#and I know there is debate over if it was destroyed

[antithetical-bolter]

Out Of The Woods (2)

Hiiii friends wow I am so glad so many of you are liking this story!! Here’s the big conversation, hope it does the story justice! There’s a touch of Robby POV in here which I will do occasionally but this will be mostly Iris POV.

5.9k words | Robby puts his foot in his mouth multiple times as Iris fills him in on their situation. Morning sickness makes her life a living hell.

Warnings: unplanned pregnancy, lots of talk of vomiting. excessive use of the word fuck, commas, and em dashes.

Tag list: @snowflames-world @antisocialfiore @eviemonroeer @princessjayll @sizzlingkryptonitetale @two-bitkit @dizzybee03 @knifetotheback

Page dividers: @cafekitsune

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I highly debate turning around and making him stew longer, but I know that’s just me wanting to delay the inevitable. Armed with my smoothie and a shit ton of spite, I tuck my phone into my running belt and walk towards my front door.

He’s sitting on the bottom step of my porch, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Clearly recently showered and no longer in scrubs - instead he’s wearing gray jogger sweatpants and a forest green crew neck sweatshirt. His hair is still damp, sticking up every which way like he’s been running his hands through it and his glasses sit perched on his forehead. As I step onto my property, his head shoots up.

Robby says nothing as I walk past him and unlock the door, doing my absolute best to not think about the way I can feel his eyes tracking my every movement. He stands up and comes to occupy the space behind me as the lock clicks and I swing open the door.

“I need to take a shower before we do this. You know where the couch is, I’ll come down when I’m done.” I can’t help being a little petty as I add, “I don’t want to keep you from wherever you need to be, so if you’re gone when I get out I won’t think anything of it.” He turns red from his ears to his neck at that last comment.

“I, uh, I can wait. Take as much time as you need.” He says a little sheepishly. Good. He deserves to be a little embarrassed by his behavior. I do not grant him a response, instead locking the door behind us and turning on my heel to trek upstairs and wash off my run.

A shower does make me feel a little more grounded. Not good, not ready for this conversation by any means, but less like throwing my fancy ceramic plates at his head. I rough dry my long, bright red hair and throw it into french braids to keep it out of the way. My contacts come out and I don my glasses, and I let myself do my entire five step skin care routine before facing the man currently sitting on my couch.

Eventually, though, I run out of reasons to keep him waiting. I snag my favorite pink fuzzy blanket off my bed and swing it around myself, covering the matching purple striped pajama shirt and shorts I have on. It’s chilly in Pittsburgh tonight but I’ll be damned if I’m not comfortable and wearing my favorite clothes for what will inevitably be one of the worst conversations I’ll ever have to have. I throw on some slippers and make my way downstairs, trying to be quiet.

Robby is sitting on my couch, taking up almost an entire third of it by himself. The green of his sweatshirt matches the couch cushions almost perfectly and I hate that my first thought is that he looks like he belongs here. He must have kicked off his shoes somewhere between now and then, as his bare feet sit on the leaf-themed rug covering the large majority of my living room floor. I let myself look at his face a little before clearing my throat to announce my presence.

Frankly, he looks like shit. His hair is even more mussed up after continually being disturbed by his fingers and I know him well enough to recognize the expression he’s wearing as his ‘I’m fucking drowning here’ face. I take a small amount of joy in seeing that he’s a little destroyed about the whole situation. That makes two of us.

He jerks his head up to look at me as he hears me come down and walk over to the couch to join him, sitting just about as far away as I can comfortably get. His left hand reaches towards me, briefly, before thinking better of himself and returning his hand to sit on the back of his neck instead. He just stares at me, clearly waiting for me to say something.

“Look, Robby, I tried to talk to you earlier and you had nothing to say to me. If you want to know something, then ask.” He nods to himself, turning away so he’s no longer making eye contact with me.

“You’re, what, eight or so weeks along?” His voice comes out sounding rough, like he has to force the words out.

“Nine.”

“Uhm, how long have you known?”

“About three weeks.” A somewhat shaky nod is his only reaction and I feel a little bad about keeping him in the dark for so long.

“You’ve had a scan?” His eyes drift to where I have the ultrasound pictures up on the fridge, right next to my unhealthy amount of lists. Fuck me - did he read those?

“Yup.” God, this is making me nauseous.

“When’s your next one?”

“In a few weeks.” My twelve week scan would be my next check up, already on the calendar for a Tuesday I happen to have off. I grab my water bottle from where it sits on the coffee table and take a small sip, hoping it will help my stomach chill the fuck out.

“Can I, uhm - would it be okay with you if I, uhh, can I come with you?” That makes me pause. I don’t know why, it makes sense that he’d want to be involved with the appointments. Or at least it would make sense in a normal situation. This, unfortunately, is anything but normal. He notices my silence. “I can drive, if you want.”

“I don’t know, Robby. I’ll never restrict your access to the kid but at this stage the appointments are more about me and my health, and I’m not sure about you being there.” The thing is - I do want him there. But this feeling I’ve been carrying around since he stopped talking to me is still weighing heavier on me than how badly I want his support. I pull my blanket tighter around myself, hoping it will give me the strength I need to continue speaking. “Maybe. I’ll let you know.”

“Sure, yeah, just uh, just let me know. Even if I just sit in the waiting room I’d like to be there.” He turns his body on the couch to face me. “Look, Iris. I’m so sorry for how I’ve been treating you since that night.” I do my best not to roll my eyes at him. “It’s a shitty excuse and it’s not enough, but I woke up and was just so fucking scared that I was going to fuck this up like everything else, so I decided that leaving it at us just having one night together would be better than me ruining whatever we might have had.” Cue the eye roll I’ve been holding in.

“Well look where that got us.” My words have more venom than I intended but I don’t take them back.

“Yeah. Obviously, you’re right.” No fucking shit. Understatement of the fucking century. “I wish I could go back and change it, but that’s not really an option.” I close my eyes as tight as I can manage. I’m pretty close to tears and the last thing I want to do is let him see me cry about this. I’ve been doing a lot of fucking crying lately but that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable being vulnerable with him. The tears leak out against my will as I bury my face in my blanket in an effort to shield myself from his gaze. “If you, uhm, if you want, I’d like to take you out on a real date. We can go wherever you want, do anything you like.” That gets me to put my head up again, if only so I can look at him like he’s gone absolutely insane.

“I’m sorry, I think I’m having a stroke. Did you just ask me out on a fucking date?” The nausea doubles, and not because I’m pregnant.

“Uhh, yes?” He sees the tears sprinting down my cheeks, paired with the death glare I’m sending his way and his eyes go wide in response. “I know this is off to a rocky start, but I want to do this right. I want to be involved and be with you. Drive you to appointments, hold your hair while you puke, track down weird middle of the night cravings.” I am incapable of holding in my laughter - and it must freak him out because he starts to speak much faster. “I was telling the truth when I told you that I’ve had feelings for you for a while now, I know I’ve done a shit job of showing it but-“ I abruptly stand up and run to my downstairs bathroom, closing the door and falling to the floor before losing my smoothie to the toilet. Between the pregnancy nausea and the absolute bullshit he’s spouting at me right now there’s no chance of me being able to hold anything down.

Thankfully I had enough time to lock the door behind me. I hear him jiggle the doorknob as I continue to throw up.

“Iris, please,” He pleads with me, but there’s quite literally no fucking way I will be opening the door for him. Not when he just asked me on a date as I sat across the couch from him, crying about being pregnant with his goddamn child because he hasn’t spoken to me since said child was conceived.

“Oh fuck you!” That shuts him up. It doesn’t take long for my stomach to completely empty itself out, and when I think I’m finished I stand to brush my teeth and splash water on my face. Hopefully she’s still free because I’ve decided that I desperately need Dana. I pat myself down, looking for my phone, but I must have left it on the couch.

Taking a few deep breaths to slow down my heart rate and hopefully squash the panic attack I feel coming on, I open the door to find him standing right on the other side. It makes me jump a little bit to have him be so close after weeks of acting like I had the plague. I push past him to walk back to the couch and text Dana. She immediately likes my message, and I take comfort in knowing she’ll be here in no more than fifteen minutes.

“I think it��s time for you to leave, Robby. I’ve had as much of this as I can handle for tonight.” He looks absolutely fucking wrecked, and I feel bad enough that I throw him a bone. “Look - it’s not that I don’t want any of that. I do, fucking desperately. But you really hurt me and it’s not enough for you to just show up now.” He nods, looking down at his feet. “I’ll let you know about appointments when I’m a little clearer headed. But, Robby, if you want to be anything other than civil co-parents, you better take your ass to therapy. And really take it seriously, don’t just go because I told you to.” He looks up at me, hands going to run over his face and then brace on the back of his neck.

“I guess I can do that. Jack has someone he recommended to me, I’ll get his number next time I hand off to him at shift change.” I say nothing in response, just walk myself to the front door and grab my wallet. I pull out the card that Jack gave me and hand it to Robby.

“Don’t be mad at him, he picked Samira up after I told her and I just couldn’t keep it in.” He nods, starts to speak, and then thinks better of it. Takes a few seconds to breathe before he speaks again.

“Uh, yeah, okay. I’ll call tomorrow.” He takes a step towards me as I move to open the front door, a clear sign that it’s time for him to get the fuck out of my house. He slips his shoes on and slowly makes his way towards the porch. “Can I give you a hug before I go?” Fucking hell, that’s the last thing I need right now. But my body and my brain are not exactly on the same page at the moment and I find myself nodding before I can refuse.

He pulls me in to what has the potential to be the best hug I’ve ever received, if I wasn’t about ten seconds away from full body sobbing. He’s so all over the place. It’s giving me emotional whiplash. But he’s also warm, and he smells good, and this hug is all I’ve wanted from him for months. I feel my chest start to shake with oncoming sobs and I pull away before it gets that far. I am not fast enough to beat the tears, though, and I know he sees them on my face as I usher him out the door.

“You’ve gotta go, Robby. I’ll see you at work in a few days.” I don’t give him a chance to say anything else as I close and lock the door, leaning my back against it as I do. I slide down to the floor and let the panic and sadness overtake me.

I pull out my phone to see if I have any texts from Dana, but instead I see a notification from my ring doorbell that there’s someone on my porch. Robby still stands there, card in hand, facing the door. I know he can hear me crying - and even if I want him to be the one to comfort me, that’s not what I need. I decide to let him deal with whatever he’s feeling right now on his own.

The next time I get a notification, it’s because Dana has arrived and joined Robby on the porch. I scoot out from the door, unlock it, and text Dana that she can come in but to leave him outside. I hear some murmured words exchanged between the two of them, and whatever she says must do the trick because I hear him walking away. Dana opens the door to find me still sitting on the floor, and immediately drops her purse and joins me. I catch a glimpse of Robby as he turns around. Our eyes briefly meet before I get the door closed again and I’m almost positive he’s got tears in his too as he watches Dana gather me in to a hug.

Robby

The last 36 hours have been arguably the most stressful 36 hours of my life. The woman I knocked up is (rightfully) ignoring me, I got chewed out my both of my best friends, and now I’m standing at the central nurses station searching the floor for Iris like I’m her lost puppy.

Jack is taking his sweet fucking time with sign out, going over the board slowly and watching me like I’m going to bolt at any moment. I had called him on my way home two nights ago after leaving my heart on Iris’s front porch, knowing that he was arguably more informed on the whole situation than I was. I gave him the run down of our conversation and he told me that I am a ‘fucking idiot’ and that I deserved her kicking me out after I asked her out on a date. Pointed out to me that I jumped straight in to wanting to date her, without telling her that I was over the fucking moon knowing we would be having a kid together. Probably should’ve started with that.

In hindsight, he’s absolutely correct. Dana had given me the same speech, just condensed and quieter, as we ran into each other at Iris’s. Told me that I better make myself scarce and call that fucking therapist if I wanted any chance of salvaging this relationship.

And fuck, I want that chance. I’ve done nothing but beat myself up over how I left things that morning, and it’s only gotten exponentially worse since she told me she’s having my baby. Had I just stayed and acted like a normal fucking person, maybe we wouldn’t be here. Maybe she would’ve called me and she could’ve taken the tests with me. I could’ve driven her to her appointment, held her hand and reassured her that I would be there for her however she needed me.

Instead I got kicked out of her house as she sobbed, and she was right to do it.

I called Jack’s therapist, Carson, as soon as I woke up the next morning. He’s able to get me in for an intake tomorrow afternoon, and Jack agreed to come in a little early so I can make it. I’m really, really not looking forward to therapy but I know it has to happen. I’ve known it for a long time, probably since Heather moved back to Portland last year, but it’s like there’s something in my brain keeping me from taking that last step. Nothing like the woman you’re maybe in love with telling you she’s pregnant to kick start that process. I just hope it’s enough, I hope I can be enough for her.

Dana arrives at exactly 7am, taking over for Bridget and surveying her circus for the day. She greets me with a terse nod, and while I understand why she’s upset with me I am not looking forward to dealing with it all shift. I debate greeting her and asking if she’s seen Iris, but she’s looking at me like she’s one word away from punching me in the throat so I refrain.

The nurses all gather around Dana, waiting to hear their assignments for the day. She addresses Jesse, Mateo, Princess, Donnie, Perlah, and the rest of the dayshift crew. Iris is not present for huddle, nor is her name listed on the assignment sheet. Dana must see me looking for her and take pity on me.

“She needed a day. She’ll be back tomorrow.” Dana tells me, not looking at me but it’s pretty fucking clear that she’s addressing me.

“Is she, uh, is she alright?” God, I sound like a fucking teenager who’s just gotten yelled at by his mom. I feel like one too.

“As alright as she can be. Samira is with her. Drop it.” That tone leaves no room for argument, and I try to convince myself that work will be enough of a distraction for the day.

It’s not. I cave before 1pm and text her.

Robby (12:32pm)

Hey, Iris, hope you’re doing okay. Can I bring you anything on my way home? Food? Meds? A baseball bat to beat me with?

She leaves me on read for multiple hours before I get a response.

Iris (4:55pm)

Not tonight

Nothing more. Fucking hell, I know that this is my doing but I just want to talk to her. I know it’s bad when she doesn’t even acknowledge the joke.

Robby (4:57pm)

I have my therapy intake appointment tomorrow afternoon. You’re right, I’ll go and do the work. I want to support you.

She does not technically respond, but she does thumbs up my message which is better than nothing, I guess.

The rest of the shift passes relatively uneventfully. Dana warms up to me a little bit, but it’s plain as day to anyone who sees us interact that she’s pissed off at me. None of my jokes land like they usually would, and when I walk outside to join her as she takes a smoke break she shakes her head at me and points me back inside. Fair enough.

Robby (8:55pm)

Hope you’re getting some good rest. Missed getting to see you at work today.

Read at 8:59pm, no response.

Robby (9:13pm)

Can I bring you anything tomorrow morning at work? Tea? Ginger candies?

Iris (9:27pm)

I’ve got it covered, thanks though

Robby (9:28pm)

Okay, offer stands if you change your mind.

I debate texting her again, letting her know that I’m so god damn excited to be a dad and for her to be a mom, but even I know enough to know that’s an in person conversation. Telling her now, like this, would do nothing but make me feel better. I’ve fucked up enough of this by only thinking about my own needs - guess it’s time for me to attempt to fix that. She’s worth it. They’re worth it.

Iris

The nausea hit me like a freight train the morning of my next shift. I text Dana, who calls out for me, and then Samira. The younger woman has the day off and immediately volunteers herself to come hang out with me. She shows up with zofran and a tote full of stolen emesis bags.

We spend the day camped out on my couch, watching movies and then eventually falling prey to reality TV. We get through half of a season of Love is Blind before I kick her out and tell her that I’ll see her at work in the morning.

Robby texts me a few times, and I want to feel bad for my curt responses, but to be honest I just really do not have it in me to care. I leave his last message on read and fall asleep earlier than I normally do.

I wake up feeling marginally better. The nausea is still very much present, but my breakfast of bananas on toast stays down. Deciding to forgo my one allotted cup of coffee for the morning, I opt for water instead. Coffee on an upset stomach is a recipe for more puking and I’m afraid that if I start again I won’t be able to stop.

Work simultaneously sounds like the best and the worst thing I could be doing right now. The distraction will be more than welcome - but working while feeling like garbage (and dealing with Robby) does not sound like fun.

Samira (6:07am)

Wanna carpool? I can swing by and grab you on my way in.

Iris (6:07am)

You read my mind, yes please

Samira (6:08am)

I’ll be there at 6:30!

She pulls up at 6:31, and I’m already outside waiting when she gets here. As I open the passenger door and climb in she hands me a travel mug that's still warm to the touch.

“Peppermint tea, not sure how your stomach is feeling today but I wanted to have something for you in case the nausea gets you again.” She’s so thoughtful - it immediately makes me tear up.

“I do kinda feel like shit, so thank you. You’re the best.” Samira just turns and smiles at me before shifting the car back into drive and taking us to work.

We get lucky and find a spot close to the building. He must have decided to drive today because that damn suburban is a few spots away, and of course he’s sitting in his fucking car. As soon as he sees us pull up he climbs out and starts to walk our way.

“Want me to intercept him? Give you a few minutes?” Samira asks, following my eyes to where Robby stands.

“Nah, you go in. Better for me to talk to him out here than in front of everyone. But maybe come rescue me in like 10 minutes if I haven’t come in already?” I needed to make sure he was capable of at least pretending to be fucking normal, not that I thought he could but I wanted to at least make sure he knew that I expected him to keep it together enough to not spill the beans.

“You got it. See you in there.” We both climb out of her car, and she heads inside while I stand against the passenger side door and brace for the inevitable. My still hot cup of tea feels like a lifeline and I sip it like it will somehow give me the willpower to get through yet another hard conversation with the man I’m in love with. He stands in front of me, that fuckass green jacket covering his top half and puts his AirPods in their case.

“You feeling any better today?” He shoves his hands in his pockets as he speaks, seems like he might be considering reaching out to hug me but then remembers how that went the last time and decides against it.

“A little bit. Samira made me some peppermint tea and it’s helping.” He glances at the travel mug I’ve got a death grip on.

“Uh, good, that’s good.” Robby rocks back and forth on his feet a few times, clearly unsure of how to interact with me. I realize it will be largely up to me to facilitate this talk.

“Are you gonna be able to be normal about this? There’s exactly five people, including you and me, who know and I don’t want anyone else knowing until they absolutely have to. Get whatever, uh,” I wave my hands in his general direction, “weirdness you have to out now.” I realize this is a pipe dream, not a single day has passed where this man has been able to not show exactly what he’s feeling on his face. It needs to be said anyway.

“I promise that I’ll do my best?” He doesn’t sound all that confident in his ability to play it cool, and I have no choice but to agree with him.

“Ooookay then. I guess we’ll have to see how it goes. Just - please, don’t hover or whatever. People will inevitably notice that you’re acting differently around me.” He has the wherewithal to look slightly ashamed, but nods his agreement. I turn to walk towards the ambulance bay doors and am greeted by the sweet sight of Dana standing outside. Not smoking, just observing. Specifically, she’s observing Robby and I. Probably more him than me, with the way she’s trying to smite him where he stands with just her eyes. I speed up a little bit to reach her and am enveloped in a hug as we come into contact. She gives Robby a once over and does not address him further.

