#and that weight loss is the answer to all my problems

[aemsgirl]

The Genius, Michael Gavey.

Michael Gavey x Reader.

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, masturbation, foul language, loss of virginity, cum control.

English is not my first language, so I hope you will forgive me if there are any mistakes.

oneshot.

Michael’s good at a lot of things, and he knows it. Brilliant, really. Genius, if we're being honest. Maths? Please—he’s never even touched a calculator. Numbers are his domain, his sanctuary, the one place where he feels entirely at ease. Books too—though never fantasy; he’d rather lose himself in something real, something concrete. But everything else? Social skills? A complete disaster, really. Painful to watch.

It’s not as if anyone’s queuing up to see what’s behind those smudged glasses or that same red sweater he pulls on every Monday. And that's fine. Honestly, it is. He's made peace with it. It’s their loss, isn’t it? That's the mantra he clings to, the thread keeping his fragile ego intact: They're the ones missing out. And God, doesn’t he need to believe it.

When you arrived in Oxford, it hit him hard. Why? Because even when he was buried in the silence of the library, there you were, watching him. Always watching. Maybe intending to read a book—upside down, no less—or lounging with your legs thrown over a table, headphones blaring as if you couldn't care less about the world around you.

Michael Gavey isn't used to being seen. For fuck’s sake, he’s Michael Gavey. Nobody. Invisible, as he’s always preferred. But then you came along, and suddenly, invisibility wasn't an option. You became something else entirely: a problem, a distraction, a bloody nuisance he couldn’t seem to get rid of. And maybe, deep down, that’s what scared him most.

So, naturally, his response was to start staring back. Maybe if he leaned into being a proper weirdo, you’d back off. But no, of course not. You didn't flinch. You just stared right back, unwavering, unbothered. It didn't take long for one of the teachers to step in, warning him, of all people, to knock it off. And you? You just smiled. Smiled like you'd won some secret, twisted game, baring all your teeth like a predator who'd just cornered its prey.

When he squinted at you, furrowing his eyebrows in some attempt to decode whatever the hell was going on, you simply glanced at the table, still grinning like you had a secret you were dying to keep.

What was your problem? Were you planning something? Was there a game being played here, something sinister he couldn’t quite see? The questions clawed at him, gnawed at his focus, and yet, no answers came. Only that smile. God, he hated it.

Things weren't improving, no, they were deteriorating rather quickly. And it all took a turn for the bizarre when, in the dead of night, he awoke still half hard, with his shorts drenched in cum and his mind? Cluttered with vivid memories of a particular dream from the previous night. Never had he scrubbed a piece of clothing with such fury in his life; this treacherous body was doing him in. And the most egregious part? His cock was a bloody jest, because even after such mortification, he had to wank off once more just to make the torment subside.

That day, the Oxford corridors felt like they were smoldering beneath him, each step fueling the inferno inside his chest. His sneakers might as well have been on fire for how much he burned with rage. And then he saw you, loitering by your locker, looking infuriatingly calm as always. It was like you wanted to drive him insane.

He stormed over, slamming your locker shut with a single hand, his nostrils flaring like he was ready to tear you apart—not literally, of course. Well, maybe a little. He was unraveled, utterly tormented, and you? You were only making it worse.

“Stop.” The word came out flat, almost pitiful, his voice cracking under the weight of his irritation. His blue eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded and bloodshot, as if they’d been scorched by his fury.

“With what?” you asked, tilting an eyebrow, that insufferable smirk tugging at your lips. Carefree. Effortless. It made his teeth grind in pure frustration. He didn’t even understand why he felt so unhinged—just that he did.

“What the hell do you want?” he barked, his voice echoing down the corridor. Heads turned, a few people pausing to glance at the scene, but you didn't so much as flinch. No fear, no embarrassment. You just leaned lazily against your locker, staring at him down like you had all the time in the world.

“Your number, to start with, would be great.” The words hit him like a physical blow. His pupils dilated so fast it felt like the world had tilted. If darkness swallowed everything right then and there, he was convinced he’d still see you.

And that’s when everything shifted. You weren’t messing with him—not in the way he’d thought. No, you were interested in him. The realisation hit Michael like a slap, and even then, his perpetually self-loathing brain struggled to piece it all together. For once, his stupid mind was just that: stupid.

But then the messages started, tentative at first, and something clicked. You actually got on—really got on. It was strange, almost unnerving, how much you seemed to have in common. You liked some of the same nerdy things as him, and he found himself listening to bands he’d previously written off because you mentioned them. Slowly, the conversations moved out of his phone and into the library, where you started sitting at the same table.

People noticed, of course. Curious glances trailed after the two of you, some even daring to linger when Michael—Michael Gavey, of all people—was caught smiling. Not a smirk or a grimace, but an actual smile, albeit half-hidden behind his hand. But it was there, and for once, he didn’t mind. Not entirely.

And then, on a Friday night when everything seemed eerily serene, the text message arrived. 'Do you want to come to my dorm?' Panic ensued. Perhaps it's a tad presumptuous to assume you want to fuck him, isn't it? Yet, he was presuming precisely that. But the truth is, Michael has only kissed one girl in his entire life; otherwise, his knowledge comes from pornography, books about the human anatomy, and the hushed conversations in the men's locker room. And it's not that he didn't want to; in fact, he wanted to, desperately so, but the truth was that no one seemed sufficiently captivated to offer him the chance. But you, you were offering. Maybe. What does one do with that?

He took a shower, donned his usual jeans and a white shirt, slipped on his sneakers, and even spent time before the mirror wrestling with his blond hair, to little avail, of course. He decided he wouldn't be a coward; he had this chance, maybe, and he wouldn't squander it with timidity. He made his way to the girls' dorm on campus, garnering more than a few disdainful looks from the passing girls. It was just because it was him; if it were Felix sneaking in, they'd be all smiles. But who cares? There was only one person he hoped would truly appreciate his presence. He reached your door, his breath caught in his throat, and knocked so feebly that perhaps he thought you wouldn't even hear. Pathetic, honestly.

But you heard him, and when you opened the door, he froze for a moment. You'd just taken a shower; your skin was still slightly flushed from the hot water, wearing an oversized shirt, once black but now faded to grey, and some pajama shorts that honestly looked more like his underwear than actual shorts. He swallowed hard, managing a crooked smile. You leaned against the doorframe, your smile much more genuine.

"You came." The words slipped from your lips with such ease, rolling off your tongue with a genuine satisfaction that straightened his crooked smile.

"Yeah, well. It's not like I have anything better to do, of course." His reply lacked the sharpness he'd rehearsed in his mind, accompanied by a glance at the floor and a stupid, silly smile.

"Yeah, of course." You laughed, rolling your eyes, and turned your body to give him space to enter, if he wanted to, though he looked as if he might bolt at any second.

But he didn't run away; no, he actually stepped inside. The room was like most others, yet he was struck by how orderly it was. Like any typical dorm, there was the TV, the two single beds, a small table, and in the corner of an adjacent smaller room, the bathroom. The scent of cleaning products lingered, indicating you'd taken the time to tidy up before inviting him over. This shouldn't have pleased him as much as it did, but it did.

"Just take off your sneakers before you lay on the bed," you said with that nonchalant tone of yours, picking up the TV remote from the table.

He glanced at the paused movie on the screen before turning his attention to the bed. His mind wasn't exactly racing as he sat down, beginning to untie his sneakers, but his focus soon shifted to the side of your face. He was transfixed by how your hair framed your features, how your lips were so perfectly shaped, and how your eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. He had to run a hand over his face, nearly knocking off his glasses, to bring himself back to reality, blinking several times to refocus on removing his sneakers.

"I chose 'Evil Dead,' but they didn't have the classics." Your voice drew his gaze upward again. You casually made your way to the bed beside him, practically throwing yourself down, causing the mattress to bounce. "Is that a problem for you?" you asked, turning to look at him, your eyes locking with his.

His throat visibly tightened as he swallowed, while you didn't even blink. For a moment, he found it a rather amusing jest. What could a girl like you, with the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, with lips that curved into the brightest smile he could imagine, possibly want with him? He was either the luckiest bastard in the world or the biggest delusional of the year. But that was fine, at least for now.

"No, it's not a problem at all," Michael mumbled, unsure if he was referring to the movie choice or something else entirely. But it would suffice either way.

He saw you smile widely, and you felt you should, noticing his blue eyes dilate behind his glasses. Looking down where you had crossed your legs beneath you, you tried to focus and simply pressed play on the movie. The low noise from the TV soon filled the room, the colors of the film painting your faces and reflecting in Michael's glasses. The silence was comfortable, as always. The sounds of calm breathing filled the space, but well, his eyes weren't really on the TV; they were on you. To the point where he had to rest his hand on his face, just to appreciate it, perhaps.

"You know, watching a movie works better when you're looking at the screen," you commented, your eyes still fixed on the screen, though you felt the heat from his gaze on your cheek.

"I prefer to watch you." His words were barely above a whisper, but they reached you, making your smile widen even more.

Your eyes flicked to him, while his remained steady, though he felt his palms sweating against his cheek. He was nervous, and his attempt at an impassive expression wasn't fooling you. The words that left his lips were just truths, and seeing you smile, it was good to see you smile, it brought a subtle curve to his own lips. Sighing, you drew your knees up to your chest, resting your chin there, unsure of what to make of his words or of him. Just as he was unsure of what to make of you or how much you unsettled him.

"I hate almost everyone here except you." Your words mirrored his in tone, quiet, perhaps too intimate to slip out.

They made him pause, just looking at you, wondering. Time seemed to stand still, the screams from the movie not reaching your ears; things were quiet, almost silent. And that's when his hand rose, wrapping around the back of your neck, perhaps with the most courage he'd ever mustered in his life. Your lips parted slightly when you noticed him shifting on the bed to get closer, and you responded in kind, leaning towards him, your hand hesitating before also reaching up to the back of his neck, slipping between the golden strands to hold him firmly. Bringing your faces close, your breaths began to mingle, and soon all that was reflected in his glasses were your lips, all his attention focused solely on them.

"You're trouble, and you want to know why?" Michael whispered, your gaze falling to his lips as they formed the words. They were thrown at your face, raw and direct. "Because it seems like after I met you, there's been something wrong with my brain." He lifted his thumb to trace your bottom lip, as if to commit it to memory.

"Yeah?" Your response lacked strength, not truly. "That's good, because it seems like after you I'll never be the same." Whispering another confession, now it seemed more than fitting, even with your breathing too rapid to say much more, or what you truly wanted to.

A faint smile touched Michael's lips, perhaps an attempt at composure before he leaned in closer. Tilting your heads in opposite directions, your noses brushed against each other, the taste of each other's breath mingling on your lips, shared. His lips were the first to part, capturing your lower one slowly, almost tentatively, until yours responded, capturing his upper lip. The kiss started slowly, your lips moving together with an unhurried grace, despite your quickening breaths at the contact. His free hand found your waist, attempting to pull you closer, while your hand tangled in his hair, gripping it almost in a fist.

But it wasn't enough, far from it. Leaning forward, Michael guided you both down onto the bed, supporting himself with each hand on either side of your head, positioning his body between your legs, which parted to welcome him. One of his hands slid down to your thigh, lifting it and pressing it against his side, your hips naturally seeking each other, and his already hardened cock brushed against your increasingly aroused intimacy. Sounds escaped between kisses, your hands sliding to grip his back, when Michael pressed your bodies together again, rolling his hips and drawing out a sly moan from his own lips, making it difficult to continue kissing you.

Your hands reached for the hem of his shirt, attempting to pull it up, but his hands caught yours, pinning them above your head, fingers intertwining there, as he pulled back just enough to look you squarely in the eye. His heavy breathing made his chest rise and fall, sweat causing his glasses to slide down his nose.

"I..." the words seemed reluctant to escape as he gazed down at you, your lips flushed and your chest heaving. He didn't want to dissuade you, but he had to say it. "I've never done that."

