so well like he does her smiles.

Kabru's a character where fan interpretations especially differ, he's hard to read when it comes to the details, so his relationship with Rin is very much a grey zone, especially when trying to precisely pin it down. I think though that it is a mistake to say that Rin isn't special to him in some shape or form.

I talk about human connections as a big theme of Dunmeshi sometimes, as this thing everyone needs but may deny themselves or deny that they do need and want, and Kabru and Rin are part of that theme, to me.

Post-canon, Rin and Kabru continue to see each other, presumably semi-regularly, which is an implication from an extra that we don't get with the other Kabru party members. They stay in touch, because what tied them together was never work but a personal tie.

This ask took long af to write up but it's gonna make my Kabru party analysis easier later yay. Little preview of the chart i made.

I'll remind that Mickbell and Kuro's relationship is also stated to be of a familial nature. Contradictions aren't always mistakes, people are made of them! Just like how ambiguity can be a narrative tool, complexity and dissonance can be a feature and not a bug.

[jemandrr]

Unironically, Ben Shapiro's greatest win against the left was turning left/centerleft laypeople off from the idea of a 'debate with facts and logic' because of his bad faith arguments. Like it's almost...triggering to people, and that leaves a lot of people with unsharpened ideas and an unwillingness to explain them in a rigorous manner.

One example phenomenon that this has fed into is a continuing degradation in the lines of thought people use to reach certain conclusions - so person A expresses opinion X that person B agrees with, but because person B never really sees the entire line of thought laid out by anyone else, their formulation of opinion X based on their own intuition might randomly lean on some idea Y which person A doesn't care about. As a result, if Idea Y lacks actual backing, person B might wrongly defend opinion X and give an impression that the entire thing is flimsy, or person B might lose their own footing and assuredness and change sides.

I also think that he so badly mangled the concept of debate in the casual public consciousness that it's a contributing factor to the vague anti-academic sentiment in recent years. (Which, while academia as an institution has problems, there's certainly an undercurrent of less directed discontent that is contributing to low public opinion of education as a whole - and a greater feeling expressed on social media that 'casual reference of marquee media' is in a way insulting to people who have not consumed it, rather than an invitation to partake or something you can pass by without caring. Not on tumblr though, where we see Dracula and then we read Dracula.)

tl;dr his pseudo-intellectualism meaningfully contributed to certain common sentiments of anti-intellectualism because of how badly and annoyingly he and the people who emulate(d) him did/do it.

[justablah56]

anyone else just see this bitch

n just die like wHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE ???

[jacky-rubou]

just stumbled on a post that's outright obliterating Ford in a way that makes me shrivel up inside from Google search results and then I turned to the blog to block it and discovered it's one I've already blocked with an immense satisfaction but also pain because I apparently had to subject myself to that again at all.

[todayisafridaynight]

'im gonna sleep' he lied

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Oh hey a scarecrow episode where he uses his toxins on athletes! This time its making them scared instead of making them lose fear however

[ditzyrafe]

— getting backshots from ex!rafe

warnings — p in v, doggystyle, creampie, unprotected sex, lewd language

the impact is jarring, forceful, driving you forward onto the mattress. your hands slam down flat against the cool sheets, bracing yourself as rafe grips your hips, fingers digging in possessively. there's no preamble, no bullshit, and no wasting time letting you adjust to his large length. just the hard, rhythmic slam of his body against yours. "god, i've missed this pussy."

each thrust is deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl and a low groan rumble in your chest. his breath is hot and ragged against the shell of your ear, his grunts syncing with the relentless pace he sets. the headboard knocks against the wall with every powerful thrust, the slapping of skin on skin resounding in the room.

you arch your back instinctively, pushing back against him, meeting his force with your own need. it's wrong, considering the complicated history between you two. but right now, none of that matters. all that exists is the raw friction, the overwhelming sensation of being taken, filled completely.

"ah, rafe…" you gasp out, the name torn from you involuntarily as he hits a particularly sharp angle, sending sparks erupting behind your eyelids.

his hold tightens, knuckles white against your skin. he doesn't answer, just drives into you harder, faster, pushing you closer to the edge. sweat slicks your back, making his grip slide slightly before he readjusts, pulling you impossibly closer, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural sound.

the pressure builds relentlessly inside you, a tight, coiling knot low in your belly. your breath comes in short, sharp pants, vision blurring at the edges. he can feel your climax building, pulsating around his cock so tightly, he knows he’ll savour it forever.

“you’re mine. this needy pussy is mine,” he groans, a rough, strained sound, just as the dam inside you breaks. pleasure floods through you, hot and electric, making your muscles clench violently around him. you cry out, burying your face in the pillows as the waves crash over you, sharp and overwhelming. seconds later, you feel him pull out of you, spilling all his seed along your back, his ragged breathing loud in the otherwise quiet room.

"you’re mine. say it."

taglist ; @13hischiers @rafesprecious @mayanqueenxx @dreewsepj @zoenighshade555 @feverg1rl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @onxlyemery @yncoded @millie--billie @laniirackssss @slut4you @g3t2kn0w (join here) | divider creds ; @/anitalenia @/fairytopea

© written by ditzyrafe — do not steal or claim as ur own, stealing will result in me blocking u, any resemblance to any other story is simply coincidental!

[satori-runa]

—Takeout

Summary: You visit a certain demon hunter to scold him once more. But apparently, it is not you who has the lead.

Tags: NSFW, established relationship, no plot, not beta read

Words: 1,3k

—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT—

⊹₊ ��‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The apartment was dead quiet, save for the soft creak of old leather as Dante leaned back in his worn out couch that slowly needed a replacement.

He pulled out his guns, inspecting them, before placing them down on the coffee table in front of him. He just returned from another successful demon hunt that night, sighing in contentment as his back sunk deeper into the couch. Despite the relaxation, his ears didn't fail to pick up the sound of the door at the other end of the room.

“You know, you left the call on again during your fight. You could have at least hung up.” You said, placing down the bags of takeout food that he requested earlier next to his guns with a raised eyebrow. A glance at him was enough and the white haired man copied your actions and raised an eyebrow back to you along with his cocky smile on his lips. His voice was low and yet teasing as he directed it to you.

“Are you creeping around after midnight to scold me? Kinda hot if you ask me.”

You shot him another look but he didn't flinch. Instead, he held your gaze with the same dangerous smirk that secretly affected you inside, charming and cocky, but laced with a spark that only he owned.

“Maybe I just wanted to make sure that you didn't run out of stupid comments after your fight.” You stepped closer, slapping his legs that he placed on the table, a silent complaint not to have his feet near the food. “Also you kept crying about wanting those new burgers down the street.”

He smirked, finally dragging his feet off the desk and sitting up straighter. His coat hung open, his shirt tugged loose at the collar, revealing a faint smear of blood still drying along his neck. You weren’t sure if it was his or the demon’s. Probably the latter. “You’re too sweet,” he said, voice low, leaning forward. “And I appreciate your actions. Also, you worry too much sweetheart, I will always have a charming one liner ready for the princess.”

You crossed your arms. “Oh, no doubt.”

Dante rose slowly, as if sizing you up, boots heavy against the old wood floor. He stopped in front of you, close enough for the scent of gunpowder and sweat and something darker to hit you all at once. His eyes narrowed slightly—warm, sharp, but curious.

“You always come in here looking like you’re ready to fight me or kiss me,” he murmured, voice dangerously soft.

“Maybe I’m here to do both.”

The tension cracked—quick as one of his bullets.

Dante’s hand slid to your waist, pulling you in with a suddenness that stole your breath. His lips crashed into yours, rough and wanting. No hesitation, no preamble. Just heat and pressure, all grit and low growls against your mouth. His free hand tangled in your hair, the other keeping you firmly against him like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

“Been thinking about this,” he admitted into the kiss, his voice deeper now, barely controlled but still laced with sass. “Every time you walk in here like you own the place.”

You laughed breathlessly against him, tugging his coat off his shoulders. “Maybe I do.” He grinned, pulling back just enough to look at you—flushed, wild-eyed, his hair falling into his face. “Then you won’t mind if I wreck the place.”

Without waiting, he turned, lifting you onto the desk with a grunt, knocking over the food and his guns. “Show me,” you said softly.

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

He kissed you again—harder this time. There was a hunger behind it, barely contained. His hands were already under your shirt, calloused fingers dragging across your skin with a desperation that made your thighs press together.

“Off,” he muttered, tugging your shirt up, and he didn't have to say it twice. You lifted your arms, let him yank it over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking. His eyes dragged down your chest, dark and hungry, jaw tight.

“Fuck, I missed this.”

You felt heat bloom in your core, especially when his hands returned—this time slower, firmer. He cupped your breasts through your bra before flicking the clasp open with practiced ease, letting it fall as so many times before. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, teasing them into peaks until you squirmed.

“Dante…”

Your voice was soft, breathy, already undone. He liked that.

“Say my name like that again,” he rasped, pushing your thighs apart so he could fit between them, pushing up your skirt in the process too. “I’ll make sure you’re screaming it, babe.”