“Hey, hon. How ya feeling?” She slips something into a pocket of my scrub top as she pulls away. “Ginger sucking candies, they were helpful for me with my morning sickness.”

“Thanks, Dana. Between those and the tea Samira made me I should be okay today.” I say as I gesture to the cup I’m holding. “Hopefully there’s some left in the breakroom tea stash.”

“You’ve eaten?” She asks me, and I know if I say no she will immediately send me home.

“Yeah, it even stayed down!” She smiles and nods at me, and then turns slightly to address Robby, who’s still standing behind me.

“Can we help you with something?” Damn - this is the longest I have ever seen her hold a grudge with him. It’s vindicating as hell.

“Ahh, nope, guess not.” He says to us as Dana continues to glare at him, and his self preservation instincts must kick in because he quickly makes his way inside. He reaches out to give my shoulder a squeeze as he walks by, telling me “glad you’ve been able to eat, hope the nausea leaves you alone today.”

Dana sees me tense as he touches me - but he’s too busy looking at me to notice the murderous glint her eyes have taken on. He continues on, waiting for the ambu bay doors to slide open before walking inside.

“Want me to kill him?” She asks, deadpan and I know if I wanted her to she would make his life a living hell.

“Not yet - supposedly he has a therapy intake appointment this afternoon, I’m gonna try to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was borderline distraught the other night, so maybe he’ll actually take it seriously.” I would like nothing more than for him to really try, finally get over whatever the fuck causes him to be the way he is. My poor little romantic heart is holding out hope.

“Yeah I did hear that Abbot is coming in early tonight to cover for him. Hoping for the best, for both of you. But my offer still stands.”

With that, we both turn to head inside and start our day. The ED is a shit show this morning, night shift having been absolutely slammed all night so we’ve got a lot of work to do to catch up.

I’m too busy to really feel sick for the first half of my shift, which is a blessing. Eating feels far too risky, so all I consume over the first six hours of work is some water and one and a half saltines. I try to work with patients that Samira picks up as much as possible in order to minimize awkward interactions with Robby - and while he can frequently be seen staring at me from across the unit he doesn’t do anything too suspicious.

Unfortunately, one o’clock rolls around and whatever pregnancy symptom gods have been watching over me abandon their post. I’m sitting at the central nurses station, charting and making sure all my assessments are done, when I have to quickly take myself to the employee bathroom to throw up. I make an effort to appear nonchalant as I do so, but I’m pretty sure it fails spectacularly. Dana, who has been watching me like a fucking hawk, quickly passes her current task off to Princess and follows me into the restroom. She locks the door behind her and comes to make sure my hair is out of the line of fire.

It’s a relatively short puking spell but I still feel off kilter as fuck when I sit back to catch my breath. Not eating all day will do that, unfortunately. Dana is ready with a warm washcloth and my water bottle, both of which I take in an effort to feel less gross.

“God, I fucking hate this.” I say as I lean back against Dana where she sits behind me. She reaches into her back pocket and rips open an alcohol swab for me, and I wave it lightly in front of my nose to help quell the next bout of nausea. It helps, but I need to put something in my stomach or I’ll be right back where I started. I open up one of the ginger candies I’ve been carrying around in my pockets and plop it in my mouth. The nausea is still there, but it’s in the background now and I feel good enough to start standing up.

Dana helps steady me as I transition to my feet. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings, having thrown up pretty much everything I’ve eaten today and feeling a touch weak. She notices immediately.

“Do you need to sit back down?” She’s already reaching to put the toilet seat cover down so I can sit on top as I nod. She hands me my water bottle and prompts me to take a small sip. “Not gonna hit the floor on me, are ya?”

“Not right this second, but I do need to sit here for a little bit.” She reaches over to brush a few stray hairs off my now very sweaty forehead and then uses the same hand to palpate a pulse at my wrist. I know it’s fast without her having to tell me. My chest expands slowly as I work on taking deep breaths to slow my heart rate down.

“You gonna be good to finish out today? I have the staff for you to leave if you want to.” It’s a testament to how terrible I’m feeling that I’m actually considering leaving early, but I don’t have my car here so I’m kinda shit out of luck.

“Samira drove me, I don’t have my car and no way am I taking the bus like this.” Puking on public transportation? Absolutely the fuck not.

“Well then I guess I’m gonna park you in an on call room and one of us will take you home after shift change. But you still need to get some food in you, think you could keep down something small if I have Samira write you for some zofran?” Eating is just about the last thing I feel like doing, second to only passing out and having to check in so I guess I’m gonna have to try. I nod and Dana pulls out her phone, presumably to text Samira.

An unknown amount of time passes while we wait for Samira. I focus on staying upright while Dana stands watch. When my friend does come in with the zofran, she also has a banana and a bottle of my favorite flavor of Gatorade with her. I stick the zofran in my mouth and let it dissolve, hoping it decides to take effect quicker than it usually does.

Dana, who has now been off the floor for a suspiciously long amount of time, is the first one to break the silence that has formed while we all wait to see if my body is going to continue to revolt.

“Samira, do you have a few minutes to hang out in here? I should go check in with Princess, and on my way back in I’ll make sure Robby is occupied so we can get her into an on call room without him causing a scene.” Samira agrees and Dana takes her leave.

I absolutely do not need Robby hovering right now. I’ve been so careful to avoid him (professionally, of course) today and if he sees me like this then the whole department is gonna know something is up. I’m not ready for everyone to be all up in my business, so hopefully Dana is able to keep him busy.

She must be successful, because a few minutes later she comes roaring back into the room.

“This is your moment hon, let’s get going!” Her and Samira help me up and make sure I’m not going to immediately fall over, and we make our way to an unused on call room on the second floor. Somehow, we manage to get me all the way through the unit without much notice. Only Cassie sees us go, and while she definitely knows something is happening she isn’t one to gossip.

I only dry heave once on the way up, and once they have me settled I manage to keep down the Gatorade and half the banana.

“Alright, kid, we’re gonna leave you here to rest. One of us will be up every so often to check on ya. Here’s some saltines and a sprite, try to keep nibbling if you can.” Dana kneels down next to where I’m laying as she talks to me in a quiet voice, and presses a kiss to my hair before she stands back up. “We’ve both got our phones on, if you start to feel off again call and we’ll come back.” My mouth is currently occupied by another bite of banana, so I just shoot them both a thumbs up as they leave me to try and get some rest.

[m-jelly]

Hi Jelly! How about from enemies to lovers? The reader х Levi are bitter enemies, but the reader gets into trouble. Her life is falling apart and everyone close to her betrays her or turns away from her and the only one she dares to turn to for help is her enemy - Levi.

In the end, he is the only one who helps her and in the process they realize their romantic feelings for each other. Thank you!

Water down the drain.

Levi x fem reader

Modern AU, becoming a couple, romance, enemies to lovers, mafia/gangs, fluff, injuries.

After being betrayed by those who you thought were your friends, your life falls apart, and only gets worse when there is a bounty on your head. You turn to the only person you can think of, not knowing that something wonderful is about to bloom.

Levi rechecked the bounty for you; it was in the millions and creeping higher. He had to admit that it was impressive how long his enemy had survived until now. He wasn't the one behind your downfall; in fact, he didn't want you to be destroyed because he enjoyed having you as an enemy. You had been betrayed by your own people.

Levi felt disgusted by your old team. How dare they screw you over, take everything you worked so damn hard for and then try to kill you. He hoped that maybe you would keep on surviving and come back to be his enemy; he'd rather like to carry on the battle. He was debating on if he should order his men to keep an eye out for you.

A knock at his front door broke his thoughts about you. He wasn't expecting anyone, so he grabbed his gun and cautiously approached the penthouse door, ready to kill if needed. He pressed a button on the wall to activate his camera, only for him to be stunned at the sight before him. He rushed to open his door, his heart racing.

You stood on Levi's welcome mat, water dripping from you and blood. "S-sorry, it's raining out there. I know you hate mess."

Levi leaned out the door and looked around the hall before yanking you inside and slamming the door shut. "Tch, I don't give a shit about that right now." He mumbled as he locked up his door. "What matters is stopping the bleeding." He turned to you and sighed. "I have a medkit."

You hummed. "I'm sorry I came here. I just...I...I had nowhere else to go...you...you're the only consistent thing in my life."

"It's okay." He thumbed to a room as he walked. "This way."

You shuffled behind him and entered his bathroom. Before he said anything, you started taking your clothes off. "I appreciate this."

"Don't mention it." He grabbed the medkit. "You probably need a shower." He turned and went bright red when he saw you standing in your underwear. You were attractive beyond words. You were a walking goddess. "Fuck."

You glanced up at him. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah...it's just...you...wow."

You looked down at yourself, then back up at Levi. "Thanks."

He released a long sigh. "Tch, never knew my enemy was so beautiful."

"I heard that."

He groaned. "I'm going to go hide for a bit. Please shower, and I'll care for you later."

He saw on his bed and sighed, he was embarrassed by his actions and words. Something had come over him. You were his enemy, and now he had a hard-on for you; it was a joke, but you were so alluring. Affection was starting to replace his other emotions for you. Seeing you as possibly a lover was a rather nice thought.

"Levi?"

He looked up to see you holding a towel to your naked body, you were so fucking sexy. "Y-Yes?"

"I need clothes. I have a wound and I don't want to get blood on anything."

He shot to his feet. "You can have some of my stuff. Uh, just hold something against the wound for now, okay?"

"Mm."

He rushed around his walk-in and located an outfit that would fit you. He quickly handed them over and waited for you to join him on the bed. Seeing you in his things sent a heat through him. No longer was he seeing you as a deadly enemy, but as the smart, strong and sexy woman behind it all. You were a dream.

You lifted the shirt and pulled away the small towel you were using to press on the wound. "Hope you don't mind I used a towel."

"It's okay. I know how to wash blood out of things."

"I gathered." You released a long sigh and watched Levi get to work, looking for the bullet in your wound. "Ah, fuck."

"Sorry."

His hot fingers brushed your skin, making your hair stand up, his touch was so perfect and welcoming. All you could think about was him touching you all over. Seeing him in this caring light, it changed a switch within you. Now you were up close with him, he was incredibly handsome with pretty lashes, kissable lips, steel-blue eyes and the softest looking raven hair. The muscles moving on his hands, his forearms and neck was all so dreamy.

Levi called your name, making you flinch. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

He pressed a patch on your wound. "Good. You zoned out for a while on me."

You felt your cheek heat up. "Sorry, I was thinking."

"What about?" He wrapped the bandage around you, meaning the two of you were very close and personal, each of you inhaled the other's scent causing something to ignite. "We're always honest with each other."

You huffed. "Fine, but this might make things weird. I was thinking you are incredibly handsome."

He stopped touching you and locked eyes with you. "Really?"

"Yep. Now, don't make me say it again, I'm already wishing the ground would swallow me."

He finished the job and began cleaning up. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I was admiring you. You are incredibly beautiful, and I keep thinking about touching you and kissing you." He stared at you. "Fuck, brat. A few weeks ago, I was thinking about how to take out a warehouse of yours, and now I'm thinking about how your lips taste."

You licked your lips. "Want to find out?"

"Huh?"

You shifted closer. "What my lips taste like."

He gulped hard as he leaned closer. "Fuck, yes."

@ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @nbinairyn @bts-spnlvr12 @darkstarlight82 @emilyyyy-08 @levistealeaf @pelicanpizza @hideandgopeep @demonic-bird @searriously @dreamerofthewest @abiatackerman @minminroie

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

M.Wuerker

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

June 30, 2025

Heather Cox Richardson

Jul 01, 2025

"This is the most deeply immoral piece of legislation I have ever voted on in my entire time in Congress,” said Senator Chris Murphy (D-CT).

“[W]e're debating a bill that’s going to cut healthcare for 16 million people. It's going to give a tax break to…massively wealthy people who don't need any more money. There are going to be kids who go hungry because of this bill. This is the biggest reduction in…nutrition benefits for kids in the history of the country.” Murphy continued: “We're obviously gonna continue to offer these amendments to try to make it better. So far not a single one of our amendments…has passed, but we'll be here all day, probably all night, giving Republicans the chance over and over and over again to slim down the tax cuts for the corporations or to make life a little bit…less miserable for hungry kids or maybe don't throw as many people off of healthcare. Maybe don't close so many rural hospitals. It's gonna be a long day and a long night.”

“This bill is a farce,” said Senator Angus King (I-ME). “Imagine a bunch of guys sitting around a table, saying, ‘I've got a great idea. Let's give $32,000 worth of tax breaks to a millionaire and we’ll pay for it by taking health insurance away from lower-income and middle-income people. And to top it off, how about we cut food stamps, we cut SNAP, we cut food aid to people?’... I've been in this business of public policy now for 20 years, eight years as governor, 12 years in the United States Senate. I have never seen a bill this bad. I have never seen a bill that is this irresponsible, regressive, and downright cruel.”

“When I worked here in the 70's,” King said, “I had insurance as a…junior staff member in this body 50 years ago. Because I had that insurance that covered a free checkup, I went in and had my first physical in eight years…and the doctors found a little mole on my back. And they took it out. And I didn't think much of it. And I went in a week later and the doctor said, ‘You better sit down, Angus. That was malignant melanoma. You're going to have to have serious surgery.’… And I had the surgery and here I am. If I hadn’t had insurance, I wouldn’t be here. And it’s always haunted me that some young man in America that same year had malignant melanoma, he didn’t have insurance, he didn’t get that checkup, and he died. That’s wrong. It’s immoral.”

Senator King continued: “I don’t understand the obsession and I never have…with taking health insurance away from people. I don’t get it. Trying to take away the Affordable Care Act in 2017 or 2018 and now this. What’s driving this? What’s the cruelty to do this, to take health insurance away from people knowing that it’s going to cost them…up to and including…their lives.”

In fact, the drive to slash health insurance is part of the Republicans’ determination to destroy the modern government.

Grover Norquist, a lawyer for the U.S. Chamber of Commerce and one of the key architects of the Republican argument that the solution to societal ills is tax cuts, in 2010 described to Rebecca Elliott of the Harvard Crimson how he sees the role of government. “Government should enforce [the] rule of law,” he said. “It should enforce contracts, it should protect people bodily from being attacked by criminals. And when the government does those things, it is facilitating liberty. When it goes beyond those things, it becomes destructive to both human happiness and human liberty.”

Norquist vehemently opposed taxation, saying that “it’s not any of the government’s business who earns what, as long as they earn it legitimately,” and proposed cutting government spending down to 8% of gross domestic product, or GDP, the value of the final goods and services produced in the United States.

The last time the level of government spending was at that 8% of GDP was 1933, before the New Deal. In that year, after years of extraordinary corporate profits, the banking system had collapsed, the unemployment rate was nearly 25%, prices and productivity were plummeting, wages were cratering, factories had shut down, farmers were losing their land to foreclosure. Children worked in the fields and factories, elderly and disabled people ate from garbage cans, unregulated banks gambled away people’s money, and business owners treated their workers as they wished. Within a year the Great Plains would be blowing away as extensive deep plowing had damaged the land, making it vulnerable to drought. Republican leaders insisted the primary solution to the crisis was individual enterprise and private charity.

When he accepted the Democratic nomination for president in July 1932, New York governor Franklin Delano Roosevelt vowed to steer between the radical extremes of fascism and communism to deliver a “New Deal” to the American people.

The so-called alphabet soup of the New Deal gave us the regulation of banks and businesses, protections for workers, an end to child labor in factories, repair of the damage to the Great Plains, new municipal buildings and roads and airports, rural electrification, investment in artists and writers, and Social Security for workers who were injured or unemployed. Government outlays as a percentage of GDP began to rise. World War II shot them off the charts, to more than 40% of GDP, as the United States helped the world fight fascism.

That number dropped again after the war, and in 1975, federal expenditures settled in at about 20% of GDP. Except for short-term spikes after financial crises (spending shot up to 24% after the 2008 crash, for example, and to 31% during the 2020 pandemic), the spending-to-GDP ratio has remained at about that set point.

The national debt is growing because tax revenues have plummeted. Tax cuts under the George W. Bush and Trump administrations are responsible for 57% of the increase in the ratio of the debt to the economy, 90% if you exclude the emergency expenditures of the pandemic, and have left the United States with a tax burden nowhere close to the average of the 38 other nations in the Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD), all of which are market-oriented democracies. And those cuts have gone primarily to the wealthy and corporations.

Republicans who backed those tax cuts now want more. They are trying to force through a measure that will dramatically cut the nation’s social safety net while at the same time increasing the national debt by $3.3 trillion over the next ten years.

“There are two ways of viewing the government's duty in matters affecting economic and social life,” FDR said in his speech accepting the 1932 Democratic nomination for president. “The first sees to it that a favored few are helped and hopes that some of their prosperity will leak through, sift through, to labor, to the farmer, to the small business man.” The other “is based upon the simple moral principle: the welfare and the soundness of a Nation depend first upon what the great mass of the people wish and need; and second, whether or not they are getting it.”

The Republicans’ budget reconciliation bill takes wealth from the American people to give it to the very wealthy and corporations, and Democrats are calling their colleagues out.

“This place feels to me, today, like a crime scene,” Senator Sheldon Whitehouse (D-RI) said on the floor of the Senate. “Get some of that yellow tape and put it around this chamber. This piece of legislation is corrupt. This piece of legislation is crooked. This piece of legislation is a rotten racket. This bill cooked up in back rooms, dropped at midnight, cloaked in fake numbers with huge handouts to big Republican donors. It loots our country for some of the least deserving people you could imagine. When I first got here, this chamber filled me with awe and wonderment. Today, I feel disgust.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[ghosthierophant]

make sure you're ready dialogue (wink wink)

well, that's a boss arena alright

call her maelle, please

renoir: child, do you think i want to? ........ & i felt that

omg sciel!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i'm gunna sob

& lune too... literally the convo she had with verso & his advice

me and maelle: doubt.png

renoir: i treat you as if the shadow from the worst day of our lives is going to suffocate YOU AND TAKE YOU FROM US TOO ... & i felt that, mr. serkis

..............................

& let them fight

HI VICTOR BORBA AGAIN

WHAT A GREAT STAGE CHANGE OMG OMG

oh god it's the curator oh god oh fuck oh no oh god

VOID CROSS????? DOES THIS MAN THINK HE'S VERGIL

hey don't summon the axons that's cheating

"renoir summons a black hole" oh - & then a building

oh my god now that i've seen clea's movements... yep sirene Is her

wait... why is maman here

BIG KAIJU PAINTRESS GOMMAGE

ON Y VA!!!!!!!

oh he just went into another canvas... after judgment cutting his way into it...

ok why'd he get vergil SDT wings

VOID METEORS

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! that maelle ending animation was so DMC

.

at the same time : ( renoir...

maelle: destroying the canvas won't help us move on, it'll just deny us the One place that helped us feel again

......................

babygirl... & renoir...

renoir: i hope you find peace

... how many people was that to?