Your only response was to lift your head from the bed, seeking his lips and succeeding in a gentle capture, with him lowering himself to return the kiss. Though not deep, your teeth nipped at his lower lip, tugging gently, perhaps trying to draw him closer. Your fingers pressed against his above your head, yearning to be free, you just wanted to touch him, feel him, it didn't matter if he was inexperienced, if you had to guide him step by step, or if this was all you would have, feeling him like this above you.

"Just touch me, I don't care," you murmured against his lip, without the strength for more words, which in response prompted him to roll his hips against yours again, closing his eyes with a moan, just as your head tilted back, lifting your hips to meet his movement.

His hands released yours, and you quickly grabbed his shirt, pulling it up and off him, and he reciprocated, lifting yours inch by inch until he could pull it over your head. Without a bra, your breasts were bared to him, making him pause. His lips went dry as he took in the sight of your hardened nipples, ready for attention, despite his momentary hesitation. You saw it in his eyes, in how they flickered to meet yours, and your hand reached to caress his cheek before grabbing the back of his neck, gently guiding him toward your chest, arching off the bed to ensure he understood your consent.

And he understood more than clearly, leaning down to kiss the space between your breasts before moving to one, enveloping it with his mouth entirely, using his hand to squeeze it firmly. The sensation of your skin against his mouth elicited a low sound from him that vibrated through your body, prompting you to grind your hips against his already hard cock. His tongue followed, swirling around your nipple, sucking as if his life depended on it. His mouth salivated, saliva running down your chest, glistening your skin with his essence. His free hand went to your other breast, squeezing it tightly, his lips trailing kisses to the other side, his tongue sliding along until it reached your other nipple, circling it with fervent enthusiasm.

"Fuck," you murmured, your intimacy throbbing, squeezing as you leaned on the bed to create friction against his erection, making him to bite the nipple in his mouth to stifle a loud moan.

His lips left your chest, observing the glistening, swollen flesh from his attentions. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight, going straight to his core. He looked down to where his hardness met your shorts, stopping himself from climaxing right there, taking deep breaths.

"Tell me..." his words trailed off, his lips struggling to draw in breaths. "Tell me how to be good for you." His whisper was broken, he was too far gone to really care about it.

You smiled, even in the throes of your overwhelming need for him. One of your hands took one of his, slowly guiding it to your core, and he watched intently as you slipped it inside your shorts and soaked panties, biting his lip as his expression contorted with pleasure. Slowly, you positioned his fingers perfectly over your clit, starting to move them in circles, making your breathing quicken further. Fortunately, Michael was a quick learner, or perhaps just desperate enough. Your fingers left his as he took over, moving them faster, circling over your soaked clit. You tried to reach for his hardness in his pants, but with his free hand, he caught yours and pinned it to the bed.

"Don't." The words came out swiftly, a desperate command because he knew well that if you touched him, he would cum right then and there.

You accepted it, not attempting to touch him again. Feeling his fingers slide over and over your most sensitive spot, the sounds began to fill the room, the wetness so intense it seeped through your pajama shorts, and he could hardly believe his incredible luck. His eyes moved to your face, noticing your parted lips, your cheeks flushed red, and your breasts, still glistening from his saliva, seeming to beckon him. One of your hands gripped his wrist, and he could see from your expression how close you were. The hand that had been holding yours to the bed released it, moving to the back of your neck, lifting your head to make you look down.

"Watch," he murmured, sliding his thumb perfectly over your clit, and you felt like stars were bursting behind your eyes even as you complied and stared.

You saw his hand moving inside your shorts, the veins in his forearm pulsing with the effort, the muscles there flexing. His hand held you tightly, almost encompassing your neck. And when his fingers started moving side to side, you knew you were finished. Your lips parted completely, a groan trapped in your throat escaped, you tried to throw your head back but his grip prevented it, and then, your walls clenched, he could feel the pulsing around his fingers, your belly flexing as you reached your climax, clamping your legs around his forearm.

Your body goes limp on the bed, your thighs still trembling as his hands slide from your neck down to your thighs, smearing his taste there. He grips the hem of your shorts, pulling them down along with your panties. When his eyes meet your pulsing, glistening pussy, a sigh escapes him, eyes closing momentarily to regain control. You hear the sound of his pants being unzipped, him kicking them off along with his underwear. Your eyes open just in time to see him grip the base of his cock, bringing the head to your sensitive clit, eliciting a tight, desperate moan from you.

"You're so beautiful." he murmurs, dragging the precum-slick tip of his cock across your clit, making your walls clench as he watches. His free hand runs down the inside of your thighs, ensuring they're coated in your own wetness.

He squeezes his eyes shut in pure ecstasy, rubbing his cock from your clit to your entrance, gripping the base tightly to stave off his climax. Your thighs tremble, your hands gripping the sheets, but nothing seems to alleviate the intensity, there's no escape. You're consumed, completely. Your hips start to move desperately for contact, even as your body protests, your fingers threatening to tear the sheets apart. He rubs once more, the almost sinful sounds echoing off the walls, mingling with his low moans and the contractions of his stomach. You can tell he's doing everything in his power not to cum.

"Can I?" He opens his eyes to whisper, looking directly into yours, and with no strength left to speak, you simply nod.

He sighs deeply before positioning himself at your entrance and pushing inside, feeling your walls resist yet yield as he presses in until fully seated, your groins meeting. A drawn-out moan escapes your lips as his head falls back, a soft groan leaving his throat followed by a sequence of breaths that made his entire body tremble. Michael pauses, trying and failing to calm his racing heart and the overwhelming sensation of your hot, tight insides. Leaning forward, he rests one hand on the bed while the other removes his glasses, setting them aside. Your hands rise to the back of his neck, bringing his forehead to yours, holding it there as he makes the first thrust. Both of your lips part, your moans and breaths mingling.

His thrusts were deep, yet slow. He would withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, each time making your eyes squeeze shut tighter and your head press against his. The sweat on your foreheads seemed to meld you together, turning you into one entity. His eyes opened, burning into your face, and you met his gaze, your eyes filling with tears of pure pleasure as he thrust even deeper.

"I like you," he murmurs, cupping your cheek as his other hand grips the headboard, making the wood creak. A smile graces your lips, almost cut off by his cock sliding in deeper.

"I like you too," you manage to reply between ragged breaths, your fingers tightening around the back of his neck as if it's your lifeline.

He brings his lips to your forehead, giving you a long, lingering kiss, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he brings his hand to your mouth, and with that signal, he starts thrusting with all he has, making you scream into his hand, which hopefully muffles the sound. He rests his own mouth there to also muffle his moans, feeling sweat run down every part of his body, mixing with yours. The bed bangs against the wall, your eyes roll back when he hits that sweet spot inside you, your hands lifting to dig your nails into his back. As your walls clench around him, he feels your climax spill out, soaking the sheets and his lower abdomen. With a louder moan, he quickly pulls out, his cock spilling his cum over your belly.

He releases your mouth and the headboard, letting his full weight rest on you, his head finding solace in the crook of your neck. Your arms encircle his neck, keeping him close as your entire body trembles with the aftershocks of pleasure. Both of you are exhausted, both satisfied. Michael's thoughts drift back to the early weeks of knowing you, how he wished you would vanish, and now, how he dreads the thought of you leaving, like everyone else. The irony might have drawn a bitter laugh from him if he weren't so physically spent.

"I wasn't bluffing," you hear him murmur into your neck, capturing your attention amidst the sensations still coursing through your body. You slowly turn your head towards him.

"What?" you whisper, perhaps fearful that even a slight increase in volume might make this moment slip away, just as much as he is. His eyes, those blues that most people overlook, capture your senses.

"I really like you." Hearing those words again, this time not in the heat of the moment, did something different to you stomach, perhaps quickened your heart more than the entire act itself, burned your skin more than anything else.

Drawing him closer with your hand, you adjust his position so he lies on your chest, where he places a gentle kiss. Your fingers delve into his hair, and you cast a brief glance to the side where his glasses still rest. A smile graces your lips because the truth is, you are utterly and hopelessly in love with the genius Michael Gavey. The irony is that he doesn't seem genius enough to realize it.

[nightingale-prompts]

Talking to Batboy

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"Do you want to talk?" Dick asked sitting at the end of the bed.

Danny had been spared from the memories of that night but it had done nothing for his mental health. He was handling the loss of his wings well at least. Although losing a limb was still not a good feeling.

But that isn't the problem. None of this is the problem.

The problem was…

"Why me?" Danny asked tucking his legs to his chest.

"What?" Dick asked confused.

"What made me so special? Was it just my wings?" Danny narrowed his eyes.

"I...don't know. I just wanted-"

"That's not an answer! It was the wings, wasn't y You don't care about me! Of course, it was the wings!" Danny jumped off the bed and moved towards the door.

"Danny, is it so hard to believe that I wanted you because I cared?" Dick grabbed Danny's hand pulling him back.

"Yes! This city is full of poor unfortunate orphans. The only reason I was special was because of how I looked. But that's not real! That's not what I am." Danny shifted, and his real appearance began shifting across his body. "BUT YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE THE REAL ME!

Danny started to hyperventilate as he pulled back until he hit the wall. He slumped to the floor.

"I don't belong here. I should never have come here." Danny said to himself.

Dick keeled down and spoke gently.

"Your right you did stand out. I thought you were a lot like me. Optimistic and energetic despite the pain you were in. I didn't know what you were and I still don't understand. I wish you'd just tell me so I can understand. I want to help you."

Danny scoffed.

"You want to help me?" He laughed taking off his shirt and letting his glamour fall showing the scars he had.

The lightning scar that ripped through his arm and chest all the way to his eye. The burn marks and blast marks littered his body. The unmistakable dissection scar.

In that moment Dick knew that he hadn't seen himself in Danny. He had seen Jason. Sweet little Jason who has a light in the night. His little brother who he hadn't treasured enough until he was gone.

"Danny…you.." He was lost for words.

"You don't want me. Even my parents didn't want me. Honestly, you are all the same. You don't see me as what I am. Just a monster. Not human." Danny grumbled.

"That's not true Danny! Stop trying to put words in my mouth! I love you, is that so hard to believe?" Dick held Danny's shoulders as the teen pushed him back.

"Yes! Now get away!" Danny phased through Dick and flew away to escape. He couldn't handle this right now.

Wings or no wings he could still fly. That was comfort enough.

He flew as quickly as he could only to end up in Crime Alley again. As eerie as it was it gave him a place to collect his thoughts.

Unfortunately, he forgot it was home to the relevant Red Hood or Jason. His unwitting family member. That was no longer a secret especially when Jason recognized him as Phantom. At least he didn't tell everyone.

He didn't want them to know the truth. He didn't want to be an undead monster to them. He couldn't go through that again. He refused. He'd rather return to the realms before suffering that again.

When Jason came (probably sensing his presence) Danny felt overcome with emotions. He hugged Jason feeling a little less alone.

"Hey, Spooks. What are you doing out here?" Jason asked letting the boy hug him.

"I…picked a fight with Dick," Danny said embarrassed with how he acted…again.

"First time?" Jason laughed "Trust me as his kid you probably will do that plenty more times. I know I still do with my ol'man. But Dick isn't like Bats. He loves differently. Although they both care too much, Dick is good at communication. Just talk to him."

Jason seemed more jovial now. Less pained. Apparently, now that the Joker was dead and gone a weight was taken off him. That and the tainted ectoplasm being eaten by Danny.

"I don't think I can," Danny said, what he wanted to do was run away. He may have gotten too deep into this. Maybe returning was the best thing.

"Then you sure chose the worst possible guardian. He's gonna keep looking. He did not going to stop either. So sucking it up and facing him is the best possible route." Jason laughed as Danny sighed. "You can't keep running."

"I can try." Danny thought bitterly. He could just rip open a portal and disappear. No one would know.

"Red Hood. Danny." A third voice entered the conversation.

"Batman." Jason scowled.

"I was sent to look for Danny." He said simply. "He should be focused on healing."

"How'd you find me this fast?" Danny gripped rolling his eyes.

"I had a feeling. Come along, Danny. " Batman reached out to Danny.

Reluctantly Danny waved goodbye to Red Hood and took Bruce's hand.