You gasped as his mouth dipped to your chest, licking and sucking at your sensitive skin while one hand slid lower—over your stomach, between your legs, over the damp fabric of your panties.

“Already wet for me,” he said with a grin against your skin. “Knew you wanted this. Maybe that is the reason why you came over, huh?” You whimpered when he pressed two fingers against your heat, rubbing slow circles that had your hips bucking into him with only some piece of fabric separating you two. “Please,” you whispered, not even caring how desperate you sounded. The fierceness in your voice was replaced with whimpering and desperation.

He growled low in his throat, pulling your panties to the side and sliding his fingers through your folds—slow, deliberate, dragging slickness over your clit before easing one, then two fingers inside you. The stretch had your head falling back, a moan tearing from your lips.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he muttered with a smirk, watching your face as he fucked you with his fingers. “Tight. Warm. Gonna make you cum just like this first.” You grabbed onto his shoulder for balance, legs trembling as he thrust his fingers faster, curling them just right, his thumb teasing your clit until your moans turned shaky, breath catching in your throat.

“Dante—!”

You came hard, clenching around him, nails digging into his coat as you shook in his grip. He didn’t stop until you gasped from the sensitivity, and only then did he pull his fingers out—slick and glistening. He sucked them clean without breaking eye contact.

“Goddamn,” he said, breathless. “You taste like sin. Might become my favourite meal.”

He didn’t give you time to recover before he was undoing his belt, tugging his pants down just enough to free himself. His cock was already hard—thick, flushed, the tip dripping. You bit your lip at the sight of him, flushed and dazed from your orgasm but craving more.

“Ready for me?” he asked, voice low, dark.

You nodded. “Want you. Need you.”

Dante lined himself up, dragging his tip through your folds before slowly pushing inside. The stretch made your breath hitch—it was intense, but perfect. He groaned deep in his chest as he bottomed out, gripping your hips like he was barely holding back. He set a pace that was slow at first, each thrust deep and precise, hitting every spot that made you whimper. But it didn’t take long for his control to snap. His thrusts turned rougher, faster, the sound of skin slapping filling the room along with your breathy moans and his low, ragged curses.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your nails scraping along his back.

“Fuck—Dante—right there—!”

He slammed into that perfect spot again and again, his name a chant on your lips, and you felt yourself unraveling fast.

“That’s it,” he growled, one hand gripping your throat gently, not choking, just holding—possessive, commanding. “Cum for me again. Wanna feel you lose it around my cock.”

You shattered with a cry, clenching tight around him, your body arching as he fucked you through it. Dante groaned, losing rhythm, his thrusts growing sloppy as he chased his own end. A few more strokes and he buried himself to the hilt with a loud grunt, cumming deep inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just ragged breathing, hearts pounding, skin slick with sweat.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips against your temple.

“Enjoying your visit?” he muttered.

You laughed, weakly. “Only if you keep doing that.”

He smirked, voice still hoarse. “Sweetheart, we’re just getting started.”

[deathofacupid]

satoru gojo, the man who could bend reality with a flick of his wrist, had a secret weakness: lazy sunday mornings. sure, saturdays were for blindingly bright parties, a necessary evil after a week of dealing with, let's be honest, lesser beings.

but sundays? ah, sundays were a sacred ritual, a holy day dedicated entirely to you.

imagine: a tangled mess of limbs under a duvet fortress, where soft kisses were the only currency and the air hummed with the quiet joy of simply being. satoru, the human equivalent of a sunbeam in pajama pants, would drape himself over you like a particularly clingy (but undeniably adorable) koala.

his whispers were a mix of sweet nothings and hilariously bad impressions of household appliances, his humming a chaotic symphony of half-remembered pop songs and made-up jingles.

"we should just hibernate here," he'd mumble into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and ticklish. "forever. or at least until tuesday."

you’d giggle, a sound that always made his heart do a little happy dance. "'toru, we can't. remember? the grocery store run? the existential dread of sorting laundry?

he'd whine, a sound that could rival a litter of disgruntled puppies auditioning for a sad commercial. it was ridiculously endearing, like a giant, fluffy cat demanding belly rubs. "the laundry can wait. it's probably just plotting to steal all our socks anyway."

"oh, is it now?" you'd tease, pinching his cheek. "'toru, there's always next week for this."

"next week is a myth invented by people who hate fun," he'd declare, his voice dramatic. he'd then attempt to burrow further into you, which, given his height, was like trying to fit a giraffe into a shoebox. "five more minutes. pleeease?"

you snorted. "your 'five' minutes always morph into ten, then twenty, then a full-blown nap that lasts until monday morning."

"then let's just skip the preamble and go straight to the monday morning nap," he'd suggest, peeking up at you with those ridiculously mesmerizing cerulean eyes. they were practically sparkling with mischief and pure, unadulterated adoration. how could anyone, especially you, say no to a face that screamed, "love me and let's nap?"

and so, the errands would wait, the socks would remain unconquered, and the world would just have to deal with the fact that satoru gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, was currently busy being a professional clinger. after all, is that not what sunday morning are for?

[foxfeast]

After everything is finally over and he’s happily married to the love of his life, Luo Binghe decides that he really doesn’t want to be the emperor of the demonic realm anymore. It was never his dream, okay?! He was only doing it to show Shizun that he was strong and capable of taking care of him, but now he just really wants to settle down in a cottage with his Shizun and raise chickens and grow a garden! He wants to be a housewife!

Of course, this means that someone else has to become the new emperor, so Luo Binghe goes to Tianlang-jun first to try and give his father his title back.

“Nope,” says Tianlang-jun. He’s never had an interest in ruling the demonic realm, and now that Zhuzhi-lang isn’t here to handle all the serious stuff for him, he has even less of an interest in it. Besides, he’s just gotten married to his Qingyuan, and he’s perfectly content being a pampered and spoiled wife of a Peak Lord! He has all the time in the world to get railed and read bad porn novels! He’s not giving that up for a title he’s never wanted.

Luo Binghe is frustrated, but he can’t say that he doesn’t understand his father’s sentiments, so he goes to Sha Hualing next. On the surface she might not seem like the perfect candidate, but she’s basically been running the demonic realm for Luo Binghe this entire time anyway. Plus, Luo Binghe is certain that Sha Hualing wouldn’t pass up the chance to beat his ass for the title.

“No way,” says Sha Hualing. Sure, it was once her dream to become the empress of the demonic realm, and she often fantasized about beating the shit out of Luo Binghe. However, she’s recently discovered the delight that is Liu Mingyan and now she has no interest in doing something that would take her away from her precious Mingyan. The woman is freakier than she looks, okay?! Sha Hualing is having the time of her life having the world’s kinkiest sex! There are even knives involved!

Luo Binghe can’t say he gets this, but he moves on anyway. There’s only one other person he can ask to take over the mantle, so he goes to Mobei-jun.

“…” says Mobei-jun with a scowl, which is the equivalent of him stamping his foot and shouting ‘NO!’. He’s never been good at ruling—he speaks better with his fists than he does with his words. Besides, after seeing all the bullshit Luo Binghe has had to go through as the emperor, he has no desire to become the emperor anymore. He’s no good at delegating resources or administration at all, and to be honest, he’s really bad at math. That’s why Qinghua handles all his paperwork!

That’s when it clicks in Luo Binghe’s head that the perfect candidate for emperor of the demonic realm has been under his nose this entire time. He summons Tianlang-jun, Sha Hualing, Mobei-jun, and the candidate in question to discuss this.

“I think Shang-shishu should be the emperor,” says Luo Binghe without preamble.

Shang Qinghua nearly faints on the spot. He thinks this is a cruel joke meant to fuck with him—everyone knows hamsters are easily frightened to death, after all!

Yet to Shang Qinghua’s immense horror, he sees the four most powerful people in the world taking this suggestion very seriously.

“I have no objections,” says Tianlang-jun. Of course he wouldn’t! The guy is so placid you could suggest marrying a fish off to a dog and he’d just delightedly agree! All he lives for is chaos and satisfying his own whims—Shang Qinghua would know, he created the guy!

“I agree. Peak Lord Shang is fit for the job,” says Sha Hualing. Shang Qinghua, while flattered by her compliment, trusts her judgement even less than Tianlang-jun’s. He knows that all this saintess cares about is having increasingly alarming sex with her wife. Additionally, she’s always been eager to shirk off the ‘boring’ tasks to other people. How is this any different?!

“Mn,” says Mobei-jun, gazing at Shang Qinghua with a small smile and eyes brimming with so much pride and joy. This is the equivalent of him jumping up and down and going ‘YIPPEE!’. Shang Qinghua can’t believe that his husband is actually supporting this notion, especially since he thought that Mobei-jun would want to keep him working in his palace forever. He seriously can’t believe this turn of events.