.

so was that a soulsborne THIS IS THE ENDING YOU'RE GETTING divergent point or

[ It's time to stop painting / you're tired of painting, aren't you? / i'm tired too ]

oh, is the DIVERGENT POINT coming up

i'm so maelle's POV on this one it hurts me [me, the suicidal person, being fine with the selfish suicidal option killing your "real" external body, especially when your life is OBJECTIVELY ALREADY FUCKING TERRIBLE HALF OF HER "real" FAMILY LITERALLY HATES HER outside in "reality" fuck it stay plugged in as a "better" fully actualized version of you without the suffering in hopes that it'll "get better" when it's only gotten worse... she's lived another Entire Lifetime in here, with so many new relationships, one that feels As Real as outside WITHOUT THE SUFFERING FUCK IT RUN AWAY FROM YOUR GRIEF FUCK IT I WOULD!!!! I WOULD!!!!!! WHO CARES IF YOU DIE IN HERE] what is "real"? what is "real" or "more real"? what do you view as "harm reduction"? what is "living" vs "existing"? what is the role of a "god" to their world? or, your sims save file? where is agency? whose agency? you CAN ONLY CHOOSE ONE CHARACTER'S AGENCY

[the soul that doesn't want to paint anymore would give me pause tho, he does want it to end, he never wanted to paint... but how much "him" is in there?]

jund: either way alicia's life fucking sucks the end

"this version of herself only exists in this world"

what would have happened if gustave was still alive to influence maelle's thinking? my own thinking? the player's thinking? ... unfortunately we'll never know... his death solidifies, among Many other things, her decision of Staying here... so verso ultimately, if you choose it, seals that fate by killing him

... here we go

creation fighting to destroy the canvas vs. outsider who got "reincarnated" & blurred inside it fighting for it to continue deciding for Everyone Else

[ 30+ minute of debate later... snake chooses verso, tho deeply empathizes & understands maelle's POV, as does 99% of chat - oh max immediately went maelle? MY MAN LMAO ]

meanwhile, team being "selfish" & "irrational" & "delusional" & "childish" & "disappointing" people & being mentally ill & "cowardly" choosing "sheer escapism" & not letting go!!!!!!!!!!!! team maladaptive coping team temptation team choosing the ending no one else wants to pick team choosing the "wrong" ending even tho they're both bittersweet & neither of them are "correct"

.

no but fr in light of ever-escalating bullshit i'd love to just choose a fantasy world over this AND i get to die too?!?!?! WIN WIN!!!!!!!!!

oh jeez there's a few essays in the comments for some of these oh wow... i'm reminded of SLAY THE PRINCESS & the !!! choices you make at the end... [& to the commenters cruelly villainizing a girl you adored only hours ago now bc of her grief... we can't have anything]

either one of them in the other's ending: i don't want this life. / you steal the other's agency / you're both hypocrites, doing the same thing to each other / you can't have both you can't save both / there is no ranni's Age of Stars ending to usher in agency for Everyone Involved, breaking grander cycles set in place by creator-gods-systems before AND still valuing the individuals inside it AND removing yourself as a new god-figure [of course ranni & you get that free will after so much Violence as well]

but yes, maelle's is a haunted... twisted... fantasy... [miquella's vision for elden ring?] & she's already losing herself to her paintress form & desires... & verso being forced to perform... being used by maelle [& yet wasn't verso using her the whole time, too? the whole party? is this penance?]

in verso's... i WOULD SO BE LUNE. ABSOLUTE SEETHING SILENT RAGE AFTER BEING BETRAYED FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME

how do you define "saving" maelle, via "verso's" actions? how do you define "selfishness"? it's not surprising that everyone immediately projects selfishness onto maelle, but way less do so onto verso. it's telling whose suffering you gravitate more toward wanting to "save"

.

[looks up who tf simon even is bc his note is still missing & reads about wtf clea does]

CLEA IS THE ABSOLUTE FUCKING WORST IN THIS FAMILY JFC

i understand wanting to trap the weird version of yourself your mother painted away so no one can see it... but all that absolute fuckery with simon.............. calling all the dessendres greek gods is APT

ok snake let's see wtf is going on in here until the night reigns

lmao you can see the persona influence alright- wait is his other hand just nero's

oh to live in this world & perish automatically at 34 33 (sighs) #goals

i've heard nothing but good things but i haven't liked the look of the character face models (especially maelle's) in promo materials & now here... maybe it's an uncanny valley issue or maybe it's just... ugly french faces LMAOOO or maybe it's just their eyes tbh

[fictionalized-lesbian]

Do you ever get an overwhelming feeling of melancholy when you remember that the Library of Alexandria was destroyed?

[labelleizzy]

It's important to know what is going on.

Written by US Senator Chris Murphy (D - CT)

Report from the Senate Floor:

Last night in the Senate, something really important happened. Republicans forced us to debate their billionaire bailout budget framework. We started voting at 6 PM because they knew doing it in the dark of night would minimize media coverage. And they do not want the American people to see how blatant their handover of our government to the billionaire class is.

So I want to explain what happened last night and what we did to fight back. The apex of Republicans’ plan to turn over our government to their wealthy cronies is a giant tax cut for billionaires and corporations. And they plan to pay for it with cuts to programs that working people rely on. Popular and necessary programs like Medicaid, Medicare, and SNAP, are all being targeted.

In order to pass the tax cut, Republicans have to go through a series of procedural steps. Last night, they took the first step which requires them to pass an outline of their plan, but with it, any senator can offer as many amendments as we want. So my Democratic colleagues and I did just that.

Now, we knew that Republicans would largely unanimously oppose them, but we had two objectives here. One, Republicans were forced to put their opinion on record — many for the first time — on the most corrupt parts of Trump and Musk’s agenda. Two, as I’ve been saying, I am going to make every process and procedure as slow and painful as possible for as long as my colleagues choose to ignore the constitutional crisis happening before our eyes.

So what did we propose? We proposed no tax cuts for anyone who makes a billion dollars a year. We made them vote on whether or not Elon Musk and DOGE should have limitless access to Americans’ personal data. We made them vote on whether to protect IVF and require insurers to cover it. Every single amendment Democrats proposed was shot down. On almost every single amendment, Republicans universally opposed it. Every Republican voted against our proposal to prevent more tax cuts for billionaires. The corruption and theft is happening in the open here.

The whole game for Republicans is taking your money and giving it to the wealthiest corporations and billionaires — even if it means kicking your parents out of a nursing home or turning off Medicaid for the poorest children. They know what they are doing is deeply unpopular. They are offering a tax cut to the most wealthy that is 850 times larger than what they are offering working people. Oh and by the way, any tax cuts for working people are going to be washed out by higher costs for basic necessities, like health care and food. It’s a fundamental injustice.

Thanks to your pressure and support, many of my Democratic colleagues have joined my effort to do everything we can to make sure they cannot destroy democracy and steal your money in the dark of the night. We are being loud about what is happening. I’m going to continue to grind the gears of Congress down as much as possible to make it that much harder and slower to get away with this corruption. That’s why the votes lasted until nearly 5 AM.

This is a five-alarm fire. I don’t think we have two years to plan and fight back. I think we have months. It’s still in our power to stop the destruction of our democracy with mass mobilization and effective opposition from elected officials. So we can’t miss any opportunity to take advantage of opportunities to put Republicans on the record and shine a light on what is happening.

And you have a role to play in this as well. I need you to amplify what’s happening, support the leaders who are fighting for you to make sure they can continue speaking truth to power against Musk and Trump’s billionaire cronies, and show up at rallies and town halls. Use every tool at your disposal to send a message loud and clear about how you expect my colleagues to lead and fight in this moment.

Every best wish,

US Senator Chris Murphy (D - CT)

[catboybiologist]

Today I just found out that the woman who's been the most supportive of me in my transition believes that trans women shouldn't be able to compete against cis women in sports. Do you happen to have any good peer reviewed resources on the effects of estrogenizing HRT on someone's athletic abilities. Said woman in question doesn't seem to believe there's been any research done, which I deeply doubt. Thank you so much for your continued advocacy for us transfems.

I know you're turning to me for scientific guidance, but I'm just so fucking done with this issue overall. To quote contrapoints: I have nothing left but rage.

I've been on this road before. I could give you some. In most ways, trans women match cis women of their height and weight. But there aren't a lot. Yeah, its a problem. But fucking NOBODY will even study it because of how hot this issue is right now.

But more importantly: There will never, EVER be a study that meets their standards. There's always SOME physical metric that has differences between trans women and cis women. It's become essentially an iteration of the multiple testing problem- if you keep on doing statistical tests, eventually something is going to land.

I don't fucking want to provide studies. I don't want to cut myself down. I don't want my defense of myself to be "oohhh look at me I'm just as weak and pathetic and infantile as cis women"

Is this fucking feminism? Really?

I'm fucking done. Call me the evil hysterical woman, but this entire conversation reeks of misogyny to its fucking core. Organized sports as we know them are made by men, for men, to celebrate male accomplishments and excellence. Cis women can and do equal or excel men in many, MANY physical metrics. But the arbitrary set of rules, the arbitrary set of bouncing balls and scoring systems, are all made to reward the physical abilities of men. We create spin offs and systems of score tracking and variations of the same things over, and over, and over again, to give the fragile little male ego more and more reasons to stroke itself.

Let's take a look at some whiny as piss men not being able to handle the thought that women could EVER be physically notable.

Olympic target shooting used to be mixed gender. A woman won one year. The next year, it was segregated. Not only was it segregated, but the scoring system changed so that the scores of men and women could never be directly compared again.

Last year, Donald Trump sat on stage with Riley Gaines, the transphobic swimmer who whipped up the vitriol about Lia Thomas, and bragged about how it wasn't fair she lost her competition because he, Donald Trump, a 78 year old out of shape wax sculpture of a man, was male. And that he could beat Riley. A trained D1 swimmer. And Riley took it, because it advanced her grift.

There's a now infamous poll that 1 in 8 men think they could beat Serena Williams in a tennis match. Its pretty old at this point, but I'm guessing that number is even higher now.

This entire conversation centers around "trans people crushing the dreams of female athletes" but oh my fucking god, are we not doing that as a society already? This entire fucking "debate" is just an excuse for more and more cis men to sit their, stroking their fucking egos on live television about how big and strong and powerful and fucking WHATEVER men are, and even the trace of maleness in trans women is enough to permanently make them some kind of ubermensch that destroys cis women by every metric imagineable.

I don't give two shits about saving sports, one way or another. I detested organized sports long before I transitioned. Ya wanna talk natural advantage, and how sports rewards exactly the kind of physical ability that a certain brand of cis man pushes themselves to? I have a very mild ankle deformity that means jogging for long periods of time is painful. My best mile time is over 11 minutes. And yet I don't see any of the fuckers that are "better" than me out there in the ocean, clinging to the bottom on a single breath for minutes, or up there with me on top of Whitney. Only one of those skills is celebrated.

Fuck me that was a tangent. My point is, I've long since realized that sports are a self propagating system for the egos of people with a very particular kind of physical prowess. The only exception to this is when its exploitative of people with that kind of extremely specific physical prowess, and leaves those it exploits in the fucking gutter. I don't need to start bringing up CTE, I know y'all know exactly what my take would be on that.

but what is sending me over the fucking edge is how I'm supposed to be the crazy one. I'm the delusional tranny for pointing out that we have lost the fucking plot entirely. This is recreation. Its entertainment. And we are using it to punish people. Fuck this.

I'm so sorry OP, but just don't engage in that game. If you need a calm, measured argument, try attacking the misogyny of it all. The only way to "fix" sports is to create more events that reward and celebrate the physical abilities of cis women: flexibility, extreme long term endurance, and fuck I'm not a sports person nor do I want to waste brainspace on more than that. We need a system for cis women, one that doesn't tell them "here, have this shittier, less viewed, less supported, less encouraged, less celebrated version of something a man is good at". Trans people would find some place in that and in theory, there would be nothing to complain about.

Jesus fucking christ, if I see one more male news pundit start talking about trans women in sports I'm going to straight up devolve into a misandrist.

[lillilybells]

Ruined plushes✧₊⁺

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing|batfam x batsis!reader (featuring; Wally West)

summary|someone left your room door open and Damian’s cat ruined one your favorite plushies.

word count|1522

warnings|wally west x reader.

notes|this is my first fic literally ever!! Please keep that in mind.

“Oh no…” Cassandra whispered as the gray cat leapt onto the couch beside her. She had taken just a moment to rest and maybe watch a show — but no. The universe (or more specifically, Alfred the cat) had other plans. He curled up with the mangled remains of a battered plushie clutched in his claws, white stuffing clinging to his fur.

It might’ve been an adorable sight under different circumstances. But not for Cass. Not when she recognized the destroyed plush: the fluffy white bunny dressed in a Kid Flash costume — part of her sister’s cherished collection, each holding deep sentimental meaning.

She quickly scooped up the fluffy remains and rushed downstairs, skidding into the kitchen where the smell of cheese invaded her senses and the sound of soft popping echoed.

“Hey, Cass,” Dick called, glancing up. “Wanna join us in the theater room? We’re watching… well, I don’t know yet.”

He returned his attention to the snack he was making, totally unaware of the incoming emotional hurricane. He was visiting Gotham for a few days — and naturally, everyone (mainly you) had insisted he stay at the manor. And when Dick was around, Jason’s “coincidental” visits became more frequent. So with all five brothers under one roof, a movie night with excessive gore was practically a tradition.

“Uh… Dick…” Cass said.

He turned, raising an eyebrow — only for his eyes to land on the pile of ruined fabric in her outstretched hands. He choked mid-chew.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, walking over to gently take the bunny corpse from her.

“‘Alfred the cat’ happened,” she replied flatly.

Dick sighed, holding the sad remnants of cotton, red, and yellow fabric.

“And who left the door open?” he muttered — just as heavy footsteps echoed.

“What door?” came Jason’s voice as he popped a grape into his mouth, appearing behind Cass. Both siblings snapped their heads toward him.

Dick didn’t answer. Instead, he tossed the plush remains onto the counter in front of Jason, who frowned.

“Shit—Billy? That’s the first one Wally ever gave her.”

Tim entered, took one look at the counter, and let out a horrified, “Jesus!”

Duke followed, frowning at everyone’s frozen expressions. “Oh…”

And then Damian appeared, arms already crossed. “Which absolute moron left sister’s door open?”

The chaos ignited instantly.

“You’re the one always snooping around her room!” Tim snapped.

Damian scowled. “I would never make such a trivial mistake. It was clearly Richard or Todd — they’re the temporary residents.”

Jason threw his hands up. “I’ve been here for like, an hour.”

“And I barely even remember which room is hers!” Dick lied with a completely unconvincing expression. Damian squinted.

“Don’t even look at me,” Cass said firmly.

They all obeyed, promptly turning to Duke.

“Seriously? It’s not me! I always close the door,” he insisted, but his panic didn’t exactly help his case.

“Well, someone’s gotta take the fall,” Tim muttered, inching away.

“Which would be you — you’re her favorite,” Dick said, arms crossed.

Tim opened his mouth to object, but Damian beat him to it.

“That’s debatable,” he muttered, arms folded tighter.

“Yes, Spawn. You should take the blame,” Jason jumped in quickly.

“He’s right — it’s your cat,” Tim added. Damian looked ready to commit a felony.

“Don’t you dare bring Alfred into this! He’s the least responsible for this treachery!”

“Okay, okay — let’s not repeat the dinosaur incident,” Dick cut in with wide eyes. Everyone flinched a little at the memory.

Tim suddenly turned on him. “Wait — she’s known you forever. You’re clearly the favorite!”

“Excuse me?! She’s known Jason for pretty long as well, and she practically explodes when he visits!”

“How would you even know that—?”

“Nope! Not blaming me! I’ve already died once—”

A collective groan filled the room before Jason could finish that sentence.

“What about Cass?” Tim suggested. “Sisters don’t stay mad at each other for more than like- a day.”

“First, that’s not true. Second, no.” Cass said firmly.

They all sighed. No convincing her.

Then — footsteps. Alfred entered the kitchen, eyes locking onto the ruined bunny. He approached, gaze unreadable.

“And who is at fault for this?” he asked calmly.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. No one’s stepped up yet,” Dick replied.

“can’t you stitch it up, Alfred?” Jason suggested almost naively, wanting the situation to wrap up.

“I’m a butler, child- not a magician.” with that he picked up the bunny with delicate fingers, studied it with a faint look of mourning, and muttered, “Even my grandmother couldn’t fix this. Good luck.”

He dropped it back on the marble and turned to leave, the click of his shoes echoing ominously.

The silence lingered for a beat too long.

“Was that weird to anyone else?” Tim asked. “It was, right?”

“Pennyworth abandoning us in our time of need? Disturbing,” Damian agreed with a grim nod.

“Guys, focus,” Dick said. “Who does (Name) let get away with the most bullshit?”

All heads turned to Duke.

His eyes widened. “No. Nope. Not happening.”

“At least break the news to her—”

The doorbell rang.

Everyone froze.

“Duke, we don’t have time!” “Be a team player!” “Take one for the team!”

“NO—!”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

They gathered in the main hallway, Duke at the back, clutching the ruined plush behind his back like it might explode.

“Oh—hey guys. This is so sweet, you’re all here,” you said, smiling at the full sibling lineup, all offering awkward waves and forced grins.

You brushed it off and tugged Wally inside. “Hey guys…” he said, smiling uncertainly at their unnerving silence.

“I don’t know what’s worse — that you’re dating my sister or that you wear your costume on dates,” Damian muttered.

“We don’t know that’s the worst part,” Jason started before getting smacked.

“We ran into a robbery,” you explained. “Wally stepped in, and I told him he could clean up and stay over. Since everyone’s here, we thought—slumber party!”

They exchanged tense glances. No one smiled.

“Okay—what’s going on?” you asked, suspicious now, hands on hips and head tilted.

“Is it because of Wally?” You asked. “Because he can leave-”

“Hey!” The ginger protested snapped.

“No, it’s not because of Wally,” Dick said gravely with a sigh. He walked up to you like he was delivering the news of someone dying, placing both hands on your shoulders. “Duke has something to tell you.”

Duke was shoved forward. With a dramatic inhale, he slowly revealed the bunny.

Silence.

You stared. And then… your lip wobbled, and eyes glossed over.

“Baby—don’t cry,” Wally was the first to speak up, hugging you gently.

The room burst into chaos.

“I’m so sorry—” “It was an accident!” “I told them to close the door—”

you on the other hand could only be described by one word- hysterical.

“Why would— do this—i always tell— keep the door close— Billy— the first you ever— our first date—” none of them could fully make out what you were saying through the sniffles and the sobs but they definitely understood, understood very well.

Wally looked like he was going to cry too. “It’s okay babe- I’ll find another one! I’ll get you thirty—I mean.. I think they’re discontinued.. — I’ll steal one from a toddler if I have to!”

“you don’t get it Wally! This- this holds so much sentimental value you don’t understand- it reminds of you when you’re gone- when I’m worried about you-” you ranted, your tone getting more agitated and angry even through the weeps.

“It’s true,” Tim muttered, “She hugs it while ugly crying whenever she misses you…”

They eventually moved to the living room, where you continued to rant. Jason tried a joke about how no one cried like this when he died. A pillow hit his face before the words were fully out.

Bruce wandered up from the Batcave, bleary-eyed, ready for bed — only to find his kids in the middle of emotional carnage.

“What the hell is going on…”

He was quickly caught up. You ended up curled beside him, ranting while he patted your hair and validated every single complaint.