Bruce didn't take Danny home immediately. Instead, they climbed one of the tallest buildings in Gotham. Danny stared up at the sky. The stars were blocked out by the light and smoke. He always hated that part of Gotham.

"Danny look down," Batman said urging Danny to sit with him.

Looking down the city shined. Each light is like a blazing star.

"Each light you see is a person. Despite how difficult life is here they still choose to live their lives." Batman said. "They don't know if they will be safe but they still strive for more."

"Do they really think that or do you just hope they do?" Danny barked clinically.

"Both. It wasn't always like this. The city used to be dead silent before I became Batman. Now they have the strength to fight back even in the night. That's why I do this. So Danny, why do you fight?"

Danny was never really asked this. He had a reason right? A good one.

"I wanted to protect my hometown." Yet he no longer needed to do that. He controlled the ghosts now. They lived a peaceful life now.

"Then we have something in common. I want to protect Gotham. But I'm not perfect. The world we live in is unpredictable with forces we don't understand. I thought if I understood something then I'd have no reason to fear. That suspension was leveled at you because I thought it would protect you and the world. However, I only made you afraid."Batman apologized. He wasn't very good at that but he was genuine.

"What if I'm a threat? What if I'm dangerous and hurt people? People you care about." Danny wanted to aim that barb at Bruce but it actually hit him. He was scared that one day he would become that other version of himself.

"Then I want to help you because I know you don't want to hurt people. Trust me there isn't a metahuman on earth that doesn't share your fear." Batman put a hand on Danny's shoulder.

It felt surprisingly warm against his cold skin.

"I want to talk to Nightwing. I think. I think I'm ready to talk." Danny was finally ready to tell him the truth. Even if it scared him to death.

[trulyumai]

to expect more from him

—pairing: Emperor Geta / Wife! Reader

—synopsis: you ask geta of his priorities and where his wife and unborn child rank in his world. are you truly surprised of the answer?

—warnings: geta being a dick, light angst.

—a/n: im back baaaaabyyyyy!!

The flicker of candlelight was the only illumination in the room, casting dancing shadows across the walls. You lay curled against Geta’s side, his arm wrapped around you, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns along your skin. It was a rare moment of peace, one that you had come to cherish amidst the chaos that always seemed to swirl around him.

His warmth enveloped you, the steady rhythm of his breath a comforting lullaby. There was a quietness between you, the kind that spoke volumes, and for a while, you allowed yourself to simply exist in it. This was the man you had once loved—before the weight of the crown, before the bloodshed and politics consumed him.

You closed your eyes, pressing your cheek into the firm expanse of his chest, feeling the quiet thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. You were at peace here. But a question had been gnawing at the edges of your mind all evening, and it wouldn’t let go.

“Geta,” you whispered softly, your voice breaking the silence. His fingers paused their gentle movements as he turned his attention to you, his hand resting on your back as he gazed down at you.

You took a slow, steadying breath. “If it came to it... would you choose me and the child over Rome?”

He froze. For a moment, the air between you thickened. The question hung in the space between you, heavier than anything either of you had ever dared to address. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flickered with surprise, and a quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest—a sound that was all too familiar, but now felt strangely hollow.

He let out a light, almost mocking laugh. “You think I would ever choose between you and Rome?” His voice was playful, but there was an edge to it, a condescension that was unmistakable. “I’ve built an empire, wife. I’ve fought, bled, and sacrificed for it. I can’t just walk away from it. From everything I’ve worked for.” His words were sharp, as though he were trying to convince not only you but himself as well.

You felt a chill settle in your chest. His laughter, meant to dismiss your question, stung more than you could have anticipated. You pulled back slightly, looking at him with a mixture of hurt and disbelief. “So, you would really choose Rome over your family?” Your voice trembled slightly, but you held his gaze, searching for any hint of the man you once knew.

The flicker of something darker passed over his face, but it quickly faded as he leaned back, a half-smile playing on his lips. “You know what Rome demands of me,” he said, his tone suddenly cold and detached. “You’ve always known.”

“Yes, I’ve known,” you said softly, a pang of sorrow twisting in your chest. “But I never thought you’d laugh at the idea of choosing your family. Us. Over it all.”

His gaze shifted, a sudden shift in his demeanor as he took a deep breath. “You think Rome will fall without me?” He laughed again, but this time there was something darker behind it. “It’s not that simple, sweetling. I’ve come too far to just turn my back on everything.”

You stared at him, your heart aching, the sense of loss settling deep inside you. He wasn’t the man you remembered. The man who had once promised you a future, the man who swore to protect you and your unborn child. Now, all you could see was the emperor, the mask of duty and power consuming him more and more with each passing day.

“That’s the problem,” you said quietly, your voice trembling now. “I don’t want to be a second thought to Rome. I don’t want to be your duty. I want to be your choice.” You paused, letting the weight of your words hang in the air. “But if you’re already making it clear that Rome will always come first, then maybe I should stop pretending that this is enough.”

For a moment, Geta didn’t respond. His expression had shifted—no longer playful, no longer cold—but instead filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Guilt, perhaps. Or confusion.

“I—” he began, his voice rough with emotion, but then stopped. His eyes softened, his earlier bravado faltering under the weight of your question.

“Do you think I don’t want to choose you?” he finally said, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable. “Do you think I don’t see what we could have? What we should have? I’ve sacrificed too much for Rome, for this throne… I don’t know if I could walk away from it.”

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed at his words. At least now, there was no more pretense. At least now, he was being honest with you.

But that honesty brought no comfort, no certainty. “Then we’re not the same,” you whispered, your heart breaking. “Because if it were me, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

A long silence passed before Geta shifted beside you, his expression conflicted. “I need time,” he said quietly. “Time to think. But I will not let anything happen to you. Or our child. Not ever.”

And in that moment, you weren’t sure what the future held. But you knew that tonight, your world had shifted. You would never again look at him in quite the same way. Neither of you were the people you had been when you first fell in love.

You could only hope that, in time, he would see the truth. That love, true love, was worth fighting for—just as much as power.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-nine: blind spot

word count: 4.4k(?)

warnings: this chapter contains mentions of drugs, weaponry, and other illegal activities. reader discretion is advised.

twenty eight | twenty nine | thirty

He kept telling himself he was doing the right thing.

Give her space. Let her breathe, for fuck’s sake. Don’t make this about you.

But it was a joke, really. Because no matter how many times he told himself to back off, Lando couldn’t stop wondering what she was doing, how she was feeling, whether she’d eaten something that could actually be considered food. Whether she’d eaten the bread still warm from the bakery or left it to go stale on the table. Whether she cried when she was alone. Whether she cried at all.

He told himself to grow up. This wasn’t some teenage crush. He had blood on his ledger, weight on his name. He ran half the city’s undercurrent from behind the veil, stitched the streets together with money and fear and brute control.

So he acted like it.

Thursday came bitter and sharp, all wind slicing through his coat as he ducked down an alley off La Rousse and into the backroom of an old tailor’s shop – a legitimate front. It was run by an elderly man named Niki who had been running the business since back in the early 1980’s, long before Monaco ever gained their nefarious Reaper. 

Lando just happened to be a loyal business partner of his – a humble young man who paid a generous amount in exchange for exclusive access to the basement of the old property. Niki had the added bonus of being a man who knew how to mind his own business.

Lando liked that in a partner.

The real business was three floors beneath—cold, concrete, and buzzing with quiet tension. His people were already gathered around the long steel table: Max Fewtrell leaning back in a chair, Logan with his arms folded, Carlos hunched over some schematics.

“News?” Lando asked, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it onto the rack behind him.

Carlos looked up, tapping the paper with his knuckles. “Got movement near Mile End. New shipment of knockoff tech—headsets, tablets, black market shit. I say we intercept and flip it.”

Lando nodded. “Do it quiet. No fireworks. I don’t want more noise than necessary this week.”

That’s when Verstappen stepped up to inform him that the warehouse on the docks had been hit. Two of Lando’s runners had gotten picked up and one of them was singing like a songbird. To make matters worse, their local books weren’t clean— for that matter, nothing was clean— but it meant that some fool had tried to skim off the gambling profits again. 

Lando stood at the edge of the table, leaning forward on his fists as he surveyed the projected losses and the photograph evidence. With the way his sleeves were rolled up and his fists were clenched, Logan had to approach him, cutting off his train of thought.

“Mate, you have to take a breath, you're going to kill someone and then paperwork becomes my problem.”

“...Mate?”

“Boss. I meant boss. It’s, uh, a different way of pronouncing it. Yeah! Uh, French. Very French.”

The glare Lando shot him was so potent and so familiar that Logan didn’t need a language to understand it.

Shut up, Spin.

Logan sighed.

Why is it always me?

By noon, his phone buzzed with a familiar unknown number. There was no contact name, but the area code was French, and Lando was smart enough to know who would be so bold as to call him again.

Gasly.

The French always were so full of themselves.

It’d been a while since he’d heard from him. The Frenchman wasn’t one to just call up without a reason. And Lando had a feeling this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat about old racing memories.

With a roll of his eyes, Lando finally answered the call, placing the call on speaker before leaning back in his chair. 

“Gasly,” Lando greeted succinctly, tone unreadable.

“Ah, now you pick up, huh? I have been trying to get your attention for some time now, Mr. Norris,” There was a slight chuckle, then a shift to seriousness. “Lando,” came the smooth, almost cocky voice on the other end. “You are busy?”

“Always,” Lando replied, his tone flat. “What do you need?”

“We should meet.”

He paused. The warehouse around him stilled.

“Where?”

“Neutral ground. Tomorrow night. Hmm, Le Voile d'Or? Not one of your places. Bring one of your own. Just one.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lando said, his voice low and cold. “But don’t think for a second I’m gonna let you walk all over me, Gasly.”

Gasly laughed, as if the challenge didn’t faze him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The line went dead before Lando could respond.

Bastard.

That night, Lando was back at the head of the intimate table setup in the meeting room, the dark mahogany reflecting the warm light of the ornate overhead chandelier. He folded his sleeves casually, rolling them to his elbows, his knuckles still raw but healing. Logan, Carlos, and Max Fewtrell sat with him, a fresh set of printed diagrams spread across the table—half club schematics, half distribution routes.

“He’s been running the street scene uptown with those modified imports and the fancy kid drivers,” Daniel added, leaning back. “Why would he want to fold into our operation now?”

“Because we’ve got infrastructure,” Lando said. “He’s got speed and no discipline. We’ve got routes, clean-ups, and an intel network he couldn’t build in a decade.”

Max tilted his head. “You thinking we bring him in for delivery work? Or enforcement?”

“Neither.” Lando’s jaw tightened. “We make him a runner. Use Gasly and his Garage to move product across districts fast. Street races’ll double as cover. We don’t touch the actual racin’—we let him handle that circus.”

Daniel let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty ambitious.”

“It’s efficient,” Lando muttered. “We’ve lost two outer routes in the last month. We need speed without, like, needin’ to rebuild everythin’ from scratch.”

Lando leaned forward, resting his forearms against the edge of the table, rings tapping a dull rhythm on the steel. “He said his crew is fast, low-profile, and looking for more work. But I think he wants protection—someone to watch his back if things go south.”

Carlos frowned. “Could be good.”

“Could be bait,” Logan muttered.

Lando considered both. In this life, everything came with a price. 

Trust, especially.

Still, he needed to keep moving. Staying still made him think too much—about her, about that night, about the blood on her hands and how small she’d looked on his bathroom floor, knees drawn to her chest, his name barely a whisper.

At least he could keep the rest of the world in order. That much, he could still control.

“He’s smart,” Max Fewtrell said, interrupting his thoughts, tracing a path from the docks through to the northern districts. “Gasly’s been running his racing ring lean. Tight crew. Fast drivers. They're ghosts, half’a the time.”

Carlos, leaning against the lockers, nodded in agreement. “They are a fast crew. Young. Aggressive, too. They know the roads better than most of our guys do. And the bikes they run with?” He let out a low whistle. “Custom-built, half of them. Perfect for the tight runs.”