Shang Qinghua insists that he can’t be the emperor of the demonic realm—he’s a human, and a Peak Lord, at that! However, the demons in the room are not listening to him. Sha Hualing and Luo Binghe have already moved on to discuss the intricacies and delights of rope bondage, while Mobei-jun and Tianlang-jun have started kicking each other. In a last ditch attempt, Shang Qinghua turns to Shen Qingqiu (who is never away from Luo Binghe, not anymore.)

“Bro, you gotta help me out! Tell them I can’t do it!” Shang Qinghua pleads, clasping his hands together.

Shen Qingqiu just waves his fan and raises an eyebrow at Shang Qinghua. This guy! He’s such a fraud!

“Why not?” Shen Qingqiu asks. “You created this world. You have better knowledge of the demon realm and the tribes, culture, and future problems it’ll face than anyone else. Besides, you’ve practically been running the demon realm behind the scenes this entire time. There’s no one in this world more qualified than you. Why shouldn’t you do it?”

Shang Qinghua is actually kind of touched that Shen Qingqiu—and everyone else present, really—think so highly of him. And, honestly, he loves the politics and culture of the demon realm. He loves the demons that live there. He wrote this world, okay?! He’s allowed to enjoy it! When he first started writing Proud Immortal Demon Way, he was most excited to delve into the demon realm! Plus, Shen Qingqiu has a point, as much as it pains him to admit it. He really has been running the demonic realm in lieu of the actual emperor for quite a while.

Thus, he very reluctantly agrees. Still, he’s quite anxious about being a human running the demonic realm, and he voices these concerns.

“Don’t worry,” says Luo Binghe with a resolute nod. “I’ll handle it.”

Tianlang-jun, Sha Hualing, and Mobei-jun give their respective signs of agreement.

Shang Qinghua doesn’t know why this make him break out into a cold sweat.

This is how Shang Qinghua ends up battling Luo Binghe for twelve hours straight for the title of emperor. He wins not by might or force—Luo Binghe is overwhelmingly powerful, and he’d never throw a fight on purpose. No, Shang Qinghua wins entirely by outsmarting Luo Binghe, who offers his sincere and heartfelt congratulations.

He’s crowned emperor in front of the entire demonic realm. He was incredibly nervous about the reception he’d receive from his new subjects, but they just kinda shrug and go “yeah, okay,” as if it makes perfect sense for a human to be the new demonic emperor. Little does Shang Qinghua know that they’re only okay with it because he’s the one doing it.

There are a few demons who aren’t cool with this, of course, but with four of the strongest demons in the world backing him, there’s really nothing they can do.

In the end, Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe move to the countryside to live out their cottagecore dreams. Tianlang-jun goes back to Yue Qingyuan to become a trophy wife. Sha Hualing and Liu Mingyan release a very questionable novel in celebration.

And Mobei-jun finally gets to see his husband treated with the respect and admiration he deserves, all while getting to live out his fantasies of being Shang Qinghua’s little concubine.

[nereidprinc3ss]

make me late

in which spencer finds a few minutes to spare with fem!reader in the morning

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom!spence, sub reader, technically dubcon bc he doesn’t ask and she jokingly says stop but it’s not like that I promise, fingering (here we go again), 'slutty' is used to describe an action but not by spencer, spencer slaps r's ass one (1) time, (hot), mild overstimulation a/n: apparently need to post at least one fingering fic per week or i'll fucking die. very short and sweet but as always let me know if you like it, i have a crush on all of you!

You’re used to Spencer’s alarm going off early in the morning—typically you tune it out or sleep right through it. Today, however, it rouses you more than usual. You roll over, blinking your eyes open. 

“Sorry,” Spencer mutters, finally turning it off and leaning over to kiss your head. “Go back to sleep, angel.”

You wrap your arms around his torso, pulling him down again when he tries to get out of bed.

“Don’t go,” you beg into his shirt, slinging a leg over him. His hand slips under your (also his) shirt, rubbing the bare skin of your back.

“I have to. You know that.” 

“I just want you to stay for a little bit,” you insist. 

“No you don’t,” he drawls, voice still gravelly with sleep, “You want to make me late.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say innocently, burying your face further into his shirt as if you could extinguish the heat in your cheeks. 

His hand drops from your back to reach under your thigh, pushing your underwear to the side. You gasp when his fingers make contact with your soaked core, involuntarily pressing your hips closer. 

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Stop it! That’s not fair!” You squeal, attempting to wriggle away once you regain your senses. But the bastard wraps his arm around your waist like a vice, forcing you to stay in place as he sinks a finger into you with no preamble. Instead of satisfying him with a vocal response, you keep your face hidden in the crook of his shoulder and remain obstinately silent. When he begins to slowly pump his finger, you’re forced to bite the fabric of his shirt to shut yourself up. 

“If you’re not enjoying yourself, I’ll stop,” he says plainly, but obviously he knows that’s the last thing you want. His ring finger joins the other and your mouth falls open, a tiny, choked breath against his skin. “Do you want me to stop?”

Don’t give in, you say to yourself. Wait. What are you not giving in to? Fuck, that feels good. You hum quietly—an excellent display of self-control considering the noises you’re actively holding back. 

“Are we already getting whiny?”

“‘m not whining,” you bite. 

“You’re always whining.” There’s nothing to do but prove him right when he begins massaging that spot inside you with a practiced stroke of his fingers—the one that makes you arch your back further and spread your legs a little wider—makes you oh-so compliant and all together, a bit slutty. But Spencer has told you that by definition, you’re not a slut if it’s just him who you lose all self-respect around. “My pretty girl feels so good, huh?”

You agree with a mindless mumble, forgetting that you were ever going to try and fight the pleasure. 

“It feels so good.”

“I can tell, baby. Listen to the mess you're making.”

Soft, wet sounds emanate from where you’re probably dripping around his fingers. A moan is muffled by his shoulder as your own fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt and sink into the flesh of his waist—though you doubt he minds. 

“Please don’t stop, please please please—" It’s quiet, almost demure as you plead. 

“You’re so sweet when you get like this,” Spencer coos. “I wish you were always so well-behaved.”

No, he doesn’t. Both of you know he loves fucking the attitude out of you, and at times, back into you. But you’re not in any place to correct him right now, as his fingers slip in and out of you so quickly, exactly where you want to be touched. 

“Oh, right—right there, that’s—oh, god,” you squeak. 

Your face is still nuzzled in his shirt, your voice is still so delicate and weak with sleep, rising in pitch with your pleasure until it breaks. 

“Right here? This is where you need it?”

“Yes,” you practically cry, “I’m gonna come, Spence—” your hips rock back and forth to meet each stroke of his fingers inside you, vision going white with with pleasure. 

“Yeah? My pretty girl is gonna come all over my fingers?”

“Mhm!” You speed up the motion of your hips. He chuckles, which might offend you if you were in your right mind, but it’s early, and you’re tired, and your soul is trying to untether itself from your body. 

“Let me feel it, baby. I wanna feel you coming, can you do that for me?”

A breathy keen rushes from your throat as your orgasm begins to suck you out to sea like a riptide, flooding your lungs and blood and everything with so much easy pleasure you’re barely awake and you don’t care one bit. 

“Uh-huh, good girl,” Spencer murmurs, not letting up with his fingers as you fall through your orgasm. Another choked moan takes you by surprise when his free hand falls with a heavy clap to your ass, before rubbing the stinging flesh. “Let go a little bit longer, baby, I’m right here.”

You’re barely breathing, still seeing stars as he continues to fuck you leisurely with his fingers, more out of pure affection than anything else. Eventually he slips them out, teasing gently over your clit as your stomach tenses. But you let him keep going. You’ll do anything to keep him in bed for a few minutes longer. To that end, you gather enough breath to speak. 

“Can you please fuck me?” 

He hums pityingly, moving his hand from between your legs to lovingly soothe the tender skin he’d slapped just a moment ago. 

“You know I can’t, baby. I shouldn’t have even done this. I really have to get a move on.”

“But you did do this,” you say, eager to point out the fallacies in his argument, “which means you could also have sex with me and we could be really fast and you could just take less time getting ready for work.”

Your chin is now resting on his shoulder as you look up at him with wide, imploring eyes, and he leans down to kiss your nose. 

“The answer is going to stay no, sweet thing. I don’t care how much you beg.”

He’s already gently sliding you off of him and getting out of bed as you pout. A few moments pass, and you can’t think of a good retort as he moves about the room, gathering a towel for his shower and digging through the dresser. 

“You’re mean.”

“Aw, poor baby. You only got to come once. Nobody has ever had a harder life than you.” Spencer dodges the pillow you throw and laughs, coming back to lean over the bed as you glower at him. “I’m sorry I woke you up. If you can’t fall back asleep in the time it takes me to shower, I’ll make you fancy coffee.”

“Fine.”

“And I’ll be extra nice to you when I get home.” He kisses your head and then your lips, and then disappears into the bathroom. 

In a completely predictable turn of events, you’re dead to the world by the time he gets out of the shower. He makes you the fancy coffee anyway, leaving it in a thermos on your nightstand. 