“They never listen, Dad! And now Billy is gone! The symbol of a huge milestone — gone! It’s blasphemy! And they just sit on their asses-”

“Language.”

“Butts, while denying any accountability! It’s rude.”

“They’re being mean to you?” Bruce asked, voice soft and rumbly.

You nodded in his chest.

“You can’t be mad at them forever, sweetheart. People make mistakes. And Billy… Billy will be remembered.”

“yea babe- what he said, i promise ill get you a thousand more! you won’t even remember what happened to Billy..” Wally added his own two cents.

You sniffled. He reached for your thigh comfortingly — only to flinch under a Batglare and retract his hand.

“Okay!” Dick stood with a clap. “How about we go watch Sinners, and let Billy… rest in peace.”

Grumbling agreements followed.

The night ended in bickering, snacks, laughter, and sleepily leaning on each other — with a pile of yellow fluff forgotten in the corner.

And Alfred, standing in the shadows, watching with a faint smile.

He was the one who left the door open.

[nuperflore]

I was debating on making a second part to this but I think now is a good time.

As you fell to your knees, barely on the brink of consciousness, the loss of blood rushed out of you and leaving your nerves to give out. Hands pathetically on your wound as if it could stop the flow. For you final vision - what of left you can see are blurry sights of the family you've grown to forever resent reaching Damian first before giving an afterthought to your dying body.

You wish you could've seen their faces when their gaze directed to your form but alas only the blur overcomes your sight. Leaving the last chuckle out of your as blood splurts out of your mouth, you've taken your last laugh.

Oh but the family couldn't handle it. Only after your death had they taken to initiative to even feel the guilt rising. The audacity of they who should've known better.

Dick 'Richard' Grayson, The Eldest of The Bunch. Stared in horror at your slumped body, his own frozen and hesitant even if he has seen bodies before - this time it's different. It's You who's dying or worse yet — dying. His sibling that he's not even worthy of calling them that, has died. His thoughts snapped out of it after dismantling the weapon away from Damian with others and immediately came rushing next to your lifeless body. Water dripped down on you, has he been crying? How could he not have noticed like how could he have not noticed you all along?

Jason Todd, The Second and The One Death Once Claimed. He was approachable at first, violent yet sweet and trusting. Those eyes that used to look at You with endearment then icy now looks at you with grief. He oh so badly wanted to claw at the floor but he can't move. Even when you've fallen limp and everyone else rushed to you side, he took a step back. He may be strong once but now he's weak.

Tim Drake, The Third Of Them Who's An Exhausted Genius. This is not part of expected variables that could happen. Pathetic isn't he? Still thinking of You as aere problem. He begs over and over that maybe it didn't hit anything vital but when you've fallen and blood continues gushing, he could only stare. When Dick rushed over, he follows with a slight trip because what else can he do? He's a genius yes but he doesn't - can't bring you back alive.

Damian Thomas Wayne, The Violent Youngest Raised By The Strongest. He stumbles. He is acting strange. How unlike his nature but he trip backwards, still holding onto the bloody weapon that has graced upon You. When he reluctantly glanced at his weapon, immediately it was dropped as if it was on fire. Weapon out of his hands by forced from others. Why is he acting Ike this? He should be proud, he should be happy but this? This feeling? It's a feeling that he wants to desperately scratch off his skin as it is beneath it.

Finally, Bruce Thomas Wayne. The One Who Hovers Over Them All. He failed. He wouldn't expected this. You weren't supposed to be in front of him bleeding. It was as if you two were the only ones in the dark and he wouldn't even as much as reach a hand out hesitantly. He's not worthy of taking care of you and it was proven to him with blood splatters on the silver tray. Out of everyone in this family he had created, little old you was someone he should've keep a closer on. A lot of his thoughts gone haywire and doubts use to crawl up his shoulder when he saw you to the point his reasoning has long gone past within reason.

Now the family had truly destroyed what's left of you they've known alive.

Now the family has directed their thoughts and eyes on you.

Now even in death, they know to not truly let you go for they have to try for another chance.

[recklessghostart]

About the 'Skizz Situation' and why the fan community is not being a good representation of what it wants to claim.

Before I get started, I need y'all to read this with an open mind and an open heart. This is not an attack on you, or at all. It is me pointing out what I see and hoping to bring stuff to your attention. For those who don't know, the 'light' (and ultimately not entirely correct) synopsis going around is that Skizz got a donator asked Skizz to say 'trans rights' and he didn't because it was 'too political'. The reality? Skizz was chilling and vising with his chat having some good times and stuff, didn't vet the dono before starting to read it outloud, and that dono more or less said that they were a 'long time' viewer of Skizz and (the wording almost felt aggressive/accusing) didn't feel he did enough for the community and wanted him to say Trans rights. Skizz in the moment and trying to keep things light said he was just wanting to vibe with his chat and didn't want his channel to address things too 'political' (he clarified later he meant Polarizing) and he has nothing against nobody. He then followed up in the comments that clarification (which, lets be real, it is polarizing) that he didn't want his community to foster hatred in his comment section and its not the forum to have those debates (which is FINE. He is allowed to have boundaries. Those boundaries were set not just for himself but to protect his LGBTQ+ watchers) and of course he supports the LGBTQ+ community and Trans rights. Something else I wish to point out: This donator claimed to be a long time viewer of Skizz. Frankly I don't believe them or anyone who who is listening to any of this. He has been MORE than open about his support of the community in the past, and often. His last stream before all this was even him talking with Gem and Lizzy, two Bi women, about Bi stuff. That dono was made to stir the pot. To either make him say something to cause hatred in his comment space, or make him slip up and get the community to dislike him. So- how is the community a poor representation of what we claim? Well a lot of the claims the LGBTQ+ community makes is wanting people to grow. To want Allies. To support other discriminated groups. So- They see this Man- this DISABLED man (Skizz has MS) who has OPENLY SUPPORTED them in the past, make a slip up of words, and refuse to understand where is is coming from, why he may want to keep things 'good vibes' and just more normalized (because the very much Gay coded jokes and stuff he and Imp and Gem and the others make NORMALIZES the community which is AMAZING), Who himself is straight and comes from a very red state so may not 100% understand how to word what he means correctly, and basically tries to burn him at the stake. To take away his income. People want to Boycott him over this. To basically destroy his life. (Because he quit his Job to be a full time content creator, and he is still a very small one at that.) Tell me, how does that make anyone ever want to support this community? How does that show kindness and understanding? To make people want to grow? How does any of this treatment make you the better person? Because, long story short, it doesn't.

Now some of you are bringing up his mods, how two may be trump supporters. True or not (I haven't seen evidence of this? But I won't dismiss it), you also need to think of a few things in terms of that. They have been his mods for 5+ years. Mods often are close and friends of the streamers, especially small streamers which he is/was. People, can be friends with people of different political parties. You may not want to, but when I tell you that cutting people off because of a political opinion is new, its NEW. And a lot from the older gen wouldn't even dream of it. Furthermore they are (as far as I know) volunteers. He does not pay them (again, small streamer). He needs mods to run his channels and without them he can not do his job safely, especially for his community. And many people will not do this job for Free (at least not well). He can't just replace them overnight. Give him time to have those hard conversations if he chooses to have them. It's not like they have even brought those beliefs into their work or his streams. Long story short, Be good. Not just to each other but to Skizz himself. Have the understanding you would want people to have for you if you slip up with good intentions. Crucifying someone who supports y'all does nothing good for this community.

[solbaby7]

High For This

pairing: eris x reader

warnings: jealous!eris, swearing, another overindulgent ball hosted simply for conspiratorial purposes, sexual themes, wrote this with the implication of Beron being dead, abrupt ending bc if i didn’t stop there i prolly wouldn’t stop at all, not edited

summary: Eris is a jealous man and you’re determined to see exactly how hot his fire burns for you.

—

“Excuse me?”

Your eyes roll on their own accord, hands fluffing through fresh curls as dark mascara dries on thick lashes. A tinted gloss stains full lips and Eris hates the way his lungs greedily gulp in the sensual oud permeating the air.

Everything in here smells like you and he doesn’t resist the indulgence of looking around to take in the fluffy duvet sheets neatly strewn over the mattress and the cream throw pillows tucked near your headboard. The canopy drapes are tucked to each post, the middle dripping dreamily like clouds hovering in the sky.

You’re meticulous, he notes; every item you own continent in their convenient little homes. “I said,” The tone you hold makes his jaw clench, his body visibly perturbed by your nonchalance while he felt himself slipping deeper into your pull. You barely spare him a proper glance—too occupied in looking over yourself in the floor length mirror. “I have a date so you don’t have to wait for me. We’ll meet you there.”

“A date?” Eris repeats sharply, staring at you through the mirror.

“Is there a problem with that?” You know the answer before the question is even fully spoken, a smug little smirk ghosting in the corner of your lips as you sift through your jewelry box. Rings are slid onto your fingers, gold bands and pretty emerald cut jewels glittering in the faelight. “I specifically remember you saying that you didn’t need a plus one.”

“Because,” Each syllable is drawn out, his restraint slipping as you pushed his buttons with such expertise. “—I already had one.” You read between the lines, a brow raising as you settle in the knowledge that the High Lord had expected you to hang off his arm.

“I don’t recall you asking.”

“It was implied.”

Dark kohl lines your eyes and accentuates full lashes, a pretty blush placed on the high points of your cheeks and such beauty seems lethal when you stare through the mirror. “You’ve never had an issue articulating your wants before—if you desired it bad enough, of course.”

You leave room for a response, trying desperately to mask the flicker of hope beginning to drudge to life within the embers. Centuries of waiting for Beron to no longer be an issue, no longer looming over both of your shoulders and destroying every meaningful moment.

Things were supposed to be different when he was finally dead.

Easier.

Only, Eris had grown more guarded. Terrified that showing a hint of affection would backfire as it had so many times before. He takes his time, smoothening out his tone and compulsively straightening out the neatly folded handkerchief sticking elegantly from the breast pocket of his perfectly tailored suit. “This is not up for debate, bunny. Turn your little friend away and let’s go before we’re late.”

“No.” You shove past him, clutch tucked under your arm and high heels clicking furiously against the hardwood.

It stuns him for a beat of time but he recovers far quicker and Eris all but barks out your name as he exits your door, following a few paces behind with a snarl working its way up his throat. “Get back here!”

“I am not some object that you can just command when you please.” Elegant curls bounce angrily with your every step, jewelry chiming with each little bounce down the stairs. One hand grips at the banister for balance, the tight fit of your dress forcing you to move slower than you’d like. “You do not own me.”

"You're right, bunny. I don't own you but I am your High Lord and you will stop walking this instant."

The immediate fae-like stillness of your form has Eris’ heart thumping with excitement against his ribcage. A perfect mask is painted across your features when you slowly turn on the balls of your feet to face him but nothing could ever quench the fire that burns behind your retinas. “My Lord?”

A noise is hummed low in his throat—pleased or patronizing?—you weren’t sure but judging by that leisurely stride and the special time he takes in looking you over, it has to be a mix of both. “I like that tone much better.” Eris’ hands are warm when he brushes a lock of hair away from your face, fingertips grazing against your neck with such care that you have to suppress the shiver threatening to rake up your spine.

You refused to allow him the satisfaction of knowing how his touch affected you.

Not when he was acting like such an entitled toddler.

“Wonderful,” Venom burns under every word, even if it is wrapped in a sickeningly sweet tone. “I aim to please.”

A smile bleeds its way onto his face, the faelight casting shadows over the handsome contours of his features and frustration forces your fingers to fidget when the intoxicating oud of his cologne engulfs your senses. “I’m thrilled to hear that, bunny.” Eyes narrow up at Eris as you clock that tone of voice—that devilish look burning behind amber irises. “Let’s hope all that enthusiasm helps you survive the night.”

“Funny you should say that,” The way your hand elegantly rests in the crease of his extended arm feels utterly natural, no matter how much contempt is quivering behind the movement. “It’s not me who needs to worry about surviving the night.”

—

Playing the part of the demure, doting date is a million times more difficult than you make it look. Sweet smiles and the inviting shape of your figure brings in more attention than normal—or maybe it was because of who’d been permanently fused to your side since the second you’d arrived.

Eris had never been so on guard, amber irises raking over anyone who came within a five foot radius and most of your time is spent wading the rigid line of his shoulders. “Quit it,” You snap through your teeth, concealing the bite if your words with a bright grin. “You forced me to be here with you and now you’re scaring everyone off.”

“Forced you?” He doesn’t even sound offended—just smug as he motions to your hand curled comfortably around his bicep. “Is that the narrative you’re running with tonight, bunny? How unoriginal.” The body language portrays anything but ‘forced’ and once he’s pointed it out, you’re quick to pull away, snatching your hand back and grumbling profanities under your breath.

“What else would you call it?”

Eris feigns aloofness when responding, refusing to grant you the decency of his gaze and your spine goes ramrod straight when his words sink in. “I’d say it’s no different than when any of the other High Lords attend with their plus ones—though it seems theirs are more well behaved.”

“I’m not some hound who submits to your every command, Eris Vanserra.” Hurt lingers in the words you spit out just loud enough for him to hear. “What the other High Lords have are wives, partners—mates. They’re not cowards; wanting someone and stringing them along.” Tears well in your waterline, grip shaky around the flute of champagne until you abandon it altogether. “You’re wasting my time and I have little patience left to offer.”

You’re forced to walk away before the dam breaks, refusing to wear your heart on your sleeve for it never worked well before. Makes you too vulnerable; too tethered to a male too afraid to return the sentiment.

Balcony doors creak under your touch, opening just enough for you to slip through and close it behind you. For once, you’re grateful for the solitude. Basking in the cool breeze and the comforting smell of fresh flora, you let your eyes slip closed, a single tear falling free and your back bows as you sag against iron railings.

Just a single moment of weakness.

And it’s completely shattered by another presence.

“Want me to kill ‘em?”

You snap up like a spring, neck nearly snapping with the force it takes to turn so quickly. Palms wipe at your cheeks, straightening out the fabrics of your dress. “Sorry,” You quickly flush the moment realization sinks in, eyes taking in the towering Illyrian standing just a few feet away. His hair held in a neat bun at the nape of his neck, burly form slouched in a lounge chair, wings stretched high behind him. “I thought I was alone out here.”

“Looking how you do, I doubt you’re ever really alone.”

You scoff, this hateful, bark of a noise that refuses to be tampered down or subdued. “Not everyone shares your sentiment.”

“Date ditch you?”

“A girl could only dream. No, my ‘date’ is spending his time being a grade A douchebag—needed fresh air before I did something stupid.”

He hums in acknowledgment, a chilled glass of amber liquor dripping condensation down the thick stretch of his forearm. His head cocks to the side when he looks you up and down, making note of that forlorn expression casting shadows across pretty features. “Want to make him jealous?”

You should be ashamed for how abruptly the notion piques your interest. For how quickly satisfaction settles within your bloodstream at the thought of Eris watching you waltz around with this brick wall of a male and his effortless presence. “What’s in it for you?”

“Pretty thing on my arm is prize enough, even if it is just for show.”

There’s a pause where the Illyrian can literally see the gears turning in your head. Outweighing the risks. Mulling over potential consequences.

He can tangibly grasp the exact moment you shove all that aside—too scorned to give a shit about retribution. Too much time had gone into getting ready to waste it all on a male too prideful to cherish the gift wrapped before him. You head nods with finality, one hand outstretched before him. “It’s a deal.”

His hand is warm against your own, significantly larger and riddled with callouses. Tattoos the shade of obsidian is etched into tawny skin, arms rippling with muscles that bulge against the tight fit of formal leather attire. “I’m Cassian.”

“I know who you are.” Hesitation lingers in the set of your shoulders, spine not fully lax though Cassian doubts that’s fully possible with the skyscraper for heels adorning your feet. “Do you know who I am?”

His grin only grows when he stands at full attention, so tall your neck cranes just to meet his eye. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.” Ice clinks against his glass as he offers it to you, lifting the rim to your lips and muttering a soft praise when you drink obediently. “There’s a girl. Drink up, you’ll need the liquid courage.”

Liquid courage. Makes sense when it burns on the way down, easing frazzled nerves and a short temper until your arm slips in the crease of Cass’ elbow like it was a regular occurrence.

He’s confident. Borderline cocky with the way he urges you closer, hips bumping into one another with each step. The closeness does the trick though, a smoldering set of sandy eyes fall on you the moment you’re thrusted back into the fray. “Chin up,” Cassian murmurs softly, lips barely even moving over the words.

You’re led to the dance floor, situated smack dab in the middle. It’s a spectacle but something tells you that’s the whole point when Cassian circles a hand around your waist. The other reaches for your free hand, easing your fingers against his own until you’re palm to palm. “Do you even know how to dance? I don’t recall that being apart of Illyrian curriculum.”

It’s a harmless tease—the jab earning you a laugh so organic that it shows both rows of shiny teeth and a pantydropping set of dimples in his cheeks. “Pretty and funny. You really should consider not being so charming, I have an awful habit of hoarding treasures like you.”

Your head dips, a blush growing along the apples of your cheeks that only grows when Cassian is emboldened, ushering you in closer until you run the risk of stepping all over his toes. If he cares, you can’t tell, too washed up in the feeling of being shown off—proudly at that. “I appreciate you doing this for me. Even if it doesn’t work.”

“Trust me,” Cassian drawls, his gaze far off as he focuses on something behind you. “It’s working.”

He doesn’t elaborate, though he doesn’t really have to when you pick up on a familiar step pattern. Nose catching the earthy scent of spicy cinnamon and nutmeg. Of pine trees and bonfire smoke. “Bunny,” Eris fixates on the Illyrian’s hold on you, the corded muscle in his jaw jumping with the effort it takes to restrain himself from burning Cassian’s hands to a crisp. “Mind if I cut in?”

“This dance is nearly done.”

“And you’ll be finishing it with me.” It’s sick how desire pools in your belly at the possessive tone. How pleased you feel with yourself when Eris all but pries you away from Cass and into his own arms. You barely have enough time to say thank you to the Night Courts General before the eldest Vanserra has whisked you far, far away from those giant wings and the enigmatic wearer of them. “Where’d you run off too? I was worried.”

“Worried about what? That someone else was cherishing what you neglect?” You hum to yourself at the raw guilt that screws up the handsome pout of his mouth. “What’s that saying? One males trash…”

“You aren’t trash. You know I don’t think of you as trash.”

“No, you just treat me like it.” The chattering of guests drowns out your words from prying ears. “Hiding me at the bottom of the bin like you’re ashamed of me or something.”

You’re working yourself up again. Overthinking. Self-depreciating. Resenting. Digging a hole with no means of pulling yourself out but Eris halts that train of thinking with a hand to your jaw. The grip is gentle but firm, guiding you to look him in the eye; insisting you see the seriousness that swirls in the copper tones of his iris. “You are everything to me,” His confession stops you in your tracks. Steals your breath away at you hang onto every constant and vowel like a lifeline. “I wake up everyday just so I can see your face and I lay my head down every night praying that it’s filled with dreams of you—of us. Everything I do, anything I’ve ever done is to ensure your happiness. Your safety.”

“Eris..”