“What, you trust ‘em?” Daniel half-laughed, skeptical.

“No,” Lando rolled his eyes, as if Daniel had asked some stupid, childish question. “But I don’t need to trust ‘em. I need him to know we could make each other very, very rich, ” he smiled smugly.

Logan looked up from the tablet. “Using his drivers as runners could cut our drop times in half…”

“And also draw heat,” Carlos pointed out. “They crash one car, we will lose the route and the product.”

Lando leaned back, eyes flicking over the blueprints again. 

Logan folded his arms. “ I dunno… could be useful. If we want to up our speed game, y’know.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Or it’s a setup. C’mon, I thought I was our car guy!”

Carlos only laughed.

Lando cracked his knuckles. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll hear him out. He wants to meet at a neutral place, suggested Le Voile d'Or. I want two exits, working comms, and I want eyes on the building an hour before Max n’ I even step foot in it. Logan and Oscar will go tonight and set up early. Got it?”

He could feel his heart rate pick up, the adrenaline that always came with making deals like this. But at the same time, he couldn’t escape the thought that kept gnawing at him—he wasn’t doing this to move forward anymore. He was doing it to outrun what was closing in behind him.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, the shadow of the city growing darker behind him. Everything he was doing now was just a distraction. A way to ignore the fact that, no matter how many deals he made or how many punches he threw, it was never enough. 

Lando gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time to think about that. Not now.

Gasly had his attention, and that was enough for tonight.

“Yuki!” Pierre barked, stepping over a tangle of brake lines. “The NSX is still sputtering in third—didn’t I tell you to fix that two days ago?”

Yuki, crouched under the hood with grease smudged across his cheek, didn’t flinch. “Yeah, you did. And I am, but maybe if Esteban didn’t screw with the ECU mapping behind my back—”

“That was an improvement,” Esteban waved off, leaning against the wall with a bottle of water and a smug tilt to his mouth. “Unlike your tuning, which sounds like a dying blender.”

Pierre groaned, pacing past the two. “If you two can go thirty fucking seconds without pissing on each other, maybe we would have a car ready before Lando and his crew show tomorrow.”

Tucked into a half-abandoned industrial lot on the outskirts of the city, the place didn’t look like much from the outside. But inside, rows of souped-up cars lined the walls, glittering under harsh fluorescent lights. Toolboxes clanged, beats thudded from an old speaker rigged in the corner, and the murmur of French, Japanese, and the occasional curse in English hung low in the air.

The scent of gasoline and burnt rubber hung heavy in the air, thick with adrenaline and sweat. Neon light spilled from under the cracked roll-up doors of Gasly’s Garage, casting eerie pinks and greens over the collection of customized engines and half-assembled machines inside. It looked like chaos, but every screw, wire, and rev was calculated—Pierre wouldn’t allow otherwise.

This was Gasly’s world. And tonight, he was not fucking around.

“We need to look tight,” Pierre said sharply, pacing between two low-slung Hondas with custom body kits and matte finishes. “Like… we belong in that league, same as him.”

Yuki, now crouched under the open hood of a deep purple Acura NSX, didn’t even look up. “We do belong in the same league. You just want to look prettier.”

“Prettier gets us in the room,” Pierre snapped. “The rest comes after.”

From the far side of the garage, a socket wrench clattered to the floor. Esteban straightened up, rubbing his grease-stained hands on an already filthy rag.

“I thought the whole point of us was not needing his approval,” he said, too loud on purpose. “But sure. Let us beg for Norris’s scraps. I’m sure he’ll be flattered.”

Pierre’s jaw flexed. “It’s not begging. It is business.”

Esteban gave him a look. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, mon frère.”

Yuki rolled his eyes, muttering something in Japanese that probably wasn’t flattering.

“Putain,” Pierre swore under his breath, rubbing the side of his face. “Where the fuck is Jack? Tell me the rookie isn’t late. Again.”

“He’s not late,” came Yuki’s voice, straightening up to take a step back from the hood and check his work. He was still admiring his handiwork when he plainly told Pierre, “You are just anxious.”

Pierre shot him a look. Yuki didn’t flinch, just wiped his hands on a rag and dropped the hood with a satisfying thunk, before coming to stand beside Pierre.

“I’m not anxious,” Pierre said, voice low but clipped. “I’m focused. There’s a difference.”

“You are pacing like my grandmother used to before Sunday Mass,” Yuki deadpanned.

“Your grandmother also used to smuggle hash through airport security in her rosary beads,” Esteban muttered from the side, leaned against a stack of tires with a lazy smirk. “Ah, I know! Maybe she should be running this crew instead.”

Pierre turned his head sharply. “Say that again, Ocon. I dare you.”

Esteban lifted both hands in mock surrender. “I am just saying. If Lando Norris is coming all the way down from his big castle to check us out, maybe he’s expecting more than… this shit.”

Pierre stepped toward him. Yuki, with the patience of someone who’d seen this a hundred times before, simply pulled out his vape and took a long drag.

“You think you could run this place better?” Pierre asked tightly, jaw set. “Sois mon putain d'invité.”

“Je ne veux pas de ton travail, mon pote. I just want to survive the night without you starting a pissing contest in front of a guy who could bankroll half the East District.”

“Guys,” Yuki interrupted. “Maybe focus up? If we screw this up, we lose our only shot at this.”

The hangar doors creaked open with a mechanical groan before Pierre could respond. Jack Doohan rolled in then, stepping out with a backpack slung over one shoulder, hair damp like he’d just showered in a gas station sink. His car was flashy, over-tuned, too much chrome.

“You’re late,” Pierre snapped.

“Sorry,” Jack offered with a crooked smile, dropping the bag with a thud. “Cops shut down the shortcut. Had to take the long way ‘round.”

Pierre just glared. 

Jack raised both hands. “Hey, I’m here now. What’d I miss?”

Yuki stood up, wiping car grease off his hands. “Everything important. But mostly Pierre yelling.”

Pierre shot him a warning look, cutting them off. “We’re here to make this look good. Lando Norris isn’t just some suit with a penchant for fast cars. He’s a calculated bastard. He’ll smell desperation from a mile away, so get your heads on straight.”

A beat of silence passed. The only sound was the low hum of the cars still cooling and the faint beat of music shifting to something darker.

At the back of the garage, Jack stood quietly, knuckles skinned from a rushed brake swap, eyes wide as he tried to absorb everything. This was his third week with Gasly’s crew, and it felt like a masterclass in organized madness. Pierre didn’t trust easily, but Jack had shown he wasn’t just another rich kid with a turbo’d Civic and something to prove. He listened. He learned. And most importantly, he earned his bruises.

“Oi,” Pierre called to him. “Check the tire pressure on the GTR. If we’re gonna show Lando we can move fast, we need to look like we live at 300 kph.”

Jack nodded immediately, wiping his hands on his jeans before jogging over to the corner.

The Garage was more than just their base—it was sacred ground. A Frankenstein’s lab of torque and tension. The walls were lined with old race trophies and Polaroids: half the people in them long gone, half still hanging on by blood, rivalry, or debt.

“You have got two hours,” he said instead. “We meet Lando and his guy at midnight sharp, comprendre?”

Esteban crossed his arms. “And what do we do when Lando starts asking questions we can’t answer? You think he is just going to just hand over his distribution lines because we brought him pretty toys?”

“No,” Pierre said. “I think he’ll listen if we show him we’ve got speed, discipline, and something he doesn’t. He knows this city better than anyone — but we know the streets. Every alley, every cop rotation, every crew too young or too desperate to turn legit. That’s what we offer.”

Jack looked around, cracking his knuckles. “You, uh, think they’ll bring Spin?”

Yuki raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think so. Lando doesn’t let anyone talk for him.”

“Except the Fewtrell boy,” Pierre muttered. “That’s his second, from what I hear.”

Esteban snorted. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Yuki closed the RX-7’s hood with a clang. “Why are we even trying so hard with this guy? You know he doesn’t play well with others.”

Pierre shot him a look. “Because Lando Norris doesn’t just run a syndicate—he is the syndicate. We get this deal, we stop bleeding cash on side bets and finally start –how they say– playing in the big leagues.”

“And if he says no?” Esteban asked, too casually.

“Then we make him say yes.” Pierre’s voice was calm, too calm.

Yuki exhaled, long and low. “You always say that before something explodes.”

“That’s because something always does,” Pierre grinned, flashing gold where his canine used to be. “Now get the hell to work. Tomorrow’s not just a meeting. It’s our audition.”

With that, Pierre was already walking toward his own car — a sleek silver Nissan GT-R with a cobalt blue underglow, hood up, engine gutted and humming as his crew fine-tuned every detail. He stood there for a moment, one hand resting on the roof.

This had to go right.

Because Gasly’s Garage wasn’t just a bunch of kids racing for pink slips anymore – not since the money started moving, not since the bets turned serious. Not since the first time someone crashed, and the body disappeared before sunrise.

They were in it now. And Lando Norris — the Reaper himself — was the next step.

So yeah, they’d play nice. 

For now.

But only because they planned to run this city one day.

And when they did?

They’d remember exactly who looked down on them.

The chosen meeting, an unconstructed club called Le Voile d'Or was nothing more than a skeleton — steel beams, concrete floors, and open air where the ceiling should’ve been. No neon signs, no thumping bassline. Just construction tape fluttering in the breeze and the sound of sawdust spreading about. Lando liked it that way. No distractions. No corners to hide in.

The meet was set for midnight.

He arrived at 11:43, naturally. Max was already pacing near the car, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“They’re not here yet,” Max muttered, eyes scanning the lot. “You sure this isn’t a trap?”

“It’s always a trap,” Lando said evenly, pulling off his gloves as he stepped onto the gravel. “S’why we lay ours first.”

Oscar was already in position. Rooftop a block out, four floors up, a clean sightline, silencer on. One text and he could stop a heartbeat mid-sentence.

Logan had swept the perimeter earlier — camera blind spots mapped, back exits sealed, with Daniel and Verstappen posted by the service stairs. With Carlos positioned near the front entrance, nothing got in or out without them knowing.

Still, Lando’s eyes never stopped moving. Even in this hollow, half-built ruin, he was all edges. Sharp jaw, sharper gaze. His coat moved like a shadow when he walked, his boots steady and deliberate. You could tell just by looking at him: he wasn’t here to negotiate unless he wanted to.

11:56.

The hum of tuned engines echoed off the walls before the headlights appeared — three cars, low and fast, cutting through the dark. One was black with a burnt-pink stripe. The other, a silver Nissan, purred like a threat.

Gasly stepped out first. He didn’t hurry – he didn’t have to. He had that swagger particular to people who knew they were dangerous in ways others hadn’t even figured out yet. Yuki emerged just behind him — shorter, tenser, but clearly not a sidekick. Not with the way he scanned the site like he was already calculating escape routes.

Pierre approached with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, giving the Brit a once over. “Is that a gun? Or you are just happy to see me?”

Lando raised a brow. “Only as happy as you are,” he shot back, pointing his gaze to the handgun tucked into the band of Pierre’s baggy jeans.

Pierre chuckled. “Ah, touché.”

Max stayed silent behind Lando, eyes locked on Yuki, who looked like he might pull a knife just for fun. He made a point to stretch, the lifting of his jacket enough to show off the gun tucked in his own pocket, even if he couldn’t spot one on Pierre’s second. Tension crackled beneath the false politeness — a quiet understanding that everyone here had killed someone, directly or not.

Still, they went through the motions.

“Gasly,” Lando greeted.

“Norris.”

They shook hands — cool, quick, firm. No warmth.

“I hear you’re looking to expand,” Pierre said, tone smooth. “And I hear you’ve had trouble keeping up with demand lately.”

Lando didn’t react. “You offering t’help or just here to gloat?”

Pierre smiled. “Help, of course. I’ve got roads you don’t. Drivers you haven’t met. Eyes in places your boys would never pass unnoticed. You’re good at staying clean. I’m better at staying untraceable.”

Max Fewtrell looked over at Lando, unimpressed. Lando reflected that same look back to Gasly.