He’s late to work. He can't pretend to be sorry.

[heavenlybodies333]

Like a Goddamn Wet Dream - M.R.

He’d left his wand in his room after Quidditch practice—grumbled something under his breath about fucking forgetfulness and jogged back toward the dorm. The common room was empty, torches flickering low, throwing amber shadows against the walls. The door to his dorm was cracked open, faint light spilling through—you were on top of Theo, your back arched, that same silver chain glinting between your tits, catching in the sweat on your skin. Your hands were pressed to his chest, your nails dragging down his ribs as you rode him like you were in a fucking porno.

“Theo,” you moaned, long and slow, like you were tasting his name. “Fuck—right there—”

Mattheo’s breath hitched. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw clicked. He stepped forward, quiet, slow, like his body was acting without him. Like he couldn’t not look.

The door creaked open another inch.

And there you were. On his bed. Mattheo’s fucking bed.

He should have walked away. He should have stormed in and ripped Theo off you. Thrown a punch. Hexed you both to hell.

But he didn’t. He stood there and watched.

Mattheo had seen you like this before. Beneath him. But never like this.

You weren’t just fucking Theo. You were performing. Putting on a show.

And worst of all—you knew he was watching.

Your eyes flicked to the doorway. Just once. Just for a second.

But it was enough. Your mouth parted in a wicked grin as you moaned louder, like you were putting on a concert. You leaned down, whispered something in Theo’s ear, then looked back again.

Right at Mattheo.

It wasn’t until hours later, after Theo had vanished and you had stayed—uninvited, shameless, sprawled on the couch in one of Mattheo’s stolen shirts—that he finally snapped.

“You wore this for me?” he rasps, fingers trailing up your thigh, stopping just before the line of your panties.

You tilt your head, lashes heavy. “Wore it for Theo, actually. But you’ll do.”

He paced.

Ran a hand through his hair.

“You fucked him here,” he muttered, looking at the bed like it had betrayed him too. “In my bed.”

You tilted your head, your voice sugar-sweet: “You want me to lie and say it didn’t feel good?”

His laugh was hollow as he turned to you, eyes dark and feral.

“You want honesty?” he snapped. “Fine. I jerked off to it. To the sound of you moaning his name in my sheets.”

Your smirk faltered—for a second. But you recovered quick, stepping toward him, hips swaying like a weapon. “You still came thinking about me. That’s all that matters.”

He grabbed your throat. Not tight, just enough to make you pause, enough to make you feel it.

“You think you can just walk back in here and start playing games?”

“Baby,” you purr, lashes fluttering as you smirk up at him, “if you didn’t want to play, you wouldn’t be so fucking hard right now.”

He shoved you back onto the couch. You gasped, delighted, not afraid. Never afraid. He climbed over you like a storm coming in—knees bracketing your thighs, mouth hovering over yours.

“I should hate you.”

“But you don’t.”

“You cheated on me.”

You licked your lips. “I fucked someone else, Matty. Don’t water it down.”

His fingers fisted in your hair. You gasped as he yanked your head back.

“You’re insane,” he growled.

“Matty? Listen,” you said, grinning despite the bite of his grip, “I know I was a bad girl—but come on… you’d have to be crazy not to take me back.”

He stared at you, jaw clenched, whole body tense like he was debating whether to kiss you or kill you.

“Fuck it,” he muttered.

And then his mouth was on yours. Brutal. Hungry. Furious.

You clawed at his shirt, dragged your nails down his chest as you ground against him. He hissed, shoved your skirt up with both hands, and dragged your panties down with a growl.

“Still wet for me?” he taunted.

“Always.”

He pushed into you without preamble. No teasing. Just punishment. You cried out, back arching, the stretch almost unbearable—but exactly what you needed.

“You missed this,” he said, fucking into you hard, fast. “You missed me.”

You pulled him down by the chain around his neck, bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“I missed your cock,” you breathed. “Not your fucking attitude.”

That does it.

Mattheo flipped you over, hand pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing your cheek into the couch as he slammed into you from behind.

“You liked making me jealous?” he gritted out, hips snapping against you.

“Loved it.”

He leaned over you, his chain dangling against your back as he bit your shoulder—hard.

He’s brutal with it. Feral. Like he’s trying to erase the memory of someone else inside you. Like he’s punishing your cunt for letting someone else in.

His fingers tangle in your hair, yank your head up so he can hiss in your ear: “Tell me who you belong to.”

You laugh, breathless and wicked. “Thought I belonged to Theo.”

He slaps your ass so hard you cry out, body jerking forward.

“Wrong fucking answer.”

You giggle like the little demon you are, even as he drags you up by your throat again, forces you to kneel in front of him as he pulls out, cock slick and furious.

He grabs your chin, forces your mouth open. “Open wider.”

You obey, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.

“That’s what I like about you,” he says darkly. “So obedient.”

Then he’s fucking your throat. Merciless. Deep. You choke around him, eyes watering, nails digging into his thighs as he uses your mouth like it’s his to ruin.

He pulls out, a thread of spit and come connecting you to him.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still smiling.

“Feel better, baby?” you croon.

“I’m gonna fuck you again,” he says, voice raw. “And then again. Until you forget every other name but mine.”

You press your body into his, your thighs sticky, your grin feral.

“This pussy,” he growled, grabbing your ass so hard it left bruises, “is mine.”

You didn’t answer.

So he dragged you back, arm around your throat, fucking you with such vicious purpose your knees gave out. He held you up—like a doll, like a toy—as he used you.

He pulled out slowly, deliberately, and flipped you over again. Your body was flushed, sweat-slicked, trembling.

He leaned down, brushing your hair from your face. “You don’t get to leave me,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Matty—”

He gripped your throat again—softer this time. Almost tender.

“You leave, I’ll fucking kill him.” His eyes searched yours for any sign of defiance,“That’s a promise princess.”

“Matty…” you whispered, voice torn between a taunt and a plea.

His eyes were black with it—rage, want, something feral and bottomless. His thumb stroked your pulse where his hand still held your throat. Then he kissed you again—slow this time, “Say it,” he growled into your neck. “Say who you fucking belong to.”

You gasped, moaned, teeth clenched.

He slapped your pussy, hard.

“Say it.”

“You,” you cried. “Fuck—you, Matty.”

He grinned against your shoulder. “That’s my fucking girl.”

your whole body shaking beneath him. He followed with a growl, spilling into you, marking you from the inside out.

He stayed buried in you for a moment. Then he pulled out slowly, watching you twitch, ruined and spent.

You collapsed to your side, trembling and red-lipped, your hair a mess, mascara smudged like war paint.

He crouched beside you, one hand brushing over your bruised thigh, almost tender.

“You ever pull that shit again,” he said, voice low and calm now—too calm, “and I won’t just kill him.”

You turned your head, smirked through swollen lips. “You gonna kill me too?”

He leaned in, pressed his mouth to your ear. “No, princess. I’ll keep you alive. Just barely.”

A pause.

“I’ll make you beg for mercy you know I’ll never give.”

You laughed, breathless and fucked out.

“Sounds like foreplay.”

Mattheo stood, dragged a hand through his hair, looking down at you like a god surveying the wreckage of a temple. You were the altar and the sin.

Sighing before grabbing his shirt off the floor, slipping it on with practiced ease. Your heart dropped, he wasn’t going to stay?

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” he said, “I‘ll be back tomorrow night.”

He flicked his wand—finally retrieved from his dorm—and your clothes flew across the room, landing in a heap by the door.

You stared at them, then at him. “You said I was yours.”

“And you are,” he replied, stepping close, fingers gripping your chin. “But being mine doesn’t mean I’m kind. It means I can do whatever the fuck I want with you.”

Your jaw clenched, tears burning behind your eyes—but you wouldn’t cry. Not for him.

He kissed you once more—slow, searing before pulling away. “Next time you let someone else inside you,” he said, voice sharp and venom-sweet, “make sure you’re ready for the consequences.”

You stared up at him, tears brimming the corners of your eyes silently falling before looking down as the ground became blurry, hearing the door slam after him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: need want matty and theo at the same damn time

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

[comatosebunny09]

@midiplier inspired me to write a bite-sized continuation for sensitive. A little steamy but pretty tame.

“—good on you.”

He cocks his head towards you, inquisitive, eyes fixed on the tablet in his palm, but his attention is evenly distributed, nonetheless. “Hmm?”

You smile. It reaches your eyes. Your chest swells with fondness. Fingers twitch with an impulse to touch. 

“The earrings—they look good on you.”

He chuckles something tempting. Grins wide, dimples forming in his cheeks. He’s so incredibly handsome. Boyish, the delicate, black studs gleaming in the sepia lighting of his study, heightening his appeal. 

You did good picking them out. They’re pretty, nestled in the warm ivory of his skin. Less bulky, not overwhelming, flattering. 

“You think so?” 

There’s something about the way he works. When his attention’s divided, but he still humors you, carving out time in his busy schedule to allow you into this private sector of his life, even if it’s just to watch him furrow his brows over intel while you tap away at your phone. 