“No, listen to me.” Both hands cup your cheeks, all space eaten up until each breath he exhales in the air you inhale. Two halves of a whole slowly sliding into place. The final pieces of a puzzle connecting as one to fulfill the bigger picture. “You are mine.” Thumbs brush over the curve of your cheekbones, tracing at the slope of your nose and memorizing the shine of your lips. “My woman,” Tenderness leaks from every syllable, sincerity bleeding from every pore until you’re unable to fight back the rushing currents of your tears. “My love, my mate and while I can never promise to be a perfect male, I can vow that I am thoroughly vested in all things categorized as your best interest.”

“If I’d have known dancing with another male was all it took for such a confession, I’d have done so long ago.”A breathless laugh emits, one that softens the stern line of his brow and eases the fear his father engraved in his soul.

Noses brush, lashes kissing until your lips meet his own and all of your doubt is washed away. “I love you.”

“All I’ll ever love is you.”

[solxamber]

Mission: Emotionally Compromised || Jamil Viper

Jamil’s greatest failure as a spy? Falling head over heels for the person he was meant to destroy.

this one is for @chocolatebearstrawberry who made the divider i use here!! i love you <3

As the CEO of one of the most powerful tech companies in the world, you’ve always prided yourself on two things: your razor-sharp business acumen and your ability to sniff out deception from a mile away.

Your competitors, on the other hand, have prided themselves on one thing: trying (and failing) to steal your technology.

For years, you’ve played a high-stakes game of corporate cat and mouse, batting away industrial spies like a bored housecat knocking expensive wine glasses off the counter. You’ve watched billion-dollar corporations sink millions into elaborate heists, only for their agents to fail spectacularly. Frankly, it's getting a little embarrassing for them.

But now, thanks to the untimely departure of your longtime secretary (who swears their early retirement has nothing to do with being bribed into luxury exile), you suddenly have a vacancy.

And judging by the pile of applicants currently waiting in the lobby, every single one of them is a spy.

The Parade of Intelligence Failures™:

First up is Agent Steve (probably not his real name), whose résumé is written in Comic Sans and lists "lockpicking" under "special skills." When you ask him about his previous administrative experience, he stares at you blankly for three full seconds before blurting out, "I can type… very fast?"

Next is Ms. Definitely-Not-Wearing-a-Wire, who keeps touching her ear like she’s communicating with someone. Midway through the interview, you distinctly hear a whisper from her earpiece: "Ask about the security systems."

Then there’s Tech Bro #5, who brings a USB drive and, while maintaining full eye contact with you, tries to plug it into your computer. Your computer. The one sitting on your desk. Right in front of you.

By the time Mr. Fake-ID Falls Out of His Wallet stumbles in, you’re fighting the overwhelming urge to launch yourself out the nearest window.

This is getting pathetic.

You’ve sat through twenty interviews of barely competent corporate espionage, and you’re ready to set up a PowerPoint presentation titled, "How To Spy Without Immediately Getting Caught: A Workshop For Morons."

Do they think you built a billion-dollar empire by being stupid? Do they think your years of fending off corporate espionage haven’t honed your bullshit detector into a finely tuned death laser?

You start debating whether to just hire a golden retriever and call it a day—at least dogs have loyalty.

And then he walks in.

Enter: Jamil Viper.

The moment he steps into your office, you know this one is different.

For one thing, his résumé isn’t riddled with typos or hilariously obvious red flags. His credentials? Flawless. His demeanor? Polished and professional, with just the right amount of charm—not so much that it feels like he’s trying to butter you up, but just enough that you actually want to keep talking to him.

And his entrance exam? He aces it. Perfectly.

Too perfectly.

There is no way in hell that someone this competent just happens to be looking for a secretary position. You know he’s a spy.

But unlike the human disasters before him, Jamil Viper is actually good at his job.

And if someone is going to try and infiltrate your company, wouldn’t you rather it be someone who at least has the decency to be competent about it?

You lean back in your chair, watching him carefully as he sits across from you, his expression unreadable. You wonder how many layers of deception he’s hiding behind that composed facade.

Slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips.

This could be fun.

Because if Jamil Viper thinks he’s going to outmaneuver you, then clearly, no one has warned him that you love playing with fire.

You slide the contract across the desk, extending your hand.

"Congratulations, Mr. Viper," you say, amusement dancing in your voice. "Welcome to the company."

His fingers are warm when they clasp yours in a firm shake. His gaze, sharp and assessing, lingers for just a second too long.

And just like that, you hire a spy to be your personal assistant.

This is either the smartest or the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.

And honestly? You can’t wait to find out which.

Jamil has never questioned his assignments before. His role has always been straightforward—he is given a task, he completes it with precision, and he collects his payment. There is no room for personal involvement, no need for unnecessary complications.

This particular job should have been no different. His directive was clear: infiltrate one of the most formidable tech companies in the industry, assume the role of a secretary, gain the CEO’s trust, retrieve the necessary proprietary data, and exit without raising suspicion.

A simple, methodical process. He estimated it would take no more than a month, perhaps two if the CEO proved particularly cautious.

However, the moment he steps into your office, Jamil recognizes that this assignment will not proceed according to the standard operational model.

You are perceptive. That much is clear from the outset. Your interview questions are sharp, carefully constructed to gauge more than just his administrative skills. You are watching him—not just listening, but studying, assessing. There is a calculating glint in your eyes that suggests you have already categorized him in some way, and he does not yet know whether that categorization is in his favor.

Then comes the moment that shifts the trajectory of his expectations entirely.

You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled as you regard him with an almost amused expression. "So, Mr. Viper," you say, voice laced with something close to mischief, "are you a spy?"

The question is absurd in its directness, yet the casual way you pose it makes it clear that you are not expecting a confession—you are testing him. A lesser operative might have faltered, might have hesitated for the fraction of a second that would betray uncertainty. Jamil, however, meets your gaze evenly, offering a measured smile.

"If I were," he replies smoothly, "would I admit it?"

You laugh—not a dismissive scoff, but an actual, entertained laugh, as if you are thoroughly enjoying this game. And that is what makes Jamil's stomach twist slightly. Because he is beginning to suspect that you already know.

The contract slides across the desk, a silent challenge. He watches as you extend your hand, the motion deliberate, expectant.

He has been in the industry long enough to recognize a trap when he sees one. And yet, despite every internal alarm warning him to be cautious, he shakes your hand.

He has taken on countless assignments in his career, but this time is different.

This time, he is not just infiltrating a company. He is stepping into a game.

And for the first time in his life, Jamil wonders if he is the one being played.

Jamil Viper is, quite frankly, the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You have run this company for years, clawed your way to the top with sheer wit and willpower, and in all that time, you have never known peace. Your life has been a never-ending cycle of fires to put out, idiotic employees making mistakes, and backstabbing business partners who think “compromise” means “stealing your ideas and pretending it was a collaborative effort.”

But then Jamil arrives.

Jamil, with his quiet efficiency and terrifying competence. Jamil, who doesn’t ask you to repeat yourself because he actually listens the first time. Jamil, who doesn’t need reminders because he remembers everything, down to how you like your coffee and which pens mysteriously go missing when your CFO visits.

For the first time in your career, you are leaving work at a reasonable hour.

You actually saw the sunset yesterday. The sunset. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve seen anything but the dim glow of your office lights at midnight? You don’t. You’re afraid to check.

Your skin? Clear.

Your inbox? Organized.

Your sleep schedule? Still questionable, but at least now it’s due to personal choices and not business emergencies.

You are so overcome with gratitude that you nearly burst into tears when you realize you no longer have to threaten your vendors personally because Jamil handles it all with a few well-placed emails.

He is better than any assistant you have ever had. Possibly better than some of your business partners. Hell, at this rate, you wouldn't be surprised if he could run the company better than you.

Which is exactly why you can’t afford to let him go.

You know why he’s here. You are not naïve. He is undoubtedly a spy, sent to steal your technology, your secrets, your life's work. But the problem is that he is too good. You cannot afford to lose him.

So, you make a decision.

You will convert him to your side.

It’s not just about protecting your company anymore. No, this has become personal. Jamil Viper is yours now. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The numbers didn’t make sense.

You were good at numbers. Numbers were the only thing in this world that didn’t lie. Numbers were solid, unyielding, completely immune to human deception. And yet.

Your CFO had to be skimming. You’d suspected it for a while—no one bought that many first-class flights for “business conferences” that didn’t exist—but now that you finally had the time to actually dig into the company’s finances, you could feel it in your bones. There was money missing. Not a lot at once, just enough that a lazier CEO wouldn’t notice.

But you noticed. And now, sitting in your dark office, practically feral with frustration, you were going to find it.

Jamil peeks into your office, and you see his brows furrow in irritation. He steps inside without invitation, eyes flicking to your desk, to the stacks of papers, to you, hunched over and pulling at your hair like a mad scientist on the brink of discovery.

“…Why are you still here?” His voice is level, but you detect the judgment beneath it. “I made sure your schedule was clear. You should have been home by five.”

You make a vague, distressed sound—somewhere between a whimper and the dying gasp of an overworked CEO. “I have a mouse to hunt,” you say, still frantically flipping through documents. “A very cunning mouse.”

Jamil, to his credit, does not roll his eyes. He does, however, step forward and pluck the file from your grasp before you can protest. His sharp eyes scan the pages, his fingers flipping through them with practiced ease.

You watch as his expression shifts into something thoughtful, his lips pursing slightly, his brows furrowing in deep concentration. You can see his mind working.

Jamil is infuriatingly intelligent. He always has been. You knew it the moment he walked into your office for his interview and answered every question with precision so perfect it was almost suspicious.

But this—this is something else. His eyes flick from one line to another, scanning, calculating, searching.

And then it hits you.

His hair.

His stupidly perfect, annoyingly silky, meticulously styled hair.

The way it’s always just slightly different every day. Some days it’s neater, tied back with care. Some days it’s looser, like he didn’t have time to properly tame it. Some days it’s so perfect it looks effortless, which means it probably took him ages to get it like that.

Your brain connects the dots.

Your CFO’s expenses had fluctuations that made no sense at first glance. But what if—what if the embezzlement wasn’t consistent? What if he only siphoned money on certain days—days when he needed to make the numbers look normal, like a fluctuation in operational costs?

Like how Jamil’s hair was slightly different depending on how rushed he was in the morning.

Your eyes widen. You grab Jamil’s arm.

“It’s the payroll processing days,” you say, the revelation clicking together. “The numbers don’t match on payroll weeks because he’s hiding them within the irregular adjustments! He’s only stealing when payroll is being processed because that’s when the accounts fluctuate naturally.”

Jamil blinks, then looks back at the files, and you see it—the exact moment he finds the irregularity, the way his eyes sharpen, the way the corner of his lips twitch in mild irritation.

“…Huh,” he says, flipping back to double-check.

You beam at him. “Jamil, I could kiss you.”

He does not react, but his ears turn slightly red. He hands the file back. “Don’t. Just fire your CFO.”

“Oh, I will.” You grin, stretching your arms behind your head. “And then I’m going to have so much fun ruining his career.”

Jamil gives you a look. You pretend not to see it.

Jamil has worked for a lot of powerful people before. He’s seen how they act—detached, ruthless, calculating. People who don’t say thank you unless there’s an audience, people who treat loyalty as a transaction rather than a virtue, people who see their employees as numbers on a spreadsheet rather than human beings.

And then there’s you.

You, who smile at every single employee as if they’re the most interesting person in the world.

You, who face betrayals with an easy grin, as if it’s just another puzzle to solve.

You, who refuse to be jaded, as if the sheer weight of your responsibilities isn’t trying to crush you every single day.

Jamil has worked as a secretary before, long enough to know that this is not normal. It’s not normal for a CEO to approve leave requests without question, to cover all medical expenses without a fight, to sit down at the employee cafeteria and listen to people’s grievances like a normal person.

It’s definitely not normal for you to turn to him at the end of a long, grueling day—after uncovering a massive embezzlement scandal in your own company—and say, “Let’s get dinner. My treat.”

Jamil expects a high-end restaurant. The kind of place where the portions are offensively small, the food is questionably pretentious, and the bill alone could sustain an entire household for a month. The kind of place where people like you—people with power, people with money—go to flaunt their superiority.

Instead, you take him to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant run by an elderly couple who clearly know you on a first-name basis.

“Ah, welcome back!” the old woman greets you warmly, eyes flicking to Jamil with curiosity. “And who’s this? A date?”

Jamil chokes on air.

You laugh—loudly—and wave off the comment. “Nah, just my secretary! He helped me catch a mouse today.”

Jamil doesn’t bother correcting you.

The menu is scrawled in barely legible handwriting on a whiteboard near the counter. You order the greasiest, most artery-clogging meal he’s ever seen in his life. Jamil orders something safer, something that won’t take five years off his lifespan.

When the food arrives, you practically vibrate in your seat, taking a bite with the enthusiasm of a child eating their first piece of candy.

Jamil stares at you in mild horror. “You eat this every day?”

You grin, already halfway through your meal. “Yeah.”

Jamil doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

But he eats. He eats, and he listens to you ramble about ridiculous workplace rumors, and he watches you laugh so hard you snort when you make a terrible joke.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, Jamil finds himself laughing too.

Not because your joke is funny—because it isn’t. It’s awful, actually.

But maybe because your eyes shine too brightly in the dim light.

Maybe because you seem so human right now, so painfully, vividly human.

Maybe because he knows he’ll have to leave you behind soon, and yet here he is, eating unhealthy food and smiling at you.

Jamil has never questioned his jobs before. He gets paid, he gets the work done. Simple.

So why does it feel so different this time?

Jamil has worked for some eccentric people before. Billionaires with more money than sense, CEOs who thought meditation on top of a glass skyscraper would give them divine insight, a director who once insisted that his morning coffee had to be stirred exactly 72 times counterclockwise or the stock market would crash. He’s seen it all. Or so he thought.

And then there was you.

You were a genius, of course. No one could deny that. You had single-handedly revolutionized an entire industry and kept your technology locked down so tightly that even the best corporate spies had walked away empty-handed.

But you were also—how to put this nicely?—completely, utterly unhinged. Eccentric was too mild a word. You were like a mad scientist and a particularly stubborn golden retriever had been fused together in a tragic yet strangely effective laboratory accident.

Jamil has had a front-row seat to your absurdity for months now, but today? Today takes the cake.

He enters the office expecting chaos, but he still isn't prepared to see a bouncy castle taking up the center of the room. It is massive. Garish. A primary-colored monstrosity that clashes violently with the sleek, modern aesthetic of your office. It is also, for some reason, fully inflated.

Jamil watches as you bounce in deep concentration, your tie undone, your shoes discarded somewhere in the corner. Your movements are precise, like each jump is a carefully calibrated equation.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dare I ask?”

You pause mid-bounce, floating for a second in the air like some kind of enlightened acrobat before landing gracefully and turning to him with a grin. “I needed to think.”

“…So naturally, you brought a bouncy castle.”

“Of course.” You wave a hand, as if this should be obvious. “Sometimes, when my brain gets stuck, I just need a little kinetic stimulation. You know, shake up the neurons.” You jump again, flailing slightly before catching yourself. “It’s like—have you ever had a word on the tip of your tongue, and then you do something completely different and suddenly it comes to you? Same concept. Except instead of drinking water or taking a walk, I jump on an inflatable castle like a responsible adult.”

Jamil stares. His headache is already forming. “You’re going to break your neck.”

“Nope! Tested the weight limits. We’re good.” You bounce again, then stop abruptly, eyes widening. Your entire posture shifts, shoulders straightening, expression sharpening. You scramble off the castle, grab a nearby notebook, and start writing furiously.

Jamil watches, baffled, as you tear through an entire page with equations and diagrams, the kind of thing that would take a normal person weeks to conceptualize. And then you stop, beaming like a kid who just cracked open a piñata full of gold.

“I GOT IT,” you declare, spinning the notebook around as if Jamil has the clearance—or the desire—to understand whatever ridiculous breakthrough you just had. “This is going to make everything ten times more efficient! Jamil, this is genius.”

Jamil, who has not slept properly in three days because of this mission, who has already accepted that this job is going to either kill him or make him reconsider every life decision he has ever made, just sighs. “Great. So was the bouncy castle necessary?”

You turn back to him, eyes bright, smile wider than he’s ever seen. “Absolutely.”

And the worst part? The part that truly makes him question if he’s losing his mind?

He almost believes you.

Meetings like this made you wonder if you could get away with legally replacing the entire board with three possums in a trench coat. These relics in overpriced suits had two working brain cells between them, and one was currently occupied with nursing last night’s hangover.

They thought that their decades of mismanaging money somehow gave them wisdom. You would almost find it impressive, the way they clung to their illusion of relevance, if it weren’t so unbearably tedious.

You could fire them all, of course. You could clear this room in five minutes, clean house with a snap of your fingers, but you had held back out of sheer pity. They were close to retirement—one foot in the grave and the other on a luxury cruise.

Let them ride out their last few years clutching their outdated business strategies and egos. It wasn’t like they actually did anything.

But today? Today, you were at your limit.

Jamil was standing behind you, stone-faced, but you could tell he wanted to be anywhere else. His exhaustion mirrored your own. You’d been sitting here for an hour while they droned on about numbers they clearly didn’t understand.

Internally, you begged for something—anything—to spontaneously combust just so you’d have an excuse to leave. A small fire? A sudden, mysterious blackout? A divine intervention from the heavens themselves?

And then, as if the universe had heard you and decided to throw you a different kind of entertainment, one of them made a mistake. A grave mistake.

“—not that it matters to someone like you,” one of the old fossils sneered, voice soaked in condescension. “You just sit there and look pretty. Maybe that’s why you keep your secretary around—eye candy to brighten your day, hm?”

Silence.

Jamil felt the shift before he saw it. The room, which had been filled with the usual underhanded comments and the shuffling of papers, went utterly still. The air thickened, tension snapping tight like a bowstring.

You moved, slow and deliberate, sitting up from your languid position and resting your elbows on the table. Then, with a sharp crack that echoed through the room, you slammed your hand against the polished wood. Jamil was pretty sure he saw the surface splinter.

And then, you smiled.

“Say,” you said, your voice honey-sweet, “how’s your son’s wedding prep going?”

The man blinked, startled by the sudden shift in topic. “Uh—fine?”

“That’s wonderful.” You laced your fingers together, tilting your head like a benevolent ruler addressing a particularly stupid peasant. “I hope he has a strong savings account. And you, too, for that matter.”

His confusion deepened. “Why would—?”

“Because as of right now, every single one of you is fired.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stood, straightening your sleeves, your expression as calm as if you’d just commented on the weather. The rest of the board gaped at you, struggling to process what had just happened.

“Pack your things,” you continued, tone still sickeningly pleasant. “Security will escort you out. Your pensions will remain untouched—I’m not a monster—but your presence is no longer required. Effective immediately.”

Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and strolled out of the room.

Jamil took a moment to savor the stunned expressions, the way the old man who had made the comment looked like he was trying to compute his own downfall in real time. He had seen you be cunning, eccentric, absurd, even, but this was the first time he had seen you wield your power properly. It was—

Well.

He wasn’t about to admit it was impressive.

Or flattering.

Not even as he followed you out the door, suppressing the smallest, most insufferable urge to smile.