“Did you call me here just to make y’self feel nice, or do you actually have something f’me?

Gasly chuckled. “I have been thinking. You know how we used to roll together, back in the day? The racing, the high stakes? I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Lando unbuttoned the front of his suit, leaning against a makeshift table as he stared up at the Frenchman with a look that told to get on with it quickly. Lando Norris didn’t take kindly to have his time wasted, especially by posh wannabes looking to be somebodys.

“Go on.”

“I’ve got a network, a big one – street racers, quiter routes, plenty of guys who know not to play by the rules.” He glanced over at Yuki, who nodded, before he continued with his pitch. “We’ve got the runners, the cars, the cash flow, but we’re looking for someone who can push things, make it worth the risk. And you… well, you’ve got a reputation.”

Pierre had slowly been making his way closer to where the two Reaper boys were standing, and it was making Max antsy. Gasly saw Max’s hand twitch for his handgun and laughed, waving him off. “We are old friends here, non? No need for such things.” 

Within moments, Lando’s mind clicked over the options. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d been looking for: leverage, power, control. A street racing ring under his influence meant more money, more influence, more control of the territories he was still trying to solidify. Gasly could help him gain an edge over rival crews who were too weak to understand how to play the long game.

“I’m… listening,” Lando muttered carefully.

“There’s potential in this for both of us, Lando. We can talk the bigger numbers when you agree. But you and I, we’ve always worked well together. Let us make something bigger than just a few races, hmm? Let us make it profitable for both of us.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. He could hear the pitch—Gasly was selling the idea of partnership, but he was also a businessman. If Lando played his cards right, this could open doors for all sorts of opportunities. But he had to be careful. Gasly was clever, slippery. And Lando wasn’t sure he trusted the guy enough to dive in without a second thought.

“And in return? Somehow I get the feelin’ you’re not doin’ this out of the goodness of you heart,” Max asked.

“Product. Routes. A seat at the table. Not the whole table — I know who I’m talking to.” Pierre tilted his head, smiling. He took a step closer, his voice lowering. “But… perhaps a slice.”

Yuki stepped forward, holding out a tablet with a map — color-coded, clean, and too detailed for Lando’s liking. Lando didn’t touch it. He simply nodded for Max to take it.

“I’ll have someone vet it,” he said.

“Of course,” Pierre replied. “And if you don’t like what you see?”

Lando met his gaze. “I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

The air held its breath for a moment.

Then Pierre smiled again. “I always like a man who’s polite when he threatens me.”

“Oh no, I’m not threatening,” Lando said, his smile sickly sweet. “Yet.”

Pierre laughed. Yuki didn’t, his eyes flitting between the two Brit’s momentarily.

One mistake, and it could all fall apart.

They talked numbers next — shipments, timing, how many people were on Pierre’s crew, what kind of muscle they had, whether they had clean fronts or needed cover. Pierre answered everything easily, like he’d been rehearsing for this moment.

Lando noticed it,  clocked it, but didn’t call it out.

Pierre’s boys had made their pitch, and Lando—cool, unreadable, two steps ahead as always—had picked it apart and rebuilt it in his favor. On paper, they’d be allies. In reality, Gasly’s Garage would be working under him without realizing it. Lando had danced circles around sharper men. Pierre might’ve been slick, but Lando was surgical.

He slid his hands into his coat pockets, posture relaxed. Beside him, Max gave the faintest nod, as if to say we’ve got this. Across the concrete skeleton of the unfinished club, Pierre was still talking—something about logistics, runners, trust but Lando had mostly stopped listening by then.

They’d already won. His work here was done.

But he let Pierre talk anyway, because letting a man believe he’s in control is often the final stroke in tightening the noose.

By the time they finished, the night had shifted — the air less hostile, the power still clear but… tentative. Like everyone had shown their cards, but kept a few aces tucked into their sleeves.

Yuki appeared more closed off, standing more like a protective Doberman by Pierre’s side, while it was Pierre who approached so he and Lando could shake on it..

“Looking forward to working with you, Lando.”

“We’ll see,” Lando said. His designer shoe clacked against the concrete underneath as he too took a step closer, and then—

“Lando—”

Two clicks sounded before Oscar’s voice crackled to life in his ear – urgent and out of breath.

Why was he out of breath?

Lando barely had enough time to wonder when Max looked at him with a matching expression of realization.

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

a/n: yippee! a new chapter, and some new (familiar) faces! what do we think?

[azullumi]

"cause love's such an old-fashioned word" ; scaramouche

premise — scaramouche was everything but an honest man; he has unusual ways of showing that he cares, cloaking it with the melody of his language that seemingly contradicts his actions, hinging on the absence of a beating heart in his chest.

content tags and warnings — pairing: fatui harbinger!scaramouche (w/ gender-neutral reader) | more than friends but less than lovers idk, mentions of blood and wounds, fluff, reader is part of the fatui, small banter, secret pining somewhat, not proofread | wc: 2.1k ; one-shot

a/n — this was a draft from nearly two years ago … so the writing style is different

Little drops of blood gushed down your skin, the fabric of your clothes tainted with a crimson hue. You were weak and limping, your hand clutching the side of your stomach, as you entered the clinic—silent and seemingly lonely as there was no nurse or doctor to tend to your wounds. You didn’t bother thinking as to why, only focusing on your predicament at the moment.

You pull out a chair with your other hand to the table which had the shelving unit of all the things you needed: medicine and bandages. You took out some disinfectant and enough roll of bandage as you sat down to finally treat yourself.

Carefully taking off some of the articles of your clothing, even the fabric that was wrapped around your leg, leaving you in your pants, boots, and undershirt, you grimaced at the sight of your own wounds. Ranging from several small cuts to a few ones that will surely leave a scar, adding more to the collection on your skin; quite a miracle that you haven’t passed out from blood loss or completely died due to it.

You know someone who wouldn’t be too happy, however—albeit he was never happy, at least as it seems—if they see your state at the moment. And as if right on the cue the door of the clinic bursts open.

A man, hostility seething from his demeanor, which you could completely feel as tension started to make its way to the corners of the room and there was a weight in the atmosphere. You didn’t have to look to know who it was as you could just tell from the footsteps, harsh stompings of soles against pavement, and the light chimes of ornaments that accompanied it.

The news of your return must have reached him quite quickly, you thought. A figure shadows over your own and a voice coming from above you was heard, “I told you not to go and yet you still did.”

You sigh, “Lay off my back, will you?”

“Are you stupid? Do you even use your head or is it all for display?” Oh, he was angry. It was evident in his tone when he spoke, his expression contorted into one of visible frustration but deep beneath the cracks of his features lies something distinct, a line of light that breaks the shadows of his face. Scaramouche was fluent with his own language: harsh words that seemingly bites you to disguise his worry. “What if something worse happened to you? The least you could have done with your idiotic brain, if not disobey my orders, was to take someone with you.”

You failed to notice the falter in his tone when he uttered his question, only looking up to him for a moment and asked, “What are you even here for?” then ultimately focused back on your bloody problem, lifting your injured leg to rest your ankle on the chair that was placed conveniently near you. You could imagine the roll of his eyes at your question, opting not to answer but to disappear from your presence for a moment before you heard the sound of wooden legs of another chair being dragged against the floor. It stopped right in front where you sat and Scaramouche settled on it.

“Give me your leg.” There was a shift in his demeanor as he spoke and you divert your attention away from your leg to look at him, the movement of your hand applying pressure on your wound came to a halt. The anger that was in his tone had disappeared and to be replaced by a placid one—perhaps he had given up on any plans of scolding you, knowing that his words won’t heal your wounds. Although, there were still traces of frustration seen on his features but it was faint, too faint, as he dons a mask of what was akin to calmness, vaguely tainted with worry.

“What?” You cock an eyebrow at him and the man huffs in annoyance, then pats his thigh as an answer which only earned a firm ‘no’ from you.

It was his turn to raise his eyebrow at you. “What do you mean no?”

“Just leave me be.” Your tone betrayed the words that you spoke.

“Wow, am I hearing this right? I’m doing you some kindness and you’re telling me to leave.”

“I can do this on my own.”

He scoffs, “Yeah, said by the one who is on the brink of death right now. Stop being stubborn and give me your leg.”

“You’re exaggerating. I’m fine.” You weren’t on the brink of death, not totally. Okay, maybe it feels like several parts of your body are going numb, maybe you could feel the blood dry up on your skin, maybe you’re just so exhausted and all you want to do is to lay down and close your eyes, but you weren’t on the brink of death. Maybe.

For the first time ever since the moment he entered the room, there was silence. You thought that he was finally going to leave you alone but no, no, no, definitely not. Scaramouche didn’t budge, he didn’t move from where he sat; he held his gaze at you, unwavering—he was waiting, waiting, and waiting. It was a silent war and you were fighting a losing battle.

You groaned and lifted your leg, letting your ankle rest on top of his thigh, giving him a clear view of the small yet nasty stab wound that you got from when your opponent caught you off guard. From here, he could finally see the several other cuts and bruises that embellished the other parts of your skin. He took the cloth from your hand (and the warmth from his fingers that brushed against yours lingered for a few moments) and began to apply pressure on your wound with it.

“You’re quite bothersome.” His voice, low, ruptures the silence that started to nurture itself in the walls of the clinic. Despite what he’s saying, he never removed his hand from your leg. He even cleaned your wounds—reaching for a bottle of disinfectant, pouring enough of it over the cloth to drench it, and gently dabbing the fabric on the area. Scaramouche thinks you’re a piece of work, a burden, yet he’s here with you, continuing to bear your weight on his hands.

“And I don’t get you sometimes.” You mumble your reply and he didn’t show any indication of having heard you. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t react, he just moved to bandage your wound before he began treating the other unattended ones. You watched him as he took your injured hand (you thought he was going to hold it and the way your heart fluttered at the notion made you hold your breath for a second) and treated the scrape wounds that were found on it. All the while, he was silent, seemingly focused on his task.

You just don’t get him sometimes, and you say the word ‘sometimes’ as if there were occasions that you did understand him—and as if you were meant to understand anything anyways. Scaramouche was everything but an honest man. He was a complex puzzle himself, his existence composed of mismatched pieces that seem to fit together; he was a walking disaster, a hypocrite, and a set of complicated scriptures that cannot be deciphered.

Scaramouche, whose middle name was contradiction (a puppet who tries to be human), pushes everyone away yet grabs your wrist when you try to leave, tells you that you’re infuriating and annoying but lets you linger in his presence, has an obvious dislike towards everyone but seems to leave you as an exception. He has an unconventional way of showing that he cares, lying on the boundary between the feeling of unorthodoxly and a show of conformity—oftentimes, the line blurs into one. A jarring harmony of a familiar yet distant song.

And with all your thoughts formed and meshed into a single image, you’re left thinking that he’s unfair.

Everything around you was pristine white—the soft kiss of snowflakes falling to the ground below you and the trees, adorned in their winter attire, cradling the weight of snow on its branches. It was a sight that you are all too acquainted with; the land of Snezhnaya was covered by an eternal blanket of white, the region constantly tormented by blizzards.

It was cold, very much so. It was evident from the shiver that ran along your skin and how you could see your breath. You regret not putting on more layers of clothing—archons, if you weren’t going to wear your coat, you could have at least worn your gloves. You were reprimanding yourself inside your mind, scolding yourself for being careless and stupid for thinking that you’re already used to the weather. You couldn’t even find the time to admire the flakes of snow that descends from the sky, which is what you came out for.

“Feeling cold?” A voice, seemingly laughing at your predicament, erupts through the silence with a tone that seems to mock you.

Scaramouche stands not far away from you, looking completely unbothered nor unaffected. He dons a familiar expression on his face, apathetic and uncaring—there was nothing else different from him, save the white coat that he only wears when he is called to one of those meetings. You remember his remark on how the addition of such clothing is stupid and unnecessary when the only thing he’s going to do there is either stand, sit, roll his eyes, and make an infuriating comment.

“Perhaps you should have brought your coat,” the harbinger doesn’t dance on pity that was as faux as the fur that decorates the shoulders of his own, “you know how cold this place can be.”