You’re grateful for these quiet moments between you—no bullets whizzing by, no blood to staunch. No deprecating thoughts live here, no jealousy. Just serenity between two people content with existing in each other’s presence. Comfortable like long-time friends used to the lull of silence. 

“Yeah. They look great. How do they feel?”

He tears his eyes away from the screen. Stalls your breath in your lungs when he looks at you from his shoulder. 

“Less irritating. Not as heavy. Thank you.”

“Really,” you breathe. Mischief creeps onto your face. “So, if I did this…” Shaky fingers stretch to stroke along the curve of his ear, gentle as they ease towards his lobe, sliding over the rigid contours of the stud.

He stirs lightly at the contact, lashes dancing, throat thickening with a soft, strained sound as his smile falters. You feel it coiling in your chest, that noise. Dripping hot, pooling in the chasm of your belly. He cants his head towards you like a feline seeking the warm press of the sun. 

You smile with quiet, curious delight—an adventurous child mapping out the world. 

“This doesn’t hurt?” Your voice cracks as you lightly pinch his lobe between your fingers, entranced by its elasticity. How soft it is, how warm it feels.

He grunts something barely there. Bitten-off. Content as he nuzzles his cheek against the flat of your nails. “Not at all.”

Your smile widens if at all possible. To his chagrin, you draw your hand back into your lap. He eyes you, haughty, mildly annoyed, as if to convey, ‘Why did you stop?’ 

You’re unsure where you acquired this boldness—this sudden need to sink your teeth into the pretty, reddening flesh. It’s overpowering, a primal impulse to bite down. But, you just…do. Angle yourself closer from your place beside him, your chair creaking, and his breath quickens when your nose brushes his cheek. 

It’s doughy between your teeth—his cartilage. Stretched thin, flushed. The noise you elicit from him is more tempting, his voice liquid sin, halfway anguished, pleasured. You feel it in your toes, prickling in the crown of your head. It’s drawn out when you drag your teeth down his lobe, his skin salty in the palate of your mouth, traded for the taste of black diamond and metal. 

Your ego swells. The leader of Onychinus, putty in your hands, beneath your teeth. Who would’ve thought? You let go after swiping your tongue over the stud, sitting back, smiling like a satisfied cat. 

“Did that hurt?”

He’s so pretty, swiveling his chair towards you, knees bumping yours. That pretty flush dusting his cheeks, the drunken bow of his lashes, the scowl twisting up his lips as if he’s done with your shit—it makes you want to coo. Makes you want to gather his cheeks into your palms and nuzzle your noses together. He makes your heart swell. Makes your eyes water with a thin film of moisture. 

“You think this is funny, don’t you?” 

There is no warning. No preamble when the dark, misty lick of red circles your waist, your wrists. You’ve barely time to blink before he’s drawing you into his lap with his Evol. Your knees bracket either side of his waist, legs folded awkwardly against the chair. 

His palms burn through the stretch of your slacks, molding to your hips. He draws you closer, his thighs devastatingly toned beneath you. He doesn’t release you from the spell of his eyes as he waggles his fingers, a smoky tendril summoned to lock the study’s door. 

“Now we won’t be interrupted this time,” he drawls, hot against your lips, eyelashes tickling your cheeks as he studies your mouth. So close. It’s dizzying. “Why don’t I show you how I deal with tricksters?”

You could escape if you wanted. His grip is loose enough for you to slip away. Yet it’s firm, possessive, almost desperate as his thumbs stroke over the pockets of your hips. As his fingers curl around your thighs, repositioning you into a more comfortable position. 

You don’t want to leave. Want to see what this punishment of his entails, your arms snaking about his shoulders, his chest so pleasantly warm and sculpted against your breasts.

[undiagnosedcruelty]

Gummy Worm ?

Pairing: Han Jisung x reader x skz

Genre: fluff, crackfic

Summary: A gummy worm, a fake wedding, and a proposal.

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Content Warning: chaos, fluff, crack humor, chan ugly crying

Word count: 1.4k

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EVERYTHING WRITTEN IS PURELY FICTION──NOTHING IS DIRECTLY RELATED TO ANY REAL LIFE EVENTS.

It starts, like most ridiculous things in your life, with Han Jisung and his unhinged ideas.

You’re stretched out on the couch, barely paying attention to the TV as your phone screen glows dimly in your hands. It’s a lazy afternoon, the kind where time stretches in slow waves, and the biggest dilemma on your mind is whether or not you want to get up and make a snack.

That is, until Jisung plops down next to you with all the grace of a sleepy cat, limbs sprawled in a way that takes up as much space as possible. He nudges your knee with his own, bouncing slightly like he’s holding back some great revelation. You glance at him, already wary.

He’s grinning. That’s never a good sign.

“Hey,” he says, like he’s about to change your life.

“…Hey?”

He holds out his hand, fingers curled around something. With a slow, almost theatrical motion, he opens his palm, revealing—

A gummy worm.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this a peace offering? Did you commit a crime?”

Jisung snickers but shakes his head. Then, with absolutely no preamble, he says:

“Marry me.”

There’s a beat of silence. You stare at him. He stares at you. The TV hums in the background, blissfully unaware of the absurdity happening in the room.

Finally, you say, “Jisung, this is a gummy worm.”

“Yeah,” he replies, completely unfazed, “but imagine if it wasn’t.”

His face is entirely serious, which only makes it worse. His brown eyes gleam with mischief, but there’s something oddly sincere beneath the surface, something that makes your heart stumble in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

His expression is so sincere—so utterly devoid of the chaos you know is brewing beneath the surface—that it throws you off. You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “And what exactly are we imagining here?”

“That this is the most romantic proposal ever,” he says. He carefully takes your hand and slides the gummy worm onto your ring finger with a reverence that makes it worse. “That I planned a whole thing. That you’re weeping, overcome with emotion—”

“I’m about to start crying for real if you don’t shut up.”

“But in a sexy way, not a gross way.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Jisung grins, tilting his head like he’s won something. “So… is that a yes?”

And maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, eyes warm and playful, or maybe it’s just the sheer absurdity of it all, but you decide to play along.

With an exaggerated sigh, you hold up your hand, gummy worm and all. “Fine. Sure. I accept your very serious proposal.”

Jisung gasps, eyes widening. “Wait. Really?”

“You started this, husband.”

His entire face lights up. “OH MY GOD. WE HAVE TO HAVE A WEDDING.”

“Wait—what? No—”

Too late. He’s already screaming.

“GUYS! WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!”

And that’s where everything spirals.

A Questionable Wedding Ceremony

It all happened so fast, you find yourself standing in the middle of the dorm’s living room, facing Han Jisung in what has to be the most absurd fake wedding ceremony in existence.

The couch is shoved aside to create an aisle—if you can even call it that—lined with mismatched LED lights that flicker between colors, making the whole thing look like a neon fever dream. Someone (definitely Felix) has draped a bedsheet over a chair to serve as an altar, the fabric wrinkled and slipping off at the edges. A bouquet of fake plastic flowers from Minho’s room (originally meant for his cats) sits in a cereal box “vase” at the front.

Seungmin, somehow now wearing a judge’s robe (where did he even get that?), stands in front of you both with the air of someone who is so, so done with this. He holds an actual book in his hands, though one glance tells you it’s just a random economics textbook turned into a pretend scripture.

Jisung stands beside you, hands clasped, practically buzzing with excitement. He’s grinning so wide his cheeks must hurt, and he keeps bouncing slightly on his feet. By the sides, Jeongin stands as the best man, holding the gummy worm ring as if his life was devoted to protecting it.

Seungmin sighs, rubbing his temple. “Do you, Han Jisung, promise to be slightly less of a dumbass in your marriage?”

Jisung, hands clasped in front of him, tilts his head in deep thought. “…No.”

“Figured.” Seungmin flips to a random page of the textbook and mutters, “Moving on.”

To your right, Bang Chan is a mess.

Not just sniffling. Full-on, ugly-crying.

He’s hunched over, gripping Felix’s arm for support. “They’re so beautiful,” he chokes out between sobs. Felix, looking genuinely moved, nods solemnly. “It’s a sacred bond, hyung.”

Meanwhile, Hyunjin has decided to be the live wedding band.

“DUN DUN DUN-DUN… DUN DUN DUN-DUN…”

He sings the wedding march off-key, dramatically clutching his chest as if he’s personally responsible for the romance in the air. You glare at him. “Hyunjin, I swear—”

He gasps. “Are you seriously scolding me on your wedding day?”

Lee Know, standing beside him, smirks and reaches into his pocket. You narrow your eyes, immediately suspicious.

“…Minho?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches into a bag—then flings something into the air. Cat treats.

Jisung yelps as one lands in his hair. You blink as more rain down around you.“Are you serious.”

Lee Know shrugs. “It’s all I had.”

Before you can recover, Changbin stands up and walks down the aisle with a box of confetti, scattering it all around like the flower girl he aspired to be.