You’re good at reading people. That’s what makes you such a good CEO. You can tell when a business partner is about to backstab you. You can spot a bad deal from a mile away. You figured out your CFO was embezzling money based on a hunch and a particularly sleepless night.

So why the hell can’t you figure out what’s going on with Jamil right now?

Your day is over. Your work is done. You’re walking out of the building, feeling suspiciously well-rested for once, because Jamil is the best damn secretary you’ve ever had.

And there he is.

Standing near the exit, very much still here, despite having clocked out hours ago.

You stop. Blink. “Jamil? What are you doing here?”

He startles like you caught him committing a felony.

Which, honestly, makes you even more confused.

Jamil is the picture of composure in any situation. He could talk his way out of a hostage negotiation, probably. He could charm a boardroom full of old, corporate sharks into agreeing with his terms.

And yet, right now, he looks like he wants to evaporate.

You tilt your head. “What’s up? You good?”

Jamil scowls like you’ve offended his ancestors. And then, without meeting your gaze, he thrusts a box at you.

"Eat properly," he grumbles. "Heaven knows you can afford it."

And then he turns on his heel and almost sprints out of the building.

You stare at his retreating figure. Then you stare at the box in your hands.

What just happened.

You consider yourself a genius. You built an empire with your own two hands. You have patents worth billions. You have business rivals who would kill to know what goes on in your head.

And yet, this one interaction has you completely, utterly lost.

It’s only when you get home that you actually open the box.

Inside is a clearly homemade meal. Balanced, nutritious, and suspiciously catered to your exact tastes.

You crouch down. Laugh a little.

And then you pull out your phone.

You: thank you <3

Meanwhile, In Jamil’s car:

He hears the message notification. Opens it. Sees your text.

And immediately slams his forehead into the steering wheel.

The honk that follows is so obnoxiously loud that a street cat outside lets out an ungodly scream and scrambles away like it just witnessed a murder.

Jamil exhales sharply. He grips the wheel like it personally wronged him.

You’re going to be the death of him.

Jamil does not get sick.

It is a fact as ironclad as his ability to keep a secret, as certain as the sun rising in the east and setting behind your ridiculous office where you concoct new ways to stress him out.

Jamil does not get sick because sickness is a weakness—an opening in his otherwise airtight, bulletproof existence.

And yet.

Here he is.

Dying. Absolutely, irredeemably, spectacularly dying.

His body betrays him completely, weighed down by a fever that could probably fry an egg on his forehead. Every muscle aches as if he has been tossed into a meat grinder, his throat is raw, and his head is a battlefield of pain and regret.

He barely manages to lift his phone and call you, the only person who needs to know why he’s breaking protocol and skipping work for the first time in his entire life.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

And then—

“Jamil! What’s up?”

Too loud. Why are you always so loud? He winces, nearly drops his phone on his face.

“I… I can’t come in today.” His voice is hoarse, unrecognizable. Disgusting. He clears his throat, which only makes it worse. “I’m sick.”

There is a long, stunned silence.

Then, very, very slowly—

“You’re what?”

Jamil closes his eyes. He does not have the strength for this conversation.

“Sick,” he repeats, barely suppressing the urge to just fade out of existence right then and there.

Another pause. Then, in a tone that is so soft he almost doesn’t recognize it coming from you—

“…Oh.”

Something about the way you say it makes his stomach twist—though that could also be the fever.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” you say, genuinely concerned. “Rest, drink water, and if you need anything—”

He does not hear the rest.

Because he blacks out.

Jamil is sick.

Jamil, your unshakable, hyper-competent, borderline immortal assistant—the man who somehow pulls miracles out of thin air while looking vaguely unimpressed—is sick.

You expected betrayals, corporate espionage, elaborate counter-strategies in your ongoing war to get him on your side.

You did not expect this.

And worse—he sounded awful.

Not just tired. Not just mildly inconvenienced.

You sit at your desk for approximately three minutes, trying to convince yourself that it’s fine, that Jamil is a grown man who can take care of himself.

Then you Google “how to care for a sick employee” and make the deeply logical decision to immediately drop everything and go check on him yourself.

Which is how you end up outside his apartment, ringing the doorbell like a maniac.

There is no response.

You ring again. And again.

Nothing.

A small, horrible thought creeps in. What if he passed out? What if he hit his head? What if he—

Just as you're about to kick down the door in a move that would absolutely get you arrested, it creaks open.

And Jamil is standing there.

Barely.

He looks terrible.

His usual sharp, careful composure? Gone. His hair is an absolute wreck, his eyes are dazed, and his entire body is actively betraying him by swaying on his feet like a tragic willow in a storm.

You are horrified.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, stepping forward before he can literally collapse. “Jamil, you look—”

Like death. Like the very concept of suffering incarnate.

But you do not say this out loud, because you are a good person.

Instead, you step into his space and grab him before he keels over.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter, steadying him. “When was the last time you ate?”

Jamil blinks at you very slowly, like his brain is buffering at dial-up speeds.

“…Food?”

That is not an answer.

You curse under your breath and haul him back inside, which is a feat of great strength because he is all lean muscle and fever deadweight.

How did this happen? Why did this happen? Who let this happen?

Oh. Right. Him.

Jamil is going to die.

Not from the fever, no. That would be merciful.

He is going to die from sheer embarrassment because you—his boss, his greatest headache, his most infuriating problem—are here, in his apartment, fussing over him like some kind of divine punishment.

He barely registers you pulling out a thermometer and shoving it into his mouth with all the grace of someone who has never done this before.

The numbers blink back at you ominously.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter. “Okay, I’m ordering soup. And you are not moving until you eat something.”

Jamil tries to protest. He does.

But then you press a cool towel against his forehead, and—

Oh.

Oh, that is nice.

His body betrays him once again by relaxing into your touch.

By the time the soup arrives, he is too weak to even lift the spoon properly.

So you—without hesitation, without a single ounce of normal human shame—just feed him.

Like a child.

Like he is some helpless, pathetic creature.

Which, okay, maybe right now, he is.

But still. This is humiliating.

It is also the best soup he has ever had in his life.

Jamil finally falls back asleep.

And you sit there, staring at his peaceful, fever-flushed face, wondering how the hell this became your life.

You were supposed to be running a company, not playing nurse to your best-paid spy.

You should not care this much.

And yet.

You check his temperature again. Still high, but better.

You sigh, raking a hand through your hair, and grab your phone.

“Okay,” you mutter into the receiver, pacing the room. “But what do I do if he wakes up and refuses to rest?”

A pause.

Your voice drops, quieter. “Yeah, I know. I just don’t want him to push himself again.”

Behind you, Jamil shifts.

You do not notice.

But he notices you.

Your hair is mussed, your usual sharp, teasing grin replaced with something softer.

You look worried. For him.

Jamil stares, something twisting in his chest.

Oh.

Oh, he is so incredibly doomed.

You always knew Jamil was a spy. That much was obvious.

The way he answered every question perfectly in his interview? Suspicious.

The way he executed his tasks with military precision? Suspicious.

The way he didn’t try to subtly flirt with you or brown-nose like all the other incompetent spies before him? Extremely suspicious.

But he was competent. So stupidly, ridiculously competent. And you’d rather keep an enemy that made your life easier than deal with another incompetent fool.

Besides, you like playing with fire. So you decided to see how far you could push him.

So tonight, you left your office unlocked. Oh no. What a terrible mistake. If only someone didn’t sneak in and steal your files.

And to make things more interesting, you left some semi-important files open on your computer. Documents that looked serious enough to be tempting but wouldn’t actually do much damage if leaked.

Right before you left, you made sure to sigh dramatically in front of Jamil and say, “Ugh, these files have been keeping me up at night. I sure hope they don’t get leaked or anything.”

Then, you went to your surveillance setup, made yourself some popcorn, and watched.

Because of course Jamil was going to take the bait.

And sure enough, there he was.

You watch as he sits down at your desk. Silent. Focused. The very picture of efficiency.

You lean forward as he navigates to the files. Click. Click. Scroll. His fingers hover over the copy button.

And then—

He just… stops.

Your eyebrows shoot up. Oh?

Jamil stares at the screen like it personally insulted his honor. His fingers twitch over the keyboard, hesitating.

Your interest piques. He should’ve copied them by now. He’s supposed to be a professional, isn’t he?

He clicks out of the important files.

Your jaw nearly drops. What.

He clicks out. He clicks out. He actively chooses not to take anything of worth.

Instead, you watch as he scrolls past all the confidential reports—

—bypasses all the juicy, corporate secrets—

—ignores all the schematics—

—and copies a single folder labeled “raccoons_for_a_rainy_day.zip.”

You almost choke on your popcorn.

Jamil pauses. Stares at the screen for a long, long moment.

Then, as if committing a terrible crime, he ejects the USB, tucks it away, and swiftly leaves your office.

You sit there, stunned.

Because out of everything in your company’s database, out of all the valuable information he could’ve stolen—

He took your emergency raccoon meme collection.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face.

Oh. Oh, this is delightful.

You knew you were converting him to your side, but this? This is proof.

Jamil, the competent, efficient, dangerously intelligent spy, had a perfect chance to complete his mission. And instead of betraying you, he chose to betray his employer instead.

For you.

How flattering.

You had dealt with a lot of strange things in your life. A lot. But this? This was definitely one of the stupidest.

Your old secretary—the one who took a bribe and fled like a rat from a sinking ship—was currently sitting in front of you, begging for her job back. Why? Who the hell knew. You had been certain that the bribe she took would have lasted her a few years, maybe even bought her a cute little vacation somewhere far away, but apparently, money couldn’t buy wisdom. Or, in her case, common sense.

You leaned back in your chair, fingers steepled together, watching her ramble through increasingly desperate justifications. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. I’ve learned from my mistakes. You doubted it.

Jamil stood beside you, completely unreadable, but you knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs of his barely contained fury. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid, and—most damning of all—his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Oh, interesting.

Obviously, you weren’t rehiring her. She wasn’t even ten percent as competent as Jamil, and unlike her, Jamil wasn’t stupid enough to take a bribe when you were the one offering him far more than money. But this? This was a perfect opportunity to test something.

So you sighed, long and dramatic, before rubbing your temples as if this decision physically pained you. “I’ll consider it,” you said finally. “I’ll call you back once I’ve made my decision.”

Her face lit up, all eager gratitude, and she left the office with a bounce in her step.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you stood, intending to grab a file from your cabinet—but you didn’t get far.

Because Jamil blocked your path.

You blinked at him, more amused than anything, but your amusement flickered into something softer when you saw his face.

He looked wrecked.

Not in an angry way, not even in a controlled, simmering fury. No—this was something else entirely. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find some sort of answer, his breath slightly uneven, his expression utterly betrayed. He looked like you had punched him in the gut.

You had seen Jamil irritated, seen him exasperated, seen him indulge in rare moments of smugness when his plans went exactly as intended. But this? This raw emotion spilling out of him like a dam breaking—this was new. And you couldn’t stop the way your heartbeat stuttered at the sight.

“Why?” His voice came out hoarse, like he barely trusted himself to speak. “Why would you… Why would you even consider hiring her back?”

You tilted your head, keeping your voice light. “Why does it bother you so much?”

Jamil’s mouth opened—then snapped shut. You could practically see his thoughts racing, running too fast for him to catch up, but something cracked inside of him, because once he started speaking, he couldn’t stop.

“Did I mess up?” he demanded, voice sharper than he probably intended. “Was I not good enough? Did I do something wrong? Why would you—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily, his hands twitching at his sides like he desperately wanted to reach for you. “You know she isn’t competent. You know she isn’t better than me.”

You hummed, tilting your head in faux thoughtfulness. “Of course, I’ll give you a different position,” you mused. “No need to worry about job security.”

Jamil broke.

Before you could even register the movement, he grabbed you.

His hands found your face, his fingers curling against your skin like he needed to ground himself, like he needed to prove something—and then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate, burning with frustration and something deeper, something so much more vulnerable than you had ever expected from him.

And then, hypothesis proven, you kissed him back.

For a moment, you simply blinked.

Jamil pulls away like he just touched something scalding, his breath uneven, his eyes wide with something close to terror. You watch as realization sets in—his own actions hitting him all at once, like a dam finally bursting and drowning him in the consequences of his own emotions.

“I—” His voice is hoarse, almost shaky, but he’s trying to regain control, trying to salvage something, anything. “I’m not who you think I am.” He says it like a confession, like a last-ditch effort to make you see reason, to make you step back and realize that you shouldn’t want him, that you shouldn’t choose him. “I was hired to—”

“My dear, sweet spy,” you interrupt, voice dripping with amused affection, “won’t you be mine?”

Jamil freezes.

You can see the exact second it dawns on him. The way his expression shifts from confused horror to pure, unfiltered disbelief. You knew. You always knew. Of course you did. He should’ve realized it sooner. You were too sharp, too perceptive, too you to have been in the dark about something so crucial.

And yet, here you were. Choosing him anyway.

His lips twitch. His shoulders shake. And then, he laughs.

Not a small chuckle, not a bitter scoff, but a real laugh, something rare and unguarded, something so genuinely light that it catches even him off guard. He laughs so hard that he nearly doubles over, his forehead dropping against yours as he exhales shakily, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

You feel his breath ghost against your skin, feel the warmth of him so close, and yet, there is no hesitation anymore, no careful, measured distance.

He shakes his head, still breathless from laughing, and when he finally meets your gaze, his expression is something unreadable, something painfully soft.

And this time, when he kisses you, there’s no fear left.

“…Fine,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m yours.”

You wake up to the warmth of an arm draped over your waist, the steady rise and fall of a familiar chest behind you. It’s a rare thing—to wake before Jamil. He’s always been the early riser between you, slipping out of bed before the sun has even had the chance to settle into the sky. But today, for the first time in two years, you’re the one watching him sleep.

Two years since his terrified confession. Two years since you pulled him into the kind of love neither of you had ever expected to find. Two years of whispered promises, stolen kisses, and a loyalty that runs deeper than any mission, deeper than any past betrayal.

The early morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and golden, catching on the matching rings on your fingers. A quiet proof of what you’ve built together. The sight makes something tender settle in your chest, and you press a kiss to his forehead, gentle and lingering.

Jamil stirs, brow furrowing for just a moment before he instinctively pulls you closer, his grip tightening around your waist. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, voice thick with sleep as he murmurs, “Why’re you awake so early…?”

You smile, carding your fingers through his hair as you whisper, “Go back to sleep.”

And as the warmth of him lulls you back into slumber, a thought drifts lazily through your mind—

"You sleep too," he grumbles, but it’s lazy, half-hearted. You can already feel his breath evening out, his body relaxing against yours once more. You keep stroking his hair, slow and rhythmic, feeling the last bits of tension melt from his frame.

Maybe playing with fire was the smartest move you ever made.

Masterlist

[dirthenera]

Ok I need to get this out with the news about devs being fired dropping.

There will be spoilers for Veilguard here so proceed with caution.

EA fucked the game, and the more I think about it, the more angry I am with them.

It all starts with one choice- the devs wanted the veil to come down in that opening, and EA told them no. Told them they couldn’t bring the veil down at all.

It was never going to be a player choice- it couldn’t, it would create two entirely different worlds leading forward, so it would have to be something outside player control, and they were told no.

The veil coming down was outside forces and the veil staying up was Rook’s choice. And had to be Rook’s choice.

Because of that, our Rook could never see the veil coming down as a worthwhile option. Which means we could never engage with it as a reality. We could never ask what that would look like, or question the morality of the veil, either practically, or as a thought experiment. No companions will bring up what it might be like in any positive way or even just as an “I wonder.”

We only get to see veil =bad so Rook must be right.

They cut Solas’ elven followers because having even *one* npc on his side for noble reasons would make us question too much, and we were not allowed to have an opinion other than veil =good, because the devs were hamstringed by it.

No companions ever discuss what it could be like without the veil, and they *should*. Can you imagine Emmrich and Bellara debating it? Emmrich absolutely fascinated by how it would impact spirits and they wouldn’t need to possess anyone or anything, Bellara leery after seeing so much wild magic in Arlathan but wondering if uninterrupted etheric flows would create more stable magic over time. Taash surprising the party by being way more cool with it than expected due to their Rivaini upbringing, and more open to that than necromancy.

Lucanis and Harding being firmly against it to the point it causes some friction in the team, Davrin just staying out of it because he doesn’t get it and doesn’t want to. Harding has a moment of questioning at a weak point after reminiscing about Cole, and wonders how many like him there could be if the veil did come down.

Neve feeling extremely mixed about it, between it possibly allowing a reshuffle of power in Tevinter, removing the ability for mages to make deals with demons, but also upset at the potential raw chaos.

But we never even get to look at that. Because there was no option there. Even if each character landed on veil=good, we never even got to have the discussion, because we couldn’t do anything with it.

And we can see how that spirals out and created a much less morally complex game than we’ve previously gotten. Rook is the good guy because they said so, Solas is the bad guy who, despite being beyond willing to talk to anyone who will listen to him, refuses to expand on what the veil coming down looks like. Because he can’t. Because then we might agree with him.

We’re only allowed Varric’s point of view, which makes sense for the beginning, but there was never an option to expand it. There is one single dialogue option where we can tell Solas “whoops didn’t know that.” But that’s the beginning and end of that train of thought.

They even set us up as this FANTASTIC foil to Solas, having meddled in a ritual we didn’t understand and unleashing multiple blights and elven gods, essentially destroying the south, blighting most of the north, partially destroying a city, and a countless death toll. But taking actual responsibility with that isn’t allowed- because we may sympathize too much with Solas. Because we clearly did the right thing because the veil is still up. It’s not even addressed in the regret prison! Solas tells you thousands would still have died if he took down the veil, but thousands did die as a direct result of Rook meddling. And nowhere can you acknowledge that.

[citrustan]

killah (jjk) [3]

pairing: managing partner (lawyer)!jungkook x spoiled brat!reader x a sprinkle of senior partner redacted

genre: strangers/enemies to ?? idk bec you irk him, angst, smut, like slight fluff

warnings: please read 2 before proceeding further. two new characters are introduced (really it's just one if you've been paying attention though,) reader is still a lil selfish and somin and logan are enablers, jungkook is still very much a taken man, and he has some questionable thoughts, emotional cheating, jealousy, tiny bit of smut. this one's a lot longee than i initially planned lol soz :] drabble, my ass

You're frustrated. Out of ideas.

Jeon Jungkook was impossible to get to. You couldn't just keep delivering lunch to Logan's office in hopes of somehow seeing Jungkook. And you certainly couldn't keep 'accidentally' showing up on his floor.

You zone out, staring at the glow in the dar stickers on your friends ceiling. You needed a better plan.

Something cold on your forehead distracts you. An ice pack.

"You look tense. Relax your brows," Somin coos. "Now, tell mama what's been on your mind lately." She pats your thigh excitedly.

"Ughhsfsh..." You flip over and bury your face in her pillow, "Don't ask..."

Paying you no mind, she continues, "You haven't come to any of my events. People think we've got drama, it's affecting my social standing. You know I need you. People donate when they see you donate."

You peek at her from the corner of your eye, "It's too complicated."

She impatiently waits for you to say more.

"Is everything OK? With Logan and the parents?" She asks, looking concerned.

"Oh, yeah, goodness. That's not it, everyone's fine. Businesses are good. Money's pouring in, I keep spending." You jump up, debating on just revealing everything to her.