You groan, “Shut up.”

A breeze kisses your skin, sending a cold chill all over your body. Scaramouche doesn’t fail to notice this, although you don’t see how his eyes furrowed at the sight of you shivering.

Having a pyro vision would be so nice right now, the thought of being able to kindle such warmth to soothe yourself from this freezing cold would be so convenient. A wave of jealousy crashes over you, the tide of your envy growing stronger the more you think about it. Maybe it would be better to just return and not stay outside any longer; snow wasn’t a rare thing in Snezhnaya, you could just admire them another time when you’re layered and covered in comfort and warmth.

It is not until you feel something weighing heavily on your shoulders and the entirety of your back that the thought is erased from your mind, replaced by something warm instead. The warmth of it eases into your bones, seeping and embracing, unable to control the sigh of relief that escapes your lips.

“Don’t get the wrong idea.” Scaramouche says, stripped off his coat now that you wear it.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

You don’t speak anymore, swallowing the words that threaten to emerge out of your throat, afraid that he’ll change his mind and just decide to let you freeze here. Although the silence that settles, like snow beneath your feet, doesn't last long as you’re consumed by the monster of your curiosity.

“Were you looking for me?” Why else would he be here with you right now? You didn’t know him as the type of person to just go out and bask in the glory the landscapes and climates of Snezhnaya has to offer.

“You weren’t in your office supposedly doing your own work.” Scaramouche says in a matter-of-fact tone. He’s talking as if your office wasn’t actually his, as if the work you were supposed to do wasn’t his papers left unfinished on his desk, as if he’s telling you that everything he owns is yours to have.

You don’t answer, and something lies, seemingly dormant, in the air that embraces you and you find yourself waiting for something to happen. But nothing does.

So you still, admiring the delicate dance of snowflakes and the endless white that consumes the entirety of your vision, tainted with the hues of purple and red of the man that stands beside you. It reminds you of dusk; he always reminds you of the sun as it drowns in the horizon, painting warm colors on its endless canvas of this cold place.

You think fate is some kind of sadist who loves watching you suffer as you mull over such thoughts, but it’s not fate. It's sadism that makes you hold onto him despite everything, it’s you and that stupid feeling that makes its way to your chest whenever he’s close to you like this; it’s you and that word you wouldn’t even dare think of, much less say.

dududududuun @felibrary its been so long since i’ve done this oh my god i hope i dont accidentally confess my undying love (platonic) to you. anyways, i don’t know how many times i have to thank you for being such an amazing, silly, beautiful, sweet, loving friend who will match my freak (which is the typos and the stupid things we do). but hey, i hope you know that i will always be with you (scary or loving, whatever) and you will never get rid of me girl NEVERR you know too much of me already !! i think we know too much of each other but i don’t think it’s enough because we have a lot of time ahead of us, and there are still things we are bound to discover of ourselves, and it’s comforting to know that i’ll get to spend those with you. and yeah, life doesn’t seem too bad now that we have each other. ilysmmmm <33

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[slttygeto]

♡ ̆̈ loml ; loss of my life — Hanma Shuji

♡ ̆̈ content warning: heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, i honestly don't want to say more. discover for yourself.

♡ ̆̈ word count: 2.3k

♡ ̆̈ inspiration songs: loml by taylor swift, ghostin by ariana grande.

Was it normal to feel like a burden at all times? A second choice to someone whom you hold very dearly to your heart? 

It wasn't that you didn't know your worth, it was the fact that you didn't feel like a priority anymore. But people change, and life happens and major events are bound to change the way someone behaves. 

But it hurts really badly.

You're not too sure when you started to notice it --- the distance, the quiet hums in lieu of an enthusiastic nod accompanied with a loud laugh, a cold hand to your shoulder that never lingered anymore. You could lie to yourself and say that Hanma wasn't a tactile person, that his love language was anything but physical touch but you would be worsening the pain you were experiencing from his shift in behavior. 

And it wasn't like he said anything to you---no, you would prefer if he did. It was his silence that felt like a heavy weight on your chest, pulling you down to the deepest and darkest parts of an ocean you knew you would drown in. You fight  back tears as you stand in the quiet bathroom, the sound of your breathing echoing in the large space your husband had once designed specifically for you. The excitement shining on his face when you had mentioned moving in together as boyfriend and girlfriend felt like a breath of fresh air, and a shy giggle escaped your lips as he scooped you into his arms and whispered in your ear about how living with you might just be the highlight of his life.

Yet here you were, grasping the wedding ring delicately wrapped around your finger while you choke back sobs at how mean your husband has been lately.

"I'm going in the shower," you announce to the man from the door, peeking your head around the corner to see him approaching the bathroom.

"Good." He gives a curt nod but his eyes never meet yours---they're too busy focused on that damn phone, that same device that had been driving you crazy. 

He claimed that he was always busy, shrugging his shoulders at your questioning look when you pointed out the twelve missed calls he claims he hadn't seen. But you know him---probably better than he does, and you are certain that he had been blatantly ignoring you. 

Your heart shatters quietly in your chest, but you hold back tears as you choke out the next sentence. "Not gonna join me?"

Like you always do?

"Nah, I'm good." He pushes past you to wash his hands, tucking his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants before retreating out of the bathroom the moment you started to undress. 

Was it normal for married couples to go through a phase like this? 

Even if you wanted to get answers, nothing about your relationship with the criminal was normal---not the way the two of you met, or how quick you decided to move towards marriage. You couldn't explain your situation to anyone, not even your closest friends in Toman. Not only would it piss off Hanma that you were going around and whining about relationship problems to others instead of him, but you felt too pathetic to utter the words out loud.

I think my husband fell out of love with me. 

That night, like many others, Hanma sleeps with his back facing you. And like every time, you turn to face him in hopes that he could feel your eyes staring at the back of his head. 

You don't dare to touch him, but it had been a habit for your hands to be all over him---caressing his stomach, whining about the tough muscle in his arms, melting against the warmth of his neck and chest---it was yanked out of your grasp so abruptly, heartlessly, leaving you stranded in a place you thought would be your forever after with the tall criminal. 

But old habits die hard, it is the only explanation for what you do next, letting your fingers grasp the hem of his shirt. It feels warm on his body, and the material is a little worn out but you know Shuji doesn't mind. You squeeze the fabric in your hand, your bottom lip wobbling as you start to sniffle.

"I'm sorry," you choke out quietly, praying it doesn't wake him up. "For whatever I did, I'm sorry. Please. I don't like how you're so cold to me." Your stuttered breaths force you to sit up in bed, slowly slipping out of the bed so you could cry on the balcony without waking up your husband. 

It takes you a couple of minutes to calm down, the cold of the night numbing your skin and therefore your heart. You hug your knees to your chest on the patio chair, wiping the remnants of your tears with the paw of your sweater. 

A loud knock makes you jolt, you whip your head to the glass door where you find a grumpy Hanma with a confused look on his face. "What are you doing?" He mouths from behind the door and you shake your head as you gather yourself. You slide the door open, keeping your gaze down as your feet drag you towards the bed. "Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," is all he gives as a reply, his back facing you. You notice that he stands there for a while, unmoving and staring at the spot where you had been sitting. It takes him a couple more seconds to move, walking to the bathroom to do his business. 

Ironically, that had been the longest he had acknowledged your presence in weeks. But your heart takes it and makes a blanket of it, shielding itself from the storm you had been enduring for so long. Soon enough, your eyelids start to feel heavy and sleep washes over your senses shortly after. 

--

You've only seen Hanma wear a special suit once. 

Despite the fact that his job was rather messy, it required him to look presentable at all times. However, he gagged at the idea of wearing that kind of attire to his wedding. It was insane even for a man like Hanma. 

"This feels like a shotgun wedding," Kisaki mutters to the tall man who grins at his reflection in the mirror. "I never thought you'd be the type to have a small wedding."

"You mean, you never thought I was the type to get married."

Kisaki makes a face at the thought, realizing that his right hand was indeed about to settle down. And with a girl he fell in love with during his reckless teenage years. "That too."

Hanma straightens up after fixing his tie, hair brush fixing a few strands before turning to look at his boss. "So, how do I look?" 

"Presentable for once. Now let's go."

And true to Kisaki's words, the wedding was indeed small. A short, intimate ceremony with a couple of people who had been present in your and Hanma's lives up until this point---the venue wasn't that large, but it was impressive enough for you to feel nervous as you walk down the aisle, grasping your older brother's arm.

"Out of everyone," Ran mutters under his breath and you roll your eyes, nails digging in his forearm. "You chose him."

"Shut up." You say through gritted teeth, but it was nothing serious. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see that Ran's eyes were glossy and he refused to look at your face. His body was stiff, and his chest was puffed out as he swallowed thickly. Those were all tell-tales that he was on the verge of breaking into tears, and it makes your heart swell. 

That night, Hanma kissed you deeply in front of everyone. He held you in his arms like a fragile being, beaming at the wedding ring adorning your finger before bringing his lips to your knuckles. You teased him about how good he looked in the suit, and he replied, 

"I can't wait for you to take it off of me."

"Maybe I won't," your fingers wrap around the end of the tie, grinning at him. "You look pretty handsome in it."

"Oh, so the suit stays on?"

"Mhm," you shift on his lap, wrapping both arms around his neck as you whisper in his ear. "And we can use the tie for something else."

After that night, he took the suit to the washers and hid it deep in his closet once he retrieved it. 

Then life was great for a while after that---three years of bliss in a marriage you never expected to happen given the long separation the two of you had endured. You wished you had appreciated the small moments better, but you knew they were tucked in a memory box in the back of your head. It was only a matter of when you could retrieve it. 

So why was he wearing that special suit again? And why did he look so...peaceful? 

He had been excited on your wedding night, he was full of life as he dragged you to the dance floor so you two could warm up. But was it all a show? A façcade to convince people that marrying you was what he wanted, especially after chasing you for many years, a web of lies you found yourself tangled in because he couldn't be honest with you? 

That suit was supposed to be special, it represented the day he swore loyalty to you and you did the same---it felt disrespectful that he would dare wear it again, with rosy cheeks and hair combed in a way he would never choose for himself. 

And he was supposed to be standing tall, smirking proudly at the fact that he easily towers over everyone. He would then shake his hands once then twice, feigning confidence as he fixed his posture. 

Not so relaxed and moving.

Then, he would run a hand through his hair like he hadn't spent minutes fixing it with his comb.

Instead, he doesn't attempt to touch it, and you figure it's because he hates the gel that's keeping it down. 

His grin would look boy-ish, but along with his chiseled jaw, he would look the right amount of manly. Just about enough for the woman standing at the end of the aisle to be swooned. 

Yet the smile adorning his lips was doing anything but---and you push yourself, forcing your body to approach him as you try to make sense of the situation. 

"Someone did your hair," your voice shatters the stillness in the room, and you choose to ignore the other people standing there watching you. Hanma doesn't say anything in return, and you shake your head as though he had given a reply. "No, no it looks---it looks good. Just not something I've seen before."

Hanma remains silent, unmoving, and you brace yourself to keep the conversation going. "Your cheeks---I've only seen them this red when you're sick--are you sure you're not?" 

And when nothing comes, you shake your head. "I just wanted to know."

But the longer the silence stretched, the thinner your patience was running. Your hand grips the wooden box for support, and your chest puffs out as you hold in sobs. "That suit was fucking special, Shuji." And you had promised yourself, him, that you would never cry if it came to this---but the reality was harsher than expected. "That fucking suit--was the one you wore on our wedding! How fucking dare you wear it again!"

"Hey," Chifuyu's hand rests on your shoulder, but you swat him away.

"You can't---you can't be serious, you can't just lay here and say nothing!" You point to the people behind you, Toman executives you had both known while growing up. "You're going to let them see you like this?! You're gonna let them watch you sleep?!"

And you wait for it---for his loud retort, a dry chuckle, a low voice calling for your name and telling you to cut it out. But it never comes, and all you're met with is his innocent, peaceful smile.