Seungmin sighs, clearly beyond his patience. “Fine. You’re married. Or whatever.”

Jisung turns to you, grinning. “We did it, babe.” You shake your head, beyond words. “We really did.”

Then, just to commit to the bit, you lean in and press a dramatic, exaggerated smooch to Jisung’s cheek. The dorm erupts.

“EWWWW.”

“GET A ROOM.”

“THIS IS THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE.” (Chan, obviously.)

Jisung just beams, eyes crinkling. “Best fake wedding ever?” he asks.

You huff a laugh. “Absolutely.”

The next morning, You wake up to a dorm that feels completely different from the night before.

Gone is the chaotic, neon-lit wedding chapel, the crumpled LED lights, and the cereal box altar. Instead, the dorm is bathed in soft morning light, the warm gold spilling through the half-open blinds and casting long streaks across the wooden floor. The air is quiet in that particular way it only ever is early in the morning—hushed, still, like the world hasn’t quite woken up yet.

You shuffle into the kitchen, socked feet scuffing against the cool floor. The faint scent of instant coffee lingers in the air, and there, leaning against the counter, is Jisung.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

His usual chaotic energy is missing—no humming, no half-danced movements, no dramatic gasps to announce your presence. Instead, he’s unnaturally still, fingers fidgeting with something small and velvet. His brows are slightly furrowed, his lips pressed together in quiet concentration as he flips the box open, then closed, then open again. The nervous motion makes something in your chest tighten.

“…Jisung?”

He startles slightly, eyes darting up to meet yours.

For a moment, he just stands there, like he wasn’t expecting you yet. Then, after a breath, he steadies himself and pushes off the counter. He grips the box a little tighter before holding it out.

Inside, nestled against the soft velvet, is a ring.

Not a gummy worm.

Not a joke.

A real, simple, elegant ring.

“You know…” Jisung’s voice is softer than usual, hesitant, like he’s stepping into unknown territory. “If you ever want to make it real.”

The words linger between you, gentle and uncertain. The playful, exaggerated romance from the night before is gone, replaced by something heavier—something real.

For a second, your heart stops.

The air shifts, the quiet of the dorm suddenly thick with meaning. The golden light from the window catches on the edge of the ring, sending a faint glint across the counter. Outside, the distant hum of the city murmurs through the silence.

Jisung clears his throat, shuffling on his feet. “Uh. You can say no. That’s allowed.”

You glance at him—at the nervous flicker in his eyes, at the way his fingers curl slightly against his palm like he’s bracing for impact.

And maybe you should tease him, draw it out just a little—

But instead, you step forward, take the box from his hands, and smile.

“Ask me again.”

Jisung swallows. Nods.

And this time, he doesn’t have a gummy worm.

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[ghstyles]

Partners | His Angel

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Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 5.3k

Summary: You and Harry's first big fight

Requested

His Angel Masterlist

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The tension has been building for days, a slow accumulation of small irritations and unspoken frustrations that finally erupts on a rainy Friday evening in your apartment. What begins as a simple conversation about weekend plans quickly spirals into something neither of you anticipated, your first real fight.

It starts innocuously enough. Harry arrives at your apartment unannounced, as he sometimes does when his schedule allows an unexpected break. You're at your desk, surrounded by textbooks and notes for an upcoming midterm, hair piled messily on top of your head and wearing your oldest, most comfortable sweatpants. It’s hardly the way you prefer him to see you, but you've long since accepted that he appears when he wants to, regardless of your state of preparedness.

"I need you ready in thirty minutes," he announces without preamble after letting himself in with the key you gave him last month. "Wear the black dress."

You look up from your textbook, momentarily disoriented by his sudden appearance and directive.

"What? Harry, I can't go out tonight," you reply, gesturing to the study materials spread across your desk. "I have a midterm on Monday that I'm nowhere near ready for."

Harry's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture suggests he wasn't expecting resistance.

"The test can wait," he states with the casual authority that usually brooks no argument in his world. "I have a dinner meeting with associates from Chicago. Your presence is required."

It's the phrasing that ignites the first spark of irritation. ‘Your presence is required,' as if you're an employee being summoned rather than a partner being invited.

"My presence is required here, with my books," you counter, more firmly this time. "I told you earlier this week that I needed the weekend to study."

Harry moves further into the room, his eyes taking in the scattered notes and highlighted textbook pages with a dismissive glance.

"This dinner is important," he says, his tone indicating that this should settle the matter. "Moretti is bringing his wife. The proper appearance is essential."

The implication stings more than it should. That you're needed not for yourself but for the image you'll project, a decorative accessory to facilitate his business dealings.

"I'm not an accessory, Harry," you respond, your voice taking on an edge rarely directed at him. "And I have my own priorities. This test is worth thirty percent of my grade."

A slight furrow appears between his brows The first indication that he's registering your resistance as something more than a temporary inconvenience.

"I understand your studies are important," he says, his tone suggesting he's making a significant concession. "But this meeting has been difficult to arrange. Moretti doesn't leave Chicago often."

"And I can’t take this class again if I fail it," you counter, standing now to face him directly. "I've been clear about my schedule this weekend. You can't just show up and expect me to drop everything because you've decided my time is suddenly yours to allocate."

Harry goes still in that particular way of his, the absolute stillness that reminds you of what he is, of the power he wields in his world. When he speaks again, his voice has taken on that dangerous velvet quality that usually precedes his most serious statements.

"I don't recall asking," he says quietly. "The car will be here in twenty-five minutes. Be ready."

It's the command that does it. 

The assumption of compliance that ignites something fierce and unyielding within you. All the small frustrations of the past weeks, the cancelled plans when his business took precedence, the way he sometimes speaks to you in public as if directing a subordinate, the unilateral decisions about your shared time, crystallize into a sudden, white-hot anger.

"No," you state simply, the word hanging between you like a challenge.

Harry's eyes narrow fractionally, the only visible sign of his surprise at your direct refusal.

"No?" he repeats, the word almost curious in its delivery.

"No," you confirm, your voice steady despite the rapid beating of your heart. "I'm not going. I have to study. You'll have to manage without your arm candy tonight."

The flash of genuine anger that crosses his face is so rare and startling that it momentarily takes your breath away. Harry doesn't lose control of his emotions. It's one of the qualities that makes him so formidable. But there's no mistaking the brief hardening of his features before he masters himself again.

"That's not what you are," he says, each word precisely delivered. "And you know it."

"Do I?" you challenge, your own anger gaining momentum now. "Because from where I'm standing, it sure seems like what you value most is having me available whenever you decide you want me, looking however you want me to look, saying whatever you need me to say to impress your business associates."

Harry takes a step toward you, his movement deliberately controlled despite the tension evident in his posture.

"That's not fair," he states, his tone low and intense. "You know exactly what you mean to me."

"Actually, I don't," you fire back, surprising yourself with the force of your response. "Because you never say it. You never talk about feelings or what you want from this relationship. You just expect me to fit into your life on your terms, dropping everything when you appear and waiting patiently when you disappear for days on business I'm not allowed to know about."

The words pour out of you in a rush, grievances you hadn't even fully acknowledged to yourself until this moment.

"I'm not one of your employees, Harry. I don't take orders from you. I'm supposed to be your partner, but half the time you treat me like I'm just another asset you control."

Harry's jaw tightens, a muscle working beneath the skin in a visible sign of his restraint.

"I have never treated you as anything less than precious," he counters, his voice dangerously quiet. "Everything I do, every precaution, every decision, is to keep you safe, to give you the best of what I can offer."

"But that's just it," you persist, unwilling to back down now that the dam has broken. "You decide what's best. You decide when we see each other, where we go, who we meet. You decide what I need to know and what I don't. That's not a partnership, Harry. That's you controlling every aspect of our relationship because you can't stand not being in charge of everything and everyone around you."

The accusation lands with visible impact. Harry's expression shifts, something raw and unguarded flashing across his features before he can suppress it.

"You think I enjoy this?" he demands, his voice rising slightly for the first time. "You think I want to live with the constant knowledge that my world could destroy everything good in yours? That every moment you spend with me puts you at risk from people who would hurt you without hesitation to get to me?"

He moves closer, his intensity filling the small space of your apartment.

"I control what I can because there's so much I can't," he continues, the words coming faster now, with less of his usual measured precision. "Because the alternative is acknowledging that loving you is the most selfish, dangerous thing I've ever done, and I'm not strong enough to stop."

The word 'loving' hangs in the air between you, its unexpected appearance momentarily derailing your anger. In all your months together, you’ve only heard it once from Harry, and he was too drunk to remember it. 

But you're not ready to let go of your grievances so easily, not when they've been building for so long.

"If you love me," you say, your voice steadier than you feel, "then you need to respect me enough to let me make my own choices. To have my own priorities. To be a real partner, not just someone who follows orders and looks pretty at your side when it's convenient."

Harry's expression hardens again, his momentary vulnerability disappearing behind the mask of control he wears so effortlessly.

"You have no idea what you're asking for," he says coldly. "No concept of the realities of my world."