You've been friends for years now. Somin has known you throughout all your phases and has loved you always. Like truly loved you. Honestly, she's family at this point. She's like... Logan level. Your twin.

Her intrest peaks, "So what's going on? Seriously. I feel like we haven't talked in forever."

Yet you're reluctant to tell her about Jungkook. But the fact that you drove to her place to whine and frown meant something. You needed help.

Specifically, her help.

By that, you meant you wanted ideas from her to get closer to Jeon Jungkook. Not criticism or her insight on what you're doing.

If Jeon Jungkook doesn't like being pursued by you, he'll say that. And you'll back off.

Painstakingly, you roll off her bed, and plop yourself on her bean bag.

You begin, "There's this man..." - Her eyes widen, "Wait, pause."

Somin had been waiting a long time to hear these words. Had you finally fallen for someone?

You oblige, giving her no clues on the mood of your confession.

"Oh, but wait, which way are we headed towards, like homicide or...?" Somin squints, focusing her thoughts on you don't know what.

Huh?

Vehemently shaking your head, you deny, "What? No. Or, it's or."

You're almost nervous.

"Just let me finish." You extend a pinky towards her, "And promise me you won't speak until I'm done. Nor will you try to discourage me."

She blinks.

Then adding, "I mean, I know you won't but just in case you think of it." You lean closer to her.

She simply stares at your doll-like expression. You had forced your eyes open wider and lips in a smaller pout.

What the hell had you done?

Finally linking her pinky with yours, she sighs, "I promise..."

Still keeping your hands connected, you begin to narrate the recent events of your life.

You describe the day you first met Jungkook, how his girlfriend was the one to introduce you. The lunch thing, the belly button piercing incident. And how you really, really wanted him to destroy you(r pussy.)

A hint of recognition flashes on Somin's face when you mention Hyewon.

Somin just nods for a while. And you allow it. It's a lot to take in.

Jeon Jungkook wasn't some rando.

You wanted to fuck the only man who made managing partner at the country's most cutthroat firm before 30, the youngest self-made millionaire, but more importantly, someone's boyfriend.

Moreover, she has heard through the grapevine that Hyewon and Jungkook are secretly engaged. There isn't much credibility to that source but still fishy.

She knows Kang Hyewon. Just socially though.

Hyewon's a corporate lawyer as well. She's one of those women who quietly climbed up the corporate ladder at Min & Partners. Nothing flashy, but definitely respectable and impressive.

She's also from Jungkook's alma mater. Only a year younger to him. That's probably how they met. Somin doesn't remember.

But she knows people like Hyewon.

Kang Hyewon's the kind of person who has every detail of their lives planned to a T. She likes logic, plays it safe. She's the opposite of you in every way.

Neither Jungkook nor Hyewon come from affluent families (such as yourself or Somin) but they've certainly made space for themselves at the table.

Somin just doesn't want you to get hurt. (Instead be the one doing all the hurting. She supports your rights and wrongs.)

You're beginning to get more nervous when you don't hear anything back from your best friend, then she finally breaks the silence--- "Apply for a job at J, K & K."

Woah.

You stare at her in amazement. You could never have come up with such a brilliant plan.

A smile spreads across your face, "Baby, you're a genius."

Somin smiles back bashfully in response.

Oh, but, only one problem. How...?

And then your smile dims. The thought probably just hit Somin too because you watch her face drop at the same time.

Let alone a job, but how in the world were you even going to get an interview with them?

They only accept students from the top 15 universities with a near perfect GPA, and a proper resume. 

You got the first box checked but your college GPA could be considered a little.... lacking? And your resume...

Was backpacking through Europe (read: flying private and living in the highest rated hotels) an acceptable experience?

You had also been present at all the fashion weeks that have taken place till date. That's certainly something, right?

And you sew.

Hm.

Somin could probably get into J, K & K though. She's brainy. Not a law student, but she could probably clear the bar in one attempt.

"Wait, pause." Somin demands your attention once again. You look at her with hopeful eyes.

"All you need is an excuse to be in the building. You can just 'run into him' whenever he comes in and leaves for lunch and shit." She stares at you with a kind of a 'duh' expression.

You wait for her to explain.

"_____, Logan. Ask your brother to get you a job, he'd never deny you."

Ohhh.

Ohhhh, this was good. And very doable.

Although, you don't know what you could possibly do at a funds office or whatever it is that Logan runs.

But you slowly nod. Yes.

"Yeah... That'll work..." You trail off, already planning your outfits to work. Your office siren era, teehee.

Eeeep, you're so excited!!

"I can't wait!!!" You squeal, jumping up.

Somin moves her pillows aside and makes space for you in her bed.

"I wanna, like, ride his shoe," you think out loud, "Somin, he's so hot. I want him to pretzel me."

Somin giggles but internally rolls her eyes and secretly prays you never 'fall' for anyone she's dating.

And that gets her thinking.

What if shit goes sideways?

You don't think so Somin had to do all the thinking for you. But she could also help you think of other possibilities.

Suddenly she speaks, "Devil's advocate."

You scrunch your brows, confused.

"What about Hyewon?"

You tilt your head to your side, "What about her?"

Somin scoffs, "_____, that's his girlfriend. Do you think he'd just drop her for you? She's.... More like him. As compared to you." She doesn't explain.

You didn't necessarily want him to drop her. You just wanted him to like... take you too.

"What do you mean? You know I hate it when you speak in clues." You whine.

"She's... Hyewon's a lawyer too. They've been dating for nearly a year now. Went to the same uni. Did exceptionally well there too, both were valedictorians. And they have a similar background. It's like... Both of them kinda started from the bottom and built themselves up," she pauses to take a breath. "They're not like us, baby."

She had to throw that 'baby' in otherwise you'd have started tearing up.

Then she points out, "Also, aren't you worried about this getting back to your mother?"

Ok, that, you really weren't. Your mother doesn't try to control you anymore. Because she finally learnt her lesson. She has accepted her destiny to have someone like you in her life because, before you, her life had been way too easy.

Something had to mix it up. You were it for her.

Don't get me wrong, she still loves you endlessly. But she had tried too hard to chain you down, and that didn't do anyone any good. So now, she just let's you be. And you stay out of trouble.

Although... Getting with Jungkook certainly will stir shit up if it reaches literally anyone else.

The more you think about the ramifications of this affair you want to pursue, the more you doubt yourself.

Would Jungkook even want you? I mean, you're pretty and stuff but what if he's into those intellectual, philosophical, scientifical types??

Ugh, screw the devil's advocate.

"My mom won't care. None of this affects her businesses. People will always need places to work in and stay. I think I'm ok." You explain yourself.

Somin nods slowly, "And... What about Hyewon? She always asks me about you."

Wait, what?

Confused, you wonder, "You know her like that?"

Your friend looks at you, partially offended, "Uh, yeah, I know everyone."

That she did.

You nod, "Um...well, I dunno. I don't know her like that. We've met like twice?" You try to think if you've ever had a conversation with her.

You're a few years younger so it really wasn't likely that you two come in contact often enough for her to actually ask your best friend about you. Honestly, it's creepy.

But what you're doing is creepier so who are you to judge?

You're used to having fans for no real reason.

No, seriously, you have a decent fan following. They tag you in their edits and memes. And they get so excited when you acknowledge them. It's cute. You love making people happy like that.

Oh, how blessed you are... :)

All you needed to do was beg Logan for a job. You couldn't believe you were actually going through with this.

"Please, please, please, please, please," you cry, pausing only to take a breather.

Logan doesn't look like he's going to give in easy.

You've got to amp it up. "PLEASE. I'll work, I swear. I'll really work hard. I'll tidy up and do the admin duties. I'll get you food, and make meetings and stuff."

You should've looked up more businessy terms.

Logan pinches the bridge of his nose, like he’s praying for strength, "You can't make meetings, _____."

Was that a partial yes?

You blink at him, hopeful. "Ok, I won't. Now is that a yes?"

"It's a no," he says immediately, flat. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?" You whine, flopping dramatically onto the couch like you're in a Disney movie. "You’re always going on about me needing to learn responsibility. This is me. Learning. Responsibility." You gesture with your arms.

He stares at you for a long time. "You don’t even know what my company does."

Wait, it's actually his company? Why are you always out of the loop?

"I do!" You insist. "You do… hedge stuff. And funds. You’re like a finance bro but riskier."

Logan just squints and mutters something under his breath. Well, at least you weren't completely off. He does deal with risky investments.

He groans and gets up, pacing. "I swear to God, if this turns into some scandal-" - "It won’t!" You cut in quickly. "I’ll be invisible. You won’t even know I’m there."

"That... is literally the opposite of what you'd be required to do if I give you a job."

Fuck, there's no way he's gonna risk his business by bringing you in.

"You don't have to pay me!" Now that peaks his interest.

You weren't doing this for money.

You hop offf the sofa and kneel in front of him, clasping your hands in prayer position, "Just give me this. Please."

There’s a beat of silence.

Well, this is a pretty good opportunity for him to boss you around. That's a power he plans to abuse the hell out of.

Logan groans like it’s physically painful, finally giving in, "You screw this up, you’re out. No warnings, no do-overs. I'll perp walk you out myself. Do you understand?"

Yippe!!!!!

You squeal, “YES. YES. THANK YOU.”

He holds up a finger, staring down at you, “I’m serious. You show up late, flirt with any of your coworkers, or vandalise or destroy company property-" - "I know! I'll literally walk myself out."

Logan cusses you out in his mind. You better be serious about this. He can't have any of his employees not take him seriously.

"Can I just start tomorrow? I already have my look ready, so I'm good to go." You were going to go classic and wear a white button down but the buttons are a bit off-centered, with a somewhat flowy black skirt. No compromises on the shoes though. To compensate for the basic outfit, you're wearing five inch stiletto heeled, baby pink pumps.

Still planning, you look up to find Logan. He was already typing away on his phone.

"Uh," Logan's contacting HR to prepare a mini contract. "You can come with me tomorrow, but it won't be your official first day." He informs.

Yay! You do a happy dance.

"Yeah, ok," Logan waves you off before continuing, "So, we can go over the details of what you'll be doing tomorrow. And you can scope the place out. Maybe you'll end up having your own input..." He trails on but you tune him out at some point.

Oh, but your hair! You then cut him off and rush to your room to apply a hair mask so it's super silky the next day.

Logan can only hope you don't wreck anything.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

Across town, Hyewon had gone slightly out of her way to set the mood at her apartment.

She decorated the living room with lit unscented candles because Jungkook's got a sensitive nose.

Having taken the day off, she was able to prepare a fresh meal with fresh ingredients. She made Jungkook's favourites--- grilled pork belly, japchae, and haemul sundubu jjigae.

She even wore this blush silk dress he had complimented in passing once.

She wanted to do something for just the two of them. Something that might gently remind him of what they had, especially lately because he seemed... distracted and busy.

While she cooked and cleaned, she couldn't help but imagine her life if she ever were to marry Jeon Jungkook.

She'd probably move into his mansion. And he'd let her redecorate. Or maybe they'd end up buying a new home entirely.

Dreamily, sighing, Hyewon dims the lights to set a more romantic atmosphere.

When he finally comes over, a little over thirty minutes had passed. And for some reason, Hyewon felt anxious the entire time, wondering if he'd cancel on her at the last minute. But, to her delight, he was here. So she was okay again.

They ate together on the couch. He complimented the candles and her cooking.

Hyewon took a few pictures, laughing as she told him to act normal. Jungkook let her snap as many as she wanted, then tried to swipe the phone from her hand when he saw she was posting it.

She did so anyway.

"Seriously, Won," he muttered, leaning back, almost feeling shy, "You know I don’t like being seen like that online. Especially now."

Jungkook was under a significant amount of stress because of a new client.

"One little photo won't hurt you, Kookie." She smiles at her screen, already seeing the heart replies pouring in. "Maybe this is good for you. Your clients will see you in a stable relationship and put more trust in you. They'll see you as a person."

Trust was never an issue, he thinks. But says nothing, simply nodding, "Maybe."

At the end of their evening, Haewon offers her boyfriend a massage which he reluctantly accepts. He didn't want to put her out. He should be the one offering her a massage since she prepared all these things for him.

And it ends in... Well, you know.

And for Haewon, everything felt right again.

Boy, had she been wrong. And it'd only take a day for her to discover that.

Jungkook had spent the night at his girlfriend's place, not realising he didn't have any more back-up suits kept in his car.

He cusses himself out, wishing he had listened to Hyewon when she kept pushing him to keep some of his clothes over at her place.

Hyewon enjoyed waking up next to him. Driving to work together was convenient too since their offices were in the same business park.

Jungkook had to drive home and then to work. And he was running late by almost an hour.

So, his day was already a bit shitty.

Thank goodness for assigned parking.

At this time of the day, the main lobby is busier than usual as a majority of employees clocked in at this hour.

It's not as if he never came in this late. Jungkook barely noticed any of it most of those times though.

He walked straight, eyes on his phone, mind already halfway inside a courtroom.

Until he heard a laugh. An unmistakably familiar sound.

He ripped his eyes away from his phone to find the source of that sound.

And there you were.

Stood by the reception desk, talking to the only receptionist working that day, holding up a line of angry visitors who awaited clearance.

So fucking typical.

Fucking look at you. Not a care in the world. Taking all the time you need for whatever the hell you were up to.

But what really stood out to him was how ordinary your outfit was. It was so... Unlike you. He resents that he recognises this.

Then he sees something else.

The receptionist handed you a red lanyard. One that's only used by lower level employees in the building.

You fumble with the lanyard as you walk briskly toward the elevators, nearly dropping your ID card in the process.

He stays not too far behind you. Close enough to observe your shenanigans. You really ought to be more vigilant.

The ID keeps slipping out of your grasp, the clasp refusing to cooperate with your freshly done nails. This time, they were a bit more cutesy. You commissioned an up-and-coming artist to create those little 3D decals of Yoshitomo Nara’s art for your nails.

Jungkook thinks about how this was much more like you. He also notices your heels. Were you going to be in them all day?

That's something he'd like to see, he scoffed.

(He really underestimates you. You were practically born with high heels on.)

He watches you head straight to the private elevator, reserved for the execs, CEOs and other VIPS.

The doors to the elevator slide open with a soft ding and you step inside. A beat later, you hear hurried steps, and then a familiar presence slides in beside you.

Jungkook!

He doesn't speak at first. His gaze drops to your hands, still struggling with the lanyard.

Before his brain can stop him, with one hand, he grabs your card and your lanyard. "You're doing it wrong," he mutters.

You startle at his nearness. How the hell did you not notice him?

He thrusts his laptop bag towards you, and you take it from him without being asked.

That was weirdly obedient of you.

You could now recognise his cologne. Very... Woody. You love it.

Sparks shot straight to your pussy as you watched his skilled fingers, easily hooking your lanyard property to your ID. Watching him handle something of yours was doing things to you.

You swallow, maybe a little too audibly, “Thanks." You blush, your lips already curling into a teasing smile.

He hands it back to your wordlessly, stealing his bag back.

This time, you make sure to brush your fingers against his.

Before you could react to the sensation, the elevator doors open.

You blink.

Neither of had pushed a button.

In walked this tall, somewhat muscular looking man. God, were all the men in this building sexy? What the fuck?

His gaze immediately lands on you, then dips to the red lanyard in your hands.

"You're not supposed to be in this one," Tall Man says casually. "This elevator’s for executive-level staff," he trails off, "CEOs, partners..."

You freeze, feeling somewhat scrutinized. "Oh…" You blink up at him with wide, doll-like eyes, embarrassed, "Sorry, I didn’t know."

Uh, you knew. You were considered VIP generally, so.....

Behind you, Jungkook exhales quietly; whether out of disbelief, irritation or, a less likely option, amusement, you’re not sure.

Namjoon, however, chuckles. "No worries. You’re new?"

Fufckchshd, he's so hot. He has dimples too!!

But, how dare he humiliate you like that. :D

You tilt your head, smiling sweetly, “Yeah. I just started. At my brother's company on floor 27."

You know damn well what you were doing partially name-dropping. You wanted him to feel embarrassed for not recognising you.

Everyone knows you. At least, they did, in this business district.

On hearing that, his gaze flicks over to Jungkook; recognition dawning not just from the name, but from memory. The memory of you by the elevator at J, K & K a few days ago. He definitely looked twice that day.

You were almost unrecognisable today.

"Oh," he said, voice laced with amused surprise. "_____, it’s you."

C'est toi.

"Mhm!" You wait for him to introduce himself.

"I'm Kim Namjoon." His tone was a bit playful. He glanced at his partner who sported a semi-scowl now.

OHhhhh. He's one of the Kims in Jeon, Kim & Kim.

Without thinking, you blurt, "Wow, is the third Kim as hot as you two?"

Namjoon snorted, "The other Kim’s my father."

You tilt your head and nod. Well, that didn't answer your question but okay.

Namjoon observes as you look back and forth between himself and Jungkook.

(You were thinking about an Eiffel tower.)

Namjoon seemed to catch the flicker of mischief behind your lashes, because he wasted no time to ask you out, "Let me show you around today. I'll take you to the good lunch spots around here."

And you brighten up, yes, please!!

But you couldn't sound this desperate.

"Oh," you said instead, feigning hesitation, "I was just gonna try the cafeteria today."

He didn’t miss a beat, "Alright then, I’ll keep you company."

Behind you, Jungkook looks up sharply. His eye twitches ever so slightly.

Namjoon. At the cafeteria?

He hated the building's cafeteria. Claimed it resembled a prison cafeteria a bit too much, except with better food.

He never went with Jungkook but he'd go for you? That's crazy.

The elevator door opens on the 25th floor. Jungkook immediately zooms past you, but not before catching you ask his partner to pick you up at 1. His jaw tenses a little.

What the hell were you up to?

What was Namjoon going to do with you anyway? He's way too old for you, in his opinion. But whatever.

Why would he care?

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

Jungkook had tried to work.

He stares at the words on the paper and sighs for the fiftieth time. They just read like gibberish. He’d read the same sentence four times and still didn’t know what it said.

That's what has happened all day. It took him over an hour to get through the most basic defamation case.

This was all your fault. You threw him off his routine.

For the fiftieth time, what were you doing here?

You didn’t need the money. That much was common knowledge.

You didn’t even like early mornings and apparently everyone knew you didn’t 'lift a finger for shit,' as one of the junior associates had so eloquently put it earlier that day.

Your presence in the building had stirred up some gossip. So, you technically ruined everyone's day.

So why?

He exhaled sharply, pushing the file away, annoyed with himself.

He should get something to eat. He was just about to text Haewon when he's sudden reminded of something.

He needed to sign-off on Namjoon's Hwa Capital due diligence report and send it before 2.

He rings Namjoon's assistant in. "Is Namjoon still in the cafeteria?" He figured he could go down there himself and get the job done quickly.

The assistant blinked, confused. Why would Namjoon be there? "What? No, he’s in his office. Has been for a while."

That made Jungkook frown. It was fifteen minutes past one. Wasn't he supposed to pick you up?

Jungkook doesn't know what came over him.

It's like a wave of something passed through him when he heard this. His gut twisted.

He walked briskly toward Namjoon’s office, not really knowing what he was about to do, and forced the door open without knocking.