"You can't fall asleep here---you can't do that Shuji," your hands scramble to grasp for the white material wrapped around the lower part of his body, but you pull it up higher, as though afraid that he might get colder. "It's not like you---" 

Tears finally start to spill like a faucet, you use the hem of your blazer to wipe them down as your other hand keeps tucking him in. "You can't leave me like this."

"You did this to me, Shuji." Your sobs are gut wrenching as you lean over the casket, your tears wetting the material of his suit. "You gave me everything---you can't take it away." 

Your brother approaches you from behind, hands resting on your shoulders as he attempts to pull you away. "It's time."

"I'll never forgive you. Ever. You fucking coward!" Your fist collides with the casket, and you lean closer to his face. "You could've told me! We could've run away--you could've...you could've been saved, Shuji. I would've done anything to save you." 

But as you watch them approach the casket to finally close it, you realize that the last thing Hanma would ever hear was that you'd never forgive him. You push yourself out of Ran's grasp, and no one tries to push you away as you lean down and press a kiss to his cold, chapped lips. 

He doesn't pull you in, nor does he try to kiss you back and your lips tremble as your thumb traces his cheek. 

"I love you. Even if you don't say it back, I love you so much." 

Then your lips meet his for the last time.

[beegomess]

You Haven’t Seen My Man || Kendall Roy

Summary: Being Kendall Roy's wife involves giving up some things. However, working with you involves understanding that sometimes you may end up drawing more attention than he would like. But this is not really a problem for someone who loves to prove to be powerful all the time. Warnings: Cute, spicy with hints of implicit control - Word count: 8.3k

You were married now, but the story that united you was far from conventional or romantic. His brother and Kendall met in a rehabilitation clinic, sharing not only the fight against addiction, but also the weight of being heirs always pressured to prove their worth. The friendship between them was natural, and you, as a frequent visitor, became part of that bond. At the time, she hid that she worked as a legal advisor at Waystar, aware that the connection with the Roys could complicate things.

When both were discharged, you organized a celebration. It was that night that you and Kendall began to get closer. What seemed like an unpretentious friendship evolved into something more. You have become colleagues, friends and, finally, boyfriends. They were difficult years, marked by relapses of both and by Kendall's constant effort to get back up. Despite this, you remained together, supporting each other.

But the night Kendall asked you to marry him brought a devastating turn. You left dinner overflowing with joy to tell your brother the news, but you found him unconscious in your apartment. The overdose was fatal. What should be a new beginning also became the end of an important part of his life.

The devastating loss increased the pressure of your father, who wanted you to take on the role of CEO of the family business, something you always avoided. He also showed support for his marriage to Kendall, but his real intentions involved uniting families to strengthen his power, which filled her with revolt. Since then, you have kept your distance from your family, although his pressure has never ceased.

Kendall remained by your side, putting her own pain aside to help you get through the grief. Although the loss has never been completely overcome, it has become more bearable in the company of someone who understood the weight of carrying difficult memories.

When they got married, the lives of both fit in a surprisingly quiet way, considering the chaos that surrounded them. You chose to stay out of the power dispute at Waystar, which helped maintain the balance between work and marriage. Still, working under the same roof, with Kendall technically as his boss, brought challenges. Some tensions inevitably overflowed to domestic life, but you learned how to deal with it.

That morning was a perfect example of the controlled chaos that you and Kendall had learned to master. Since Logan's death, Waystar had become an arena of constantly burning egos, with Kendall, Shiv and Roman competing to make decisions while sewing the deal with Lukas Matsson. For you, the frenetic pace was nothing new. But that day, it seemed that everything was amplified.

Kendall had left early, leaving you with some precious minutes in bed that, although comforting, ended up devoured by the avalanche of messages and notifications on her cell phone. When he arrived at the office, he was already one step behind, and this did not go unnoticed. He didn't even have time to spend in Roman's room, where he and Lukas were gathered. Not that you wanted to get more involved than necessary - your role there was more strategic, and you knew exactly when to withdraw and when to act.

While packing the pile of papers I would need to discuss with Kendall, the phone on his desk vibrated. It was a message from him with a typical urgency. You sighed, already gathering what you needed, while answering a call from an external lawyer who seemed unable to understand something simple.

The heels of your shoes hit rhythmically against the carpet as you crossed the corridor. The sound echoed in the open spaces of the floor, a clear sign of his haste. In that environment, everyone seemed to be always watching each other, like animals in a corporate zoo.

When passing through Roman's room, he noticed Lukas gesturing at a glance, but did not pay attention. It was no news that he was there. Inside, Lukas interrupted the sentence itself when you passed, his eyes fixed on you long enough for Roman to notice.

- When I buy all this shit, will I have assistants like her? - Lukas shot, a cheeky smile curling his lips as his gaze lingered in the direction where you had just disappeared. The malicious insinuation was clear in every word.

Roman swallowed dryly, the discomfort evident in his expression. I knew Lukas well enough to know that giving any information would only increase his interest. But I couldn't just ignore it either. He needed to stop talking.

- Man, trust me, you wouldn't handle her. - Roman said, launching his typical mixture of humor and sarcasm. - She sees beyond the walls. You probably already know what you think before you open your mouth. It's fucking scary.

Lukas let out a short laugh, but Roman's comment didn't totally disarm him. His thoughts were still stuck in the image of you crossing the office, his hips moving with a grace that seemed almost calculated.

He knew he shouldn't be distracted, not at that moment, but something in you bothered him. It wasn't just the appearance - it was the aura of control, of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

As Lukas turned his attention to the meeting, the malicious smile did not completely disappear. Maybe it was an exaggeration, maybe he was just bored. Or maybe there was something in you that challenged you, without you even knowing it.

You, on the other hand, were completely oblivious to any look that could be cast in your direction. Your mind was too busy with professional issues, and on the personal side, Kendall, although consumed by the obsession with being a CEO, found ways to devote to you all the attention she needed - and sometimes even a little more. He knew how to balance the two worlds when necessary, a trait that you secretly admired in him.

That same day, something not so unusual was about to happen. At work, you always maintained an impeccable posture. Seriousness and professionalism were practically their business cards. You knew the dangers of giving room to gossip or distractions in the corporate environment. But no matter how much I tried to keep things strictly professional, sometimes it was impossible to ignore the magnetic tension between the two of you. He had a unique talent for making you lower your guard, especially when Waystar's building was almost empty.

The day was exhausting and long, a whirlwind of words and numbers that seemed to dance in front of you from the moment you passed by Waystar's concierge. Now, with the floor almost empty and the sky outside dipped in darkness, you and Kendall were sitting side by side on the couch in your living room, trying to decipher the last barrier of a problematic contract.

Kendall's suit had already been abandoned hours ago, and the sleeves of his dress shirt were folded up to the forearms. He was more comfortable. You had also abandoned any formality: the heels were dropped near the sofa, the blazer had disappeared at some point in the day, and you now settled with your legs bent under you, in an almost intimate position, reflecting the tiredness and comfort you felt next to him.

The silence in the room was broken only by the sound of fingers occasionally typing on the notebook keyboard and exhausted sighs. It was Kendall who broke the cycle, rubbing her face with her hands and leaning back on the couch with a heavy sigh, the frustration evident.

You observed the movement, the way he seemed more vulnerable at that moment, and made the decision to end the torture that you yourselves were imposing. With a decisive gesture, you closed the two notebooks in front of you and organized the papers in an improvised pile.

- I think we've done enough for today. - His voice was low, but he had a quiet determination that he didn't dispute.

When you leaned over to reach the table, your skirt went up a few centimeters more, exposing parts of your skin. Despite the evident tiredness, Kendall's gaze automatically slid to you, a spark of interest lighting up in your eyes. He didn't say anything, but the smile that began to play on his lips delivered him.

You leaned back on the couch again, but this time, instinctively, closer to him. His hand went up to the back of Kendall's neck, his fingers tracing small circles on the tense skin, an affectionate and intimate gesture that always made him relax.

- Do we really have to go to his country house this week? - You asked, your voice low and almost resigned, as if you expected him to change something. - Can't Matsson be normal and just do a video conference?

Kendall opened her eyes, turning her face slightly in your direction.

- Do you need a vacation? Because that would be a bad moment. - The provocation came with a tired but sincere smile.

- Well, you couldn't stop me anyway. - You answered in the same tone, a playful smile illuminating your face.

Kendall tilted her head, the expression slightly challenging as she rested her hands on her legs, gently pulling them to be on top of his.

- You know I'm still your boss, don't you? - His provocation was accompanied by a light touch on his knees, his fingers slowly rising up the curve of his thighs, like someone testing the limits.

- Nothing like a good judicial process to put things in perspective. - You replied with a defiant smile.

He let out a low and incredulous laugh, his eyes shining with amusement.

- Are you threatening me? Because, just for the record, my legal group is the best in the country.

You couldn't contain the loud laugh that escaped, the sound echoing through the silent room. Kendall leaned over, his smile growing when he saw his fun.

- What? Do you think I'm kidding? - He continued, still smiling, but now his hands were firmly anchored to your waist, pulling you closer. You didn't notice the exact moment when you ended up completely on his lap, but there was, sitting on your legs, the heat of the bodies of you two filling the small space between you.

- You definitely wouldn't want to face me in a court, Ken. - You murmured, the lowest voice now, but still provocative, while your arms wrapped around his neck.

His hands tightened slightly on his waist, as if they wanted to record the moment in his memory. He tilted his head, his eyes sliding from his lips to the neckline of his blouse, which was now slightly more open because of the position.

You didn't have time to say anything else before he tilted his face and his lips finally met. The kiss started slowly, almost exploratory, but quickly became more intense. His hands slid from his shoulders to his chest, feeling his breathing accelerated as he deepened the kiss.

Some fingers slowly rose under your skirt, dragging the fabric with them, while Kendall pulled you even closer, gluing her hips to his. The movement was deliberate, provocative, and when he pressed you against you, you felt exactly what he wanted you to feel.

You grabbed the collar of his shirt, your fingers sliding down the open collar until you met the heat of the exposed skin, at the same time, his hands went up more, exploring his thighs without any hurry, but with a firmness that made it clear that he knew exactly what he wanted. When the lips parted, it was only for him to go down his jaw and reach his neck, where he began to distribute hot and possessive kisses.

You let out a trembling sigh when he found a sensitive spot near your collarbone. He noticed and lightly bit the area, a satisfied smile forming against his skin when he heard the sound that escaped from his lips.

- You have no idea how much I have to hold back when you wear this fucking skirt. - He whispered against her neck, his warm breath making his skin shiver.

You arched your body, tilting your head to give him more access, while he continued the path over your shoulders, his lips alternating between kisses and soft bites that made you lose control. Unhurriedly, Kendall slid her fingers through the fabric of her blouse, moving it away just enough to expose more of her skin.

- Much better this way. - He murmured against his collarbone, the hot breath making his skin even more sensitive. His hands returned to your waist, pulling you again against him while your lips explored the new piece of exposed skin.

You tried to answer, but your mind was a blur. His every touch seemed to set you on fire, and when he pressed his lips lower, near the beginning of your bra, you couldn't hold a louder sigh.

That's when a noise in the distance interrupted the moment. A low sound, maybe the creaking of a door or quick steps, made you freeze for an instant. Kendall, however, seemed to ignore it completely.

- Ken... - you call, between sighs, your eyes opening more attentively while trying to regain focus. He ignored it, thinking it was just one more of those delicious moans you let out when muttering his name. But your voice became more serious when you pushed his face away, still panting. - Ken, I think there's someone here.

He frowned, reluctantly, his lips still close to his neck while grumbling:

- So what?

You moved away a little, already restless, standing, your eyes trying to cross the darkness of the office beyond the glass walls. Kendall sighed, clearly upset, and accompanied you. He stopped right behind you, his hands automatically returning to your waist as he glued his body to yours, as if the situation were a mere detail that did not require any attention.

- There's no one here, dear. - He murmured in her ear, pressing his lips back on the curve of his neck, ignoring any sound or shadow that might exist.