"Because you won't let me!" you exclaim, frustration coloring your tone. "You keep me in this carefully constructed bubble, showing me only the parts of yourself you think I can handle. That's not trust, Harry. And without trust, what do we really have?"

The question lands between you like a physical blow. Harry steps back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours as he processes your words. When he speaks again, his voice has taken on a distant quality that chills you more than his anger.

"Perhaps you're right," he says quietly. "Perhaps this was always impossible."

The shift in his tone sends a jolt of alarm through you. This isn't how you expected the argument to go, not toward this sudden, cold assessment of your relationship's viability.

"That's not what I meant," you say quickly, some of your anger giving way to a creeping apprehension. "I'm not saying we can't make this work. I'm saying we need to do it differently."

Harry's expression remains closed, unreadable in a way it rarely is with you.

"And if I can't?" he asks simply. "If this is who I am, someone who controls, who protects through management and calculation? If I can't be the partner you want?"

The question hangs heavy in the air, carrying implications that make your heart constrict painfully in your chest. For the first time, you can see the real vulnerability beneath Harry's controlled exterior, the fear, not that you'll be hurt by his enemies, but that you'll reject the fundamental aspects of who he is.

Your anger deflates, replaced by a complicated mixture of frustration and understanding. You move toward him, closing the distance his earlier step created.

"I'm not asking you to be someone else," you say, your voice softening despite your lingering irritation. "I'm asking you to let me be your partner in reality, not just in name. To discuss things with me instead of deciding for me. To respect that I have my own life that matters too."

Harry watches you approach, his posture still rigid with tension, but something in his eyes has shifted, a cautious reassessment of the situation.

"My priority will always be your safety," he states, the words carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "That's not negotiable."

"I understand that," you acknowledge, stopping directly in front of him. "But there's a difference between protecting me and controlling me. Between making decisions for my benefit and making them without my input."

You take a deep breath, organizing your thoughts before continuing.

"Tonight, for example. If you had called earlier and explained why this dinner was important, asked if I could rearrange my study schedule instead of commanding me to be ready... that would have been partnership. I might still have said no, but at least I would have felt like my priorities mattered too."

Harry is silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving yours as he processes your words. You can almost see the calculations happening behind his gaze, the careful reconsideration of approaches and outcomes.

"I'm not accustomed to asking," he finally says, the admission carrying a rare honesty. "In my world, hesitation is weakness. Consultation is inefficiency."

"I'm not your world," you remind him gently but firmly. "I'm your partner. Different rules apply."

Harry steps closer, his expression shifting to one of genuine offense, his green eyes darkening with intensity.

"You are my world," he growls, the words coming out with such raw conviction that it momentarily catches you off guard. "That's the fucking problem, isn't it? You've become everything."

The admission seems to fuel his frustration rather than diffuse it. He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the carefully styled waves.

"You think this is about control?" he continues, his voice rising. "It's about keeping the one good thing in my life untainted by everything else. The moment those worlds truly collide is the moment I lose you, either to fear or to something worse."

"That's not your decision to make!" you fire back, your own voice matching his in volume. "You don't get to decide what I can handle or what risks I'm willing to take. That's exactly what I'm talking about, Harry! You make these unilateral decisions about our relationship based on what you think is best."

His jaw clenches, the muscle there twitching visibly. "Because I've seen what happens when people get too close to my life! You think I'm being controlling? I'm being fucking realistic!"

"No, you're being a coward," you snap, the words leaving your mouth before you can consider their impact. "You're so afraid of losing control that you won't even try a real partnership. It's easier to keep me in this pretty little box where I don't ask questions and just do what I'm told."

The look that crosses Harry's face is something you've never seen directed at you before, a flash of that cold, dangerous anger usually reserved for those who cross him in his professional life. It sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"A coward?" he repeats, his voice dropping to that deceptively soft tone that anyone else would recognize as a warning. "You have no idea what courage it takes to let you in at all. To know what could happen to you because of me and still be selfish enough to keep you."

"Then be selfish enough to trust me too!" you demand, refusing to back down despite the tension crackling between you. "Trust me to make my own choices, to handle the truth about your life, to be a real partner instead of a pretty distraction you keep separate from everything else!"

"You want to know about my life?" Harry's laugh is harsh and humorless. "You want to know what I did yesterday? I broke a man's fingers one by one until he told me who's been skimming from our shipments. You want to know about tonight's dinner? I'm meeting with a man who's killed more people than you've probably met in your life, and if it goes wrong, there's a very real chance someone ends up dead."

He moves closer, his presence overwhelming in the small space of your apartment. "That's the reality you're so eager to be part of. That's what you're asking for when you say you want everything."

"I'm asking to be treated like an equal!" you shout, frustration making your voice crack. "Not sheltered like a child who can't understand the real world!"

"An equal?" Harry laughs again, the sound bitter and cutting. "In what universe are we equals, Y/N? I'm a fucking monster who's spent his entire life building an empire on violence and fear. You're studying to help people, to make something worthwhile of yourself. The only way I can justify being in your life at all is by keeping those worlds as separate as possible!"

"That's not your choice to make," you insist, tears of frustration beginning to well in your eyes. "You don't get to decide what I can handle or what compromises my morality. That's my decision."

"And what happens when those decisions put you in danger?" he demands, his voice rising again. "When someone decides you're the perfect leverage against me? When you're faced with the reality of what I do, not just the abstract concept of it?"

"Then we deal with it together!" you shoot back. "That's what partners do!"

Harry stares at you for a long, tense moment, something complicated and pained working behind his eyes. Then he shakes his head, a gesture of finality that sends a chill through you.

"We're going in circles," he says, his voice suddenly controlled again, that artificial calm that means he's withdrawing. "I have a dinner to attend."

"So that's it?" you ask incredulously. "We're having the most important conversation of our relationship and you're just going to walk out because you have business?"

"What would you have me do?" he asks coldly. "Cancel a meeting with one of the most dangerous men in the Midwest because we're having a domestic? That's exactly the kind of vulnerability I can't afford."

The dismissive way he refers to your argument, a 'domestic', ignites a fresh wave of anger within you.

"Go," you say, your voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Go to your important dinner. Show everyone how in control the great Harry Styles is. God forbid anyone think you might actually have human feelings."

Something flashes in his eyes, hurt, perhaps, or anger, before his expression shutters completely.

"We'll continue this discussion later," he says with that infuriating finality, already turning toward the door.

"Maybe we won't," you throw after him, the words born of hurt and frustration. "Maybe there's nothing left to discuss."

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, his back to you, shoulders rigid with tension. For a moment, you think he might turn back, might actually engage with the implications of your statement. Instead, without another word, he pulls the door open and walks out, closing it with a controlled click that somehow feels worse than if he had slammed it.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

---

It's nearly three in the morning when your phone buzzes with a text. You've been alternating between angry pacing, frustrated tears, and fitful attempts at studying that have yielded almost nothing productive. Your emotions have cycled through righteous indignation, hurt, worry, and back to anger several times.

The text is brief: Coming up.

Less than two minutes later, there's a knock at your door, an unusual courtesy from someone who has a key. When you open it, the sight that greets you is one you've never seen before: Harry Styles, the man who prides himself on perfect control and impeccable appearance, looking distinctly disheveled.

His normally perfectly styled hair is mussed, as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. His tie is loose, the top buttons of his shirt undone. But it's his eyes that truly shock you, slightly unfocused, with an emotional vulnerability you've never witnessed before.

"You're drunk," you state, the realization hitting you as you catch the faint scent of expensive whiskey.

"Perceptive as always," he replies, his accent thicker than usual, another tell-tale sign of his inebriation. "May I come in?"

The formality of the request is so at odds with his usual confident entries to your space that it momentarily throws you off balance. You step aside silently, allowing him to enter.

Harry moves past you with less than his usual grace, making his way to the center of your living room before turning to face you. For a long moment, he simply looks at you, as if reacquainting himself with your features.

"I fucked up," he finally says, the crude admission falling from his lips with surprising ease. "I handled it badly. All of it."

You cross your arms, not ready to let go of your anger despite the unprecedented sight of a contrite Harry Styles. "Which part, specifically?"

He gives a short, humorless laugh. "All of it," he repeats. "Coming here with demands instead of requests. Dismissing your priorities. Walking out." He pauses, swallowing visibly. "Treating you like you're not the most important thing in my life."

The raw honesty in his voice catches you off guard. Harry is never this unguarded, this emotionally transparent.

"You're right," he continues when you remain silent. "I am a coward. Not about the business, never about that. But about this." He gestures between the two of you. "About us. About how fucking terrified I am of losing you."

He takes a step toward you, slightly unsteady but determined. "I don't know how to do this, Y/N. I've never, " he breaks off, frustration evident in his expression as he struggles to articulate thoughts he's clearly never voiced before. "I've never had someone I couldn't bear to lose. I've never had to balance power and vulnerability this way."