"Hey---" He froze before he could finish.

The first thing he sees is you.

You were on your feet, but barely. Namjoon had your back pressed against his bookshelf, with one of his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, holding you upright, anchoring you to him.

His other arm disappeared under your skirt, behind your thigh.

But that wasn’t the part that made Jungkook’s fist clench.

Your blouse was gaping open, your bra askew, and Namjoon’s mouth was on your tits. Messily licking and sucking on your nipples.

It was this.

Your soft moans fill his ears. Your eyes were tightly shut in pleasure.

You were clinging to Namjoon desperately. One hand tangled in his hair, guiding his head over your breasts. The other... was palming him through his light grey slacks.

Were you trying to make him cum in his pants?

Namjoon's groans were mixed in with a few 'fuck's and praises for you. Your moans and giggles get louder as you hear him talk dirty to you. You responded to him with affirmative moans.

Namjoon brings his thumb to your mouth, making you suck on it, then traces a path down to your nipple, rapidly rubbing your pretty, sensitive bud. Pleasure shoots straight to your clit.

Jungkook just stares. Why the hell hadn't he said anything yet?!

Jungkook attempts to speak but no sound leaves his mouth.

Coincidentally, you open your eyes at that exact moment and gasp, horrified for a second because you thought some perverted stranger had been watching you. But it was just Jungkook. You were truly shocked.

Quickly, you tug on Namjoon's hair, maneuvering him to aim his vision towards the door where his partner stood.

"Shit!" Namjoon jerked away instantly, pulling you flush against him to shield as much of your bare skin as he could, chest heaving as he tries to recover his pace.

Hehe. Hot.

Meanwhile, you only looked a tad flushed and breathless, but not particularly bothered. "Oops," you giggled, eyes fluttering toward Jungkook with a sheepish smile, “I thought latch down meant locked.”

Jungkook blinked hard. His jaw clenched as he finally tore his eyes away from your figures.

Clearing his throat, he addressed Namjoon stiffly, “I need the completed Hwa Capital documents. Preferably now.”

Namjoon, a bit more relaxed now, gave a lopsided grin, still holding you tightly against him. “Right. Ten minutes?”

Jungkook didn’t say another word. His eyes flicked to you one last time, registering new details--- your lipstick was smudged and glossy, or was it wet with spit? Your hair was a little out of place too. A shiny silver pin had slid halfway down the length of your hair.

Your gaze stayed on Jungkook. It was.... Inviting. A little challenging. But mostly just bold.

Your shirt was still open, bra still tugged under your tits, but Namjoon covered you well.

Though you wanna push his arm away, you refrain. That'd be too dirty.

This wasn't how you imagined he'd first see you naked. But honestly? If it gets him thinking about you, then great.

Taking a deep breath, Jungkook finally turned and left. The door stayed open.

Namjoon finally pulled away from you, still holding you close enough to stare down into your eyes. You smile and pull him in for one last make out session before you depart, and, of course, he happily obliges. And you're grateful for him.

UGGHh it felt so good to kiss. It had been a while since you last fucked someone. So, this was good for you.

Namjoon helps you button your shirt up and fix your hair.

What a sweetie.

You bid him goodbye and promise to catch him for dinner sometime.

You cross Jungkook's office on route to the elevators, but don't wait to see if he was in there.

(In case you were wondering, he was.)

Back in Jungkook's office, he had given up on trying to work today.

He sat at his desk, elbow propped against the armrest, thumb pressed to his temple like he could physically will his thoughts into order.

He had to redirect all his energy into not thinking about your bare tits.

Fucking Kim Namjoon, that son of a bitch.

"Fuck..." He groans. He was going to give himself a headache at this rate.

Every time he blinked, he saw your flushed face.

You bother him so bad.

You were such a little brat. Who fucks in an office? Just because you own the building doesn't enable you to move freely through it in this manner.

He pays rent for this space.

And you can just come in and fuck his assosiate? It's disrespectful.

Jungkook dragged in a breath, leaning back in his chair, glaring up at the ceiling like it had answers.

His head wanders back to your flushed face and the moans your pretty mouth released. And then to your pretty perky nipples.

God, get a grip.

Stop it.

He had a fucking girlfriend.

This cold splash of reality brought him back down to Earth: Hyewon. She's grounded, loyal, familiar. A successful, intelligent woman.

On the other hand, you were just a selfish brat with no sense of boundaries.

How was Hyewon friends with someone like you?

Jungkook decided he had had enough that day.

He calls in a sick day and leaves.

Namjoon could handle everything by himself anyway.

next: killah (jjk) [4]

note: idk why i call these drabbles because they're honestly just as long as my regular stories labelled fics, like this one's well over 4.5k words long like ew

anywhoooo, tell me what you think :3 please don't be a silent reader ok ly

ANd yeah the elevator scene seems to go on forever, shh, minor plot holes 😭

[kusanagi-haruno]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ NIGHTS LIKE THIS !

ఌ sum: Ever since Gojo saw you, he’s been nothing but love struck. And as time passes, you find yourself feeling the same.

wc: 3.2K

Warnings: Fem!reader, Gojo is basically obsessed with you, Uni AU, Modern AU, Eventual smut, Porn w plot, Making out, Oral (F receiving), P in V sex, Light choking, Praising, Pet names: Pretty girl, beautiful, sweet girl.

a/n: originally this was written for my friend with a different character, but I decided to change it to gojo so I can post it here for you lovelies :)!!!!

Lovestruck Gojo! who forgot how to breathe when he first saw you enter the lecture the first day. His eyes raked over your form, taking in every detail from when you first entered through the door to when you sat down. He bit the inside of his cheek when he saw you sit a few rows in front of him. He ignored the stinging pain that followed after biting the wall of his mouth, too entranced by you to even care.

Lovestruck Gojo! who grew more frustrated as the weeks passed. He cursed his inability to go up to you and just talk. The way your lips seemed to shine every time he looked at them, how the outsides of your eyes creased when you smiled just made him so nervous.

Lovestruck Gojo! who swears his prayers finally have been answered when you two were paired up for a project. He sat up a little bit straighter when the professor announced your name next to his. He swore the sun shined a little bit brighter that day.

Lovestruck Gojo! who’s heart raced when he noticed you make your way towards him at the end of the lecture. He pretended not to notice you, which was hard because he knows he’s noticed just about everything you had to offer. His heart raced when he heard your voice speak to him, in his head was a million thoughts scrambling through his mind.

Lovestruck Gojo! who’s voice cracked when he spoke his first words to you. “I’m sorry?” He questioned when he realized he didn’t respond to you. “Want to exchange contacts? It’ll be easier to keep in touch this way,” he heard you ask. It felt like his breath got caught in his throat, the softness, the perfection of your voice paralyzed him. He knew he had to answer this time, he had to make a good first impression.

Lovestruck Gojo! who hurriedly agreed to give you his number. After that brief conversation, he watched you walk away. He swore his heart would jump out of his chest any moment now, however he wouldn’t even be mad, not when the reason his heart was beating was because of you.

Lovestruck Gojo! who swears he’s on cloud nine. Ever since the both of you have been partnered up for that project, the both of you have slowly gotten closer and closer. Everyday he would wake up with one thought in his mind, you. When he got ready for your guys’ daily meet up to slowly progress on the project, he made sure to look his very best. He always double checked to see if his hair was laid correctly, that his teeth looked white as ever, and that his clothes smelled perfect.

Lovestruck Gojo! who silently congratulated himself every time he made you laugh. Sometimes you would catch him staring, but you found yourself not being bothered by it one bit. You couldn’t deny that you undoubtedly caught feelings for the man in front of you during the time you guys spent together. You found yourself blushing everytime he remembered your coffee order, even more so when he paid for it everytime.

Lovestruck Gojo! who felt like his world was destroyed when the project came to an end. He should’ve felt any form of happiness, but he couldn’t. Not when he had no excuse to see you anymore. When he rolled over in his bed, he felt like sinking into it just to never come out again.

Lovestruck Gojo! who groaned when he heard his phone buzz signaling he got a notification. He silently debated on ignoring it, almost positive it was a random notification from a random app. Although he twisted and turned, soon facing his phone on the nightstand beside him with a small hope that maybe, maybe, you texted him.

Lovestruck Gojo! whose heart went from 0 to 100 the moment he saw it was you who texted him. He immediately opened the notification and read your text, he smiled so hard that it hurt. “Party tn, wanna come? We can let loose a little as a little celebration for finishing that stupid project :).”

Lovestruck Gojo! who never got ready so fast in his life before. He made sure to reply to your text before doing so, he’d rather die than have you think he purposefully ignored you.

Lovestruck Gojo! who had no idea just how fast your heart was beating. Your friends pressured you into texting him, knowing just how much you liked him. You didn’t know whether to curse them out or hug them, but the thought diminished as soon as you saw he replied to you, agreeing to come.

Lovestruck Gojo! who felt the same as he first did the very first second he saw you when he saw you tonight, in front of him. He clenched his fists when he took note just how many other men were in the same building as you, almost hard enough to draw blood. All negative feelings vanished when he locked eyes with you, and instead new ones blossomed. He took note how you styled your hair, and wore a little more makeup than usual. His eyebrows furrowed when he thought that you wanted to look good for somebody else.

Lovestruck Gojo! who slowly lost himself in your eyes. The both of you agreed to dance with each other, mirroring each other's smiles. He lost track of time, not that he cared though. The only thing he cared about was the feeling of your arms around his neck, your eyes looking right at him and fuck the glossiness of your lips. Everything about you was perfect, and he wanted to kill every man who looked at you tonight.

Lovestruck Gojo! whose body felt like it was on fire right now. He doesn’t know who leaned first, but he couldn’t give a fuck about that. Not when the feeling over your soft, plushy lips against his sent his mind, body, and soul to heaven and back. He could only focus on the small, shaky breaths that escaped your lips when he sucked particularly hard, and fuck he loved it more than he should. What’s new though, he always loved you way more than the normal amount.

Lovestruck Gojo! who almost whined when you finally broke the kiss, but what you said after instantly made up for it. “Wanna get out of here?” He didn’t know how a person could be so fucking adorable, but you break his expectations everyday.

His silently nodded, little pants escape his lips as you take his hand and lead him out of the party.

As soon as the two of you barely make it to your dorm, you’re pushed up against the door. You let out a gasp when your head meets the firmness of your dorm door, but quickly the pain turns into pleasure when he takes the opportunity of your opened mouth to slide his tongue into your mouth.

You feel his hands touch every part of your body, trying to memorize every part of you. You hear him chuckle against your lips when you let out soft whines when he touches a particularly sensitive spot, and fuck did that make you wet.

“Such a fucking pretty girl,” he mumbles into your mouth. You let out a whine at the praise, your hands resting against his firm chest. His hands rest on your hips, squeezing them whenever he finds himself feeling too much of everything.

He often found himself denying that you were real, but you were here, under his touch, kissing him. Him, of all people. If he told his past self that he’d up like this with you, his past self would laugh, or faint, either or.

You find yourself slowly backing up until you hit your bed with him looming over you. The both of you take a second to just look at each other, a million things spoken with just one look. Both of your eyes gazing at each other full of lust and love before leaning back into each other with more passion than before.

“G-Gojo..fuck,” you moan out as you arch your back. The man on top of you started to slowly roll his hips against yours, the feeling making pleasure flow through the entirety of your body, no area left untouched. “I- ah..I know baby I know”, he coos, feeling the same if not more.

You feel his big hands tug at your shirt, a silent demand to take it off, and you do with no hesitation. Gojo is awestruck, absolutely entranced with how beautiful you look. Every part of you is absolutely perfect, fuck he feels like the luckiest man alive right now.

He detaches his lips from yours, a small string of spit hangs between the both of you. His hands move from the side of your face to your chest, then slowly down to your hips before resting on the side of your stomach. He leaves soft kisses against different areas of your stomach as his hands roam your torso, silently worshiping your body.

“Fuck you’re so beautiful,” he praises, his thumbs stroking the sides of your torso. You let out soft airy breaths in response to his delicate touches, each kiss igniting a small flame in the same area he kissed you.

When he finally makes your way down to your waist, he looks up at you, silently asking for permission. You give him a slight nod and lift your hips to help him remove your pants. Once Gojo throws your bottoms on the floor somewhere you start to get flustered. Almost your whole body is exposed while he’s still fully dressed. Guess you’re going to have to change that.

You softly call out his name, to which he answers with a small hum. His face is near your clothed pussy, so when he hummed you felt every little bit of it. You subconsciously opened your legs to the feeling of pleasure that sparked through your body as, and let out a squeak when he places a small kiss to your clothed pussy.

“Gojo..” you whine. “Y-you’re still dressed,” you pant out. You feel him chuckle from in between your legs and you let out another small moan in response. “Aww, is my poor baby embarrassed?” He mocks, a small smirk gracing his features.

“N-no..” You mumble with a small pout, but the both of you know otherwise. Gojo quickly rids of his shirt and leans down to give you a quick peck before moving down to your pussy.

You feel your panties are wet, and he sees that they’re wet, and you should feel embarrassed but you don’t.

Gojo tears off your panties and before you can complain, he licks a long stripe from your pussy to your clit. You buck up in response to which his hands fly to your hips to hold them down. After that he makes quick work of making a mess out of you.

You release moan after moan when he repeatedly laps your clit, showing no sign of stopping. The lewd noises of your wet squelches and his sucking fill the room, along with your whimpers and his groans.

As he eats you out the small praises he drunkenly says are lost on your ears. The only thing you can focus on, can even comprehend, was the feeling of his tongue against your wet pussy and oh, the finger he slipped in your poor little pussy.

“Such a good fucking girl, taking me so well,” he praises when he sees you take his finger with no struggle. When your legs twitch he knows you're close and speeds up the thrusting of his one finger and the speed of his tongue against your clit.

“Ah, ah fuck! G-Gojo,” you scream out, so close, just one more second and…

You let out a sob when you feel his finger quickly slip out of your sobbing pussy, and the feeling of his tongue no longer working on your clit. You could almost cry at the lost orgasm.

“Y-you’re so mean,” you sniffle out. “Can’t have you cummin yet baby,” he says shakily. His breaths come out in pants, his thoughts all over the place but the only constant is you.

He leaves a trail of kisses along the inside of your thigh, sucking on them every few kisses. He mumbles soft praises in between, “You're so beautiful, my pretty girl, doing so well.”

When he decides your thighs are littered with enough marks, he moves up your body coming face to face with you. His two fingers prod at your mouth, silently telling you to open your mouth. You obey, your tongue swirling around his thick fingers, tears threatening to spill your eyes.

While you’re working on his two fingers he took the liberty of slowly rolling his hips against yours. He kisses your cheek when he removes his fingers from your mouth, and slowly trails them along your body till he reaches your pussy.

The both of your lips connect when he slowly drags his fingers lightly down your body till they stop at your entrance. He coaxes you to breathe, staring into your eyes as he teases your clit.

He starts to pump his fingers into you, your juices coating his fingers. As you start to loosen up even more he slides another finger into you. The feeling of his thick hands inside of you make you feel impossibly stretched. It feels so good, everything feels so good fuck.

As you near your orgasm you pull him close to you, whimpering and panting wanting, needing to finish as his fingers ruthlessly attack the spongy spot inside your pussy.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” you whine fucked out on his fingers. “Please Gojo let me cum,” you lean in to kiss him but he pulls back, teasing you. He pretends to think, already knowing the answer. “You’ve been such a good girl,” he growls out. Matching his thrusts with his words. “Guess I should let you,” he finishes and kisses you.

His fingers speed up making your legs twitch as you reach your climax. Your moans are beautiful against his ears, he can never get enough of you. You’re so perfect.

You call out his name when you cum, your juices spraying out and coating his fingers. He slows down his tempo to help you ride through your orgasm, swallowing your cute little pants and whines.

“How’s my sweet girl doing?” He coos, cupping your cheek and using his thumb to caress the side of your face. You lean into his touch, still blissfully fucked out on his fingers. You let out a hum to signal you’re still with him.

Red coats your cheeks when you hear him say that you taste so fucking good. You use both of your hands to grasp on his forearm that’s attached to the hand on your cheek. “Mm Gojo,” you softly whisper out his name, not completely sure what the real goal was. You just wanted to say his name.

“I know baby, I know,” he quickly places a peck on your forehead before leaning back and quickly undoing his belt and jeans, leaving him in his boxers. Still in your fucked out state you don’t notice just how big he is.

He makes quick work of his boxers, throwing them in a random corner of the room before leaning down over you. “Is this okay? Are you okay with this?” He asks, and you could almost laugh if you weren’t out of breath. Of course you were okay with this, more than okay. “Yesyesyes, just let me feel you. I want you. Please,” you breathe out, looking straight into his eyes.

And something in him just snaps.

Hearing you beg for him, how utterly desperate you sound, it’s too much, you’re too much. His feelings for you are too much. He drags you to the end of the bed and places your legs over his shoulders. He shoves your full length inside of your pussy and you cry out. He’s so big…

You barely have time to adjust before he pulls back out and slams back into you. You grip onto his back, nails scratching down the entirety of his backside. “‘Ts too much- Ah!” moan after moan fills the room, the lewd sounds of your skin slapping against each other is basically drowned out by both your cries and his grunts.

The ruthless pace he sets makes your tits bounce against his chest, and he doesn’t fail to notice. His mouth greedily sucks on one while his hand fondles the other. “Oh my god! You feel so good ah..,” the sound of your cute little moans do downright dirty things to him. It makes him want to fucking ruin you.

When he decides your right boob is marked up enough he moves to your other, spitting on it before continuing his same merciless treatment on it.

You feel like your soul left your body when one of his hands lifted your hips a bit so he could thrust deeper into you. His cock is filling every single bit of you, and your pussy is greedily sucking him in.

“Ngh..Gojo feels so good. Your cock is filling me ah! so well,” you chant out his name like a prayer.

Once he declares both of your pretty tits taken care of he wraps a hand around your throat and makes eye contact with you. “Beautiful girl..taking me so well. Perfect, you’re fucking perfect,” he praises against your lips.

Both of you are near, you can feel his cock twitching inside of you and Gojo can feel how your pretty pussy is gripping him even more tight. It’s basically calling out his name, pulsing around his dick like a needy little thing.

“Gojo!” You scream out when you cum for the second time that night. Just a few more thrusts and he releases inside of you as well, spilling his warm cum inside of you.

His pace slows as he rides out his orgasm while also helping you ride out yours. “So perfect..did so well, pretty girl, did so fucking good,” he whispers. He continues to let out sweet praises as both of you continue to catch your breath.

You weren’t sure when you closed your eyes, but when you reopened them you were now in the bath against a firm, hard chest. You close your eyes again, relishing the feeling of being relaxed against him.

Gojo on the other hand is still in awe, he can’t, will not believe that you’re here with him. Leaning against him like this has been routine for years, like you guys have been together.

He rests his cheek against your head and you softly hum. His hands gently rub incoherent shapes against your hips as the two of you seek comfort against the both of each other.

Lovestruck!Gojo who kisses the crown of your head as his arms snake around your waist. His hold tightens, and you let it.

Lovestruck! Gojo who promises himself to keep holding you like this now, and in the future. Who promises to never let you go, and you’d never dream of letting him.