Another step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "But I know I can't lose you. And tonight, sitting across from Moretti, all I could think was that you might be serious. That this might be it."

The admission hits you with unexpected force. Despite your anger, the thought of actually ending things with Harry had been more threat than intention, a frustrated lashing out rather than a considered decision. The realization that he took it seriously, that it affected him so deeply, softens something in your chest.

"So I left," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "Made my excuses and left the most important business meeting I've had in months because none of it mattered if you weren't, " he stops again, struggling visibly with the unfamiliar territory of emotional vulnerability.

"I need you to forgive me," he says finally, the words coming out rough and urgent. "I need you to give me another chance to do better. To be what you need."

He's directly in front of you now, close enough that you can see the slight redness in his eyes, smell the expensive whiskey on his breath. With an uncharacteristic hesitation, he reaches for your hand.

"Please," he says, the word so rarely used by him that it carries exceptional weight. "I know I don't deserve it. I know I'm not, " he shakes his head, frustration at his own inarticulateness evident. "I'm not good at this. At being what someone like you deserves. But I want to try. I need to try."

The naked vulnerability in his expression, the unguarded emotion in his voice, these are sides of Harry Styles you've never witnessed before, aspects of himself he keeps rigidly controlled at all times. The fact that he's showing them now, that he's allowing himself this level of exposure, speaks volumes about his sincerity.

"I love you," he says finally, the words emerging with such raw honesty that it takes your breath away. "I fucking love you, Y/N. And I'm terrified of what that means, of what it makes possible, both the best and worst possibilities. But I can't…I won't lose you over my fear."

He's never said those words to you before, not while sober, not with this level of conscious intent. The admission hangs in the air between you, transforming the atmosphere of your apartment, of your relationship.

"I need you to say something," he urges after a moment of silence, an unusual note of uncertainty in his voice. "Tell me I haven't completely fucked this up. Tell me there's still something to save."

"Hey. Hey," you whisper, stepping closer, your hands rising to gently cup his face. You brush a strand of hair from his forehead, your touch soft, steady. "Harry, I know I was upset but I didn’t mean it. God, no. Not any of it. Okay?"

You feel his breath hitch under your fingertips, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to anchor himself to your words.

Harry's eyes search yours with an intensity that's almost painful, a vulnerability rarely witnessed in a man so accustomed to power. For a moment, he remains perfectly still under your touch, as if afraid any movement might shatter this fragile moment of reconciliation.

"You didn't?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically rough, almost boyish in its uncertainty. His hands come up to cover yours where they rest against his face, his fingers wrapping around your wrists with gentle pressure.

You shake your head, feeling a surge of tenderness at seeing this side of him, this rawness that he shows to no one else.

"No, I didn't," you affirm softly. "I was angry and frustrated, but I never meant that I wanted to end this. Us."

Something shifts in his expression, tension releasing, relief washing through him in an almost physical wave. His shoulders drop slightly, and he exhales a breath you hadn't realized he was holding.

"I thought, " he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. "When I walked out, and you said maybe there was nothing left to discuss..." His grip on your wrists tightens fractionally. "It's the first time I've ever walked away from a fight thinking I might not get to come back."

The admission strikes you as profoundly significant. Harry Styles, who walks through life with absolute certainty, who commands rooms with his mere presence, who never shows doubt or weakness, admitting to fear, to uncertainty about his place in your life.

"I'm still angry," you tell him honestly, your thumbs stroking gently across his cheekbones. "I meant everything I said about needing things to change. About being treated like a partner, not a possession. But I never meant I wanted to throw away what we have."

Harry nods, his eyes never leaving yours. "I understand," he says, and for once, you believe he truly does. "I won't promise to be perfect at it. This, " he gestures vaguely between you with one hand, ", doesn't come naturally to me. Trust. Vulnerability. Compromise." He takes a deep breath. "But I will try. For you, I will try."

You can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the slight unfocus in his usually sharp gaze, but there's a clarity to his words that tells you this isn't just drunken remorse. This is Harry Styles, stripped of his usual defenses, showing you a truth he normally keeps buried.

"That's all I'm asking for," you say, your anger continuing to soften in the face of his unprecedented vulnerability. "Just try. Talk to me instead of commanding. Ask instead of telling. Remember that I have choices too."

He nods again, more firmly this time. "I can do that," he says, then amends, "I will do that."

His hands release your wrists, moving to frame your face in a mirror of your own gesture. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze more directly.

"I meant what I said," he tells you, his voice low and intense. "I love you. I've never said that to anyone before. Never felt it before." His thumbs trace your cheekbones, his touch uncharacteristically tentative. "It terrifies me, how much power that gives you. How much it would destroy me to lose you."

The confession sends a wave of warmth cascading through your chest. Harry Styles, admitting to fear. Admitting that you have power over him, perhaps the only person in the world who does.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, your eyes softening as you look up at him. "I know," you say, amusement threading through your voice despite the weight of the moment. "You told me when you were drunk."

Harry’s brow furrows, hands stilling against your face. “What?”

“About a month ago,” you say, your smile growing as the memory resurfaces. “After that business dinner with the Russians. You called me. I found you drunk in your office, still in your suit, mumbling about how much I mean to you.”

His expression shifts from confusion to disbelief, then to something almost bashful. In emotion so rare on Harry Styles' face it feels almost precious.

“I did?” he asks, genuinely stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrug, your hands drifting down to rest on his chest. “You didn’t remember the next morning. I figured if you meant it, you’d say it when you were sober. When you were ready.”

Harry’s eyes flicker with something unreadable before a slow realization seems to dawn on him. His brows lift slightly.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “you said it too. When you were drunk.”

Your head tilts, puzzled. “What? No, I didn’t.”

A faint smirk appears on his lips, edged with something fond. “Yeah. You did. After finals. You showed up at my penthouse crying because you thought I was going to leave you. You said you loved me between hiccups and snotty sniffles while I was trying to get you to drink water.”

Your mouth parts slightly as the memory hits, hazy and wine-soaked, but there. You remember the ache in your chest, the way your arms had clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, how your voice had cracked when you begged him not to go.

"Oh my god," you breathe, heat rising to your cheeks. "I thought that was a dream. You never said anything!"

Harry's smirk widens, though there's a softness in his eyes that belies his teasing expression. "For the same reason you didn't. I thought if you meant it, you'd say it when you were sober. When you were ready."

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, unexpected and genuine, the absurdity of the situation cutting through the lingering tension between you. "So we've both been waiting for the other person to say it first? For months?"

Harry joins you in laughter, the sound transforming his face, making him look younger, unburdened in a way you rarely get to see. "Apparently so."

As your shared laughter subsides, he pulls you closer, resting his forehead against yours. The gesture is intimate, vulnerable in its simplicity. His hands slide from your face to your shoulders, down your arms, finally settling at your waist.

"How did I find you?" he murmurs, the question seemingly directed more at the universe than at you. "How the fuck did someone like me end up with someone like you?"

The raw wonder in his voice touches something deep inside you, melting away the last of your anger from earlier. This is the Harry that no one else gets to see, the man beneath the power and control, the boy who grew up too fast, the heart that learned to harden itself against a cruel world.

"Someone like you?" you repeat softly, your hands moving up to thread through his hair. "You mean someone beautiful?" You press a gentle kiss to his jaw. "Someone loyal?" Another kiss, higher on his cheek. "Someone who would burn down the world to protect what's his?" A final kiss, just at the corner of his mouth.

Harry's eyes close briefly at your touch, his breathing becoming slightly uneven. When he opens them again, the vulnerability there is staggering.

"Someone broken," he corrects quietly. "Someone with blood on his hands and darkness in his past. Someone who doesn't deserve the light you bring."

You shake your head, rejecting his self-assessment. "That's not for you to decide," you remind him gently, echoing your earlier argument but with tenderness now instead of anger. "What I deserve, what I want, that's my choice. And I choose you. All of you, not just the parts you think are acceptable to show me."

His arms tighten around your waist, drawing you fully against him. "I'm still learning how to do that," he admits. "How to let someone see everything and trust they won't run."

"I'm not running," you promise, your fingers still tangled in his hair. "I'm standing right here, telling you I love you too. Sober and certain and fully aware of exactly who you are."

The last of his restraint seems to crumble at your words. With a sound that's half groan, half sigh, Harry captures your mouth with his, the kiss desperate and reverent all at once. He tastes like expensive whiskey and vulnerability, his usual controlled precision giving way to something rawer, more urgent.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathless. He keeps you close, his forehead pressed against yours again, his eyes closed as if committing this moment to memory.

"I'm still angry about earlier," you remind him, though your tone has lost most of its edge. "This doesn't fix everything."

Harry nods, his eyes opening to meet yours. "I know," he acknowledges. "We still have things to work through. I still need to do better." His hands flex against your lower back. "But we'll figure it out. Together. As partners."

The word 'partners', the very thing you'd been fighting for, sounds different coming from his lips, weighted with new meaning and promise.

"Partners," you agree softly, sealing the commitment with another gentle kiss.

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