You closed your eyes for a moment, almost giving in again to the warmth of his hands on your waist and brushing your lips that seemed to want to erase any remnant of your concern. But then the sound came back: something soft, like a hurried movement or the creak of a door in the distance.

- Ken, seriously. - You turned around, putting your hands on his chest, trying to stay firm. - Shall we go home?

He furrowed his eyebrows quickly, his lips curved in a carefree smile that only made it clear how much he thought you were exaggerating.

- Are you really getting me out of here? - he asked, tilting his head while looking at you as if it were a crime to leave things incomplete.

You laughed lightly, shaking your head, but before you could answer, he pulled you by the neck for a kiss, one of those that disarmed any argument. The plan of a quick kiss to convince him was completely lost when he deepened the movement, his hands firm on his waist as he pressed you against his body, with an accuracy that made you forget why they were still there.

Finally, he walked away, the satisfied smile still stamped on his face, and murmured:

- Let's go soon. - He took the suit thrown on the couch with the same energy as someone who wanted to shorten the waiting time, wearing it anyway.

You took the opportunity to take your bag, put on your shoes and turn off the lights. While the door closed behind you and you walked to the elevator, Kendall didn't waste time: a hand slid firmly to his ass, squeezing lightly while he commented something provocative with a cheeky smile.

The way back home seemed longer than usual, every second an agony. His fingers slowly went up his thigh, deliberate, squeezing and sliding, as if he wanted to test his limits.

As soon as the elevator of the building where you lived arrived, the silence between you seemed electric, the air loaded with tension. As soon as the door opened directly to the apartment, Kendall was already pulling you by the waist, closing the space between you as if there was no more time to waste. He pressed you against the wall next to the entrance, his hungry lips on yours, and you responded with equal intensity, your hands grabbing his hair, pulling him closer.

The corridor became a blur as he guided you inside, the two bumping into furniture as if every second mattered. When they got to the kitchen, Kendall didn't hesitate.

- Is this good for you? - He murmured, his voice loaded with sarcasm and desire, his chest pressed against his back, while sliding his hands down his thighs, raising his skirt without ceremony.

You couldn't answer, already completely surrendered to the firm and urgent touches. The kitchen, with its cold tones and the soft street lighting that entered through the windows, became the perfect setting for the outcome of the desire that began in the office.

__________________________

The days before the trip were intense and so full of commitments that time seemed to escape through your fingers. Kendall, you, Roman and Shiv were at a frantic pace, adjusting the last details of the proposal for Matsson during the flight. The atmosphere between you was focused, but Roman's constant interruptions with his jokes did not let the environment become completely wise.

The flight was long and silent. While most of you were immersed in papers or napping, there was a feeling of shared restlessness. You noticed this in Kendall, who drummed her fingers on the arm of the armchair.

When they landed at the small airport, the atmosphere of the destination welcomed them with a humid and cloudy cold. The surrounding mountains seemed to be covered by a thin fog, and the icy wind carried raindrops. Roman, when putting his feet on the ground, looked at the cars waiting for you and, as expected, made a comment:

- Oh, perfect. Who needs a helicopter when you can take an endless trip by car.

During the journey through the winding roads that crossed the mountainous region, the silence in the car was interrupted only by the sound of the windshield wiper fighting against the persistent drops.

When they finally arrived at the place, an imposing and modernist construction emerged in the melancholic landscape. It was isolated, surrounded by tall trees and surrounded by low clouds. Despite the discomfort caused by the cold and rain, the minimalist architecture seemed even more impactful in the scenery.

You and Kendall went out side by side, the body expression of both was neutral, maintaining professionalism. The tense atmosphere of the negotiation seemed combined with the gloomy atmosphere of the place.

Lukas was waiting under the entrance cover. Dressed casually, he seemed completely at ease, as if the hostile weather was just another characteristic of his nature. His eyes soon fell on you, analyzing every detail in a long and not at all subtle way. A brief smile appeared on the corner of his lips, something between interest and curiosity.

He approached to greet the group, extending his hand to Kendall first. Then, his eyes turned to you, and he tilted his head slightly, as if trying to evaluate who you were.

Kendall returned the greeting impassively, and you just kept the same professional countenance, corresponding to the handshake that Lukas offered. Despite not showing any visible reaction, you noticed his insistent gaze on you, as if you were trying to decipher your presence there.

His first impressions of that place ranging from something almost picturesque, ideal for relaxing, to a slasher movie setting. Dense trees surrounded the complex, its branches writhing as if whispering secrets. And the accommodations... Well, these brought a new meaning to "forced intimacy".

The rooms were small, surrounded by glass walls that led to the treetops - and to the rooms of others. There were no curtains, just a dubious concept of "integration with nature". Privacy seemed like a joke.

- What the fuck is this? - you let go, dropping your suitcase in a corner with a slack of disdain. - They put us in a matchbox with transparent walls.

Kendall, already taking off her coat, laughed low and shook her head.

- This guy is too weird to choose this damn place. - But the irritation on his face was obvious. He hated places that escaped the standard of impeccable luxury.

While you were removing your heavy coat, Kendall answered a call from Roman. He left his cell phone on the speakerphone on the table, and his brother's debauched voice took over the environment.

- Damn, are these rooms a social experiment? - Roman began, already with that tone loaded with sarcasm. - Who was the genius who decided: 'Hey, do you know what's going to be great? Glass walls among dysfunctional adults!'.

You suppressed a laugh while Roman continued:

- By the way, you can see you here. Yes, literally. So, please, do me a fucking favor and save the couple's little show for later. Seriously, whatever you do in that bed - I don't know, bite, moan, scream - I don't need a VIP window to watch. My trauma quota is already broken.

- Why don't you just look away? - Kendall replied, frowning, but unable to hide a smile.

- Oh, great plan, Ken! I'll just turn my head and ignore the erotic theater that you two may or may not decide to stage. Like, of course, super simple. It's like asking not to look at a car disaster.

Kendall just hung up with a sigh.

- He never shuts up, does he?

- It's a talent. - You laughed, dropping your coat on the couch and going towards the bathroom.

The bathroom was even tighter. You sighed when you entered, since it wasn't exactly the standard of comfort you were used to. His apartment in New York was practically a sanctuary, where not even a drone would be able to snoop.

The hot water ran down his skin, but there was no way to relax completely. Everything in that place seemed... exposed, at the same time as tiny. When you left the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, you found Kendall sitting on the bed, fiddling with your cell phone with a restained expression of frustration.

- What's wrong? - you asked as you went to your suitcase, taking the clothes you would wear during dinner.

Kendall dropped her cell phone on the bed and rubbed her eyes with her hands, the gesture of someone on the verge of exploding with their own thoughts.

- Nothing, just rereading some things. - He replied, looking up at you. The smile that emerged was subtle, but carried a malicious trace.

- What kind of "things"? - you asked, pulling a black wool blouse out of the suitcase.

He tilted his head, his eyes walking through you while you chose a heavy coat to complete the look.

- The kind that makes me think that we could pretend we got lost in this shitty place and skip this dinner.

You laughed, shaking your head while wearing your underwear, still feeling the remnant of lightness of the moment they shared. However, as soon as you and Kendall left the room and reached the main corridor, the atmosphere changed. Near the entrance of the hall, they found Shiv and Roman, and the air already seemed loaded with tension. As expected, Roman did not miss the opportunity to break the atmosphere with one of his jokes, full of irony.

- Look, the couple of the moment. - He said, with a crooked smile. - I bet dinner will be the preliminaries for what comes next.

You didn't stop, you just kept walking, your cutting tone escaping naturally.

- Roman, you're talking so much about it that I'm starting to think you're waiting for us to make love in front of you or something like that.

Roman went from surprised to angry, and you could hear the frustration in his voice.

- Fuck you.

You launched a victorious smile, without even looking back. You positioned yourself next to Shiv, following next to her to the table where they would sit while you listened to her tell you about the discoveries about Matsson.

The rhythmic sound of your heels and those of Shiv echoed through the hall as you walked towards the designated table. To the corner of your eye, you noticed Gerri and Carl sitting further down, engaged in a conversation that seemed casual. Gerri threw a polite smile in your direction, and you reciprocated, without thinking too much, before continuing to walk next to Shiv.

However, as soon as you passed, Carl leaned slightly towards Gerri, the unmistakable provocative tone.

- Still trying to make friends, huh?

Gerri kept the smile on his face, but the sarcasm in his voice was cutting.

- I still can't believe this bitch got so much power just by fucking one of Logan's children.

Carl gave a muffled laugh, his gaze dancing between Gerri and his figure, now on his way to the table.

- Well, it's not like you haven't tried something similar either, right?

Gerri sighed deeply, as if the conversation was more exhausting than necessary.

- Fuck you, Carl.

You, oblivious to the poison exchanged behind you, went to the table with Shiv, focused only on the dinner you were about to start.

Dinner was a mixture of forced formality and disguised tensions. The expensive dishes were served in silence interrupted only by the strategic conversations between the sides of Waystar and GoJo. You were calm, oblivious to any subtext that surrounded the table. He answered Matsson's questions succinctly when he tried to involve you in discussions about his area of expertise, remaining strictly professional. His clear and objective answers left little room for any other interpretation.

On the other side of the table, Roman watched everything with the usual restless attention. It didn't take long for him to realize that Matsson's eyes wandered to you more often than necessary. It was subtle, but it was there - the look that lasted a little longer when you spoke, the pause before he returned to paying attention to what Kendall or Shiv were saying.

He spent dinner rolling his eyes at himself. "Really, Lukas? Do you want to fuck her now? At a dinner? With Kendall right there?" He thought, trying to decide whether to intervene with some comment or just let the show roll. In the end, he remained silent, but the tension did not go unnoticed.

Dinner was over, and conversations flowed in small groups scattered around the hall. You ended up cornered by Greg, who, with his innate ability to turn any topic into an endless monologue, was talking about something that involved compliance systems and a documentary that no one else seemed to have heard of. You nodded from time to time, let out a "Is it really?", while thinking about how to get out of there.

Finally, you asked for permission, a polite smile on your lips, but in a hurry enough not to give him room to insist. The cold air outside was an immediate relief, and you pulled your coat closer, taking the silver cigarette wallet out of your pocket. The sound of the lighter breaking the silence was almost comforting as the smoke spread around him.

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you didn't hear the steps approaching until a low voice full of irony sounded behind you.

- Do you mind offering me one of these?

You turned around slightly, finding Lukas Matsson standing there, the smile half crooked on his face, the expression too casual to be innocent.

- Of course. - You answered, handing him the wallet and the lighter. He took a cigarette, lit it calmly, and the flame of the lighter briefly lit up his face before he released the first long puff.

For a few seconds, silence reigned, only the sound of the embers burning filling the space. So, he broke the moment:

- So, what's your story? Did they throw you into this last-minute deal or was it just a strategic move that no one noticed?

You let out a low laugh, bringing it again while answering:

- I don't think your team did homework as well as you think. - There was an ironic tone in his voice, but nothing exaggerated. - I've always been involved. I only prefer to avoid the spotlight when I can.

Matsson gave a short laugh, leaning more relaxed against the wall, but his eyes never left you.

- You know, that's funny. - he said, releasing another drag. - It seems that the more time I spend with you, from Waystar, the more I wonder how Logan kept this shit all together.

You kept a polite smile, but you didn't get more involved than necessary.

- He knew exactly how to deal with each piece on the board.

He arched an eyebrow, interested.

- And you? Is it just another piece... or is it the one who moves the others?

His words came loaded with a subtext that you preferred to ignore. Your smile didn't falter while you put out the cigarette on the stone guardrail in front of you.

- I'm more for someone who guarantees that the board remains whole.

Matsson laughed softly, shaking his head.

- Between us, if Kendall had introduced me to you before, I would have signed any contract he asked for.

You stopped in the middle of the gesture of putting out the cigarette, crossing your arms instinctively. The short laugh that escaped was dry, almost sharp.

- This is somewhat inappropriate, considering the context.

Matsson tilted his head, a smile that was half fun, half provocation forming on his lips.

- Don't worry, it just makes everything more... interesting.

The comment made something turn in your stomach. His disconnection from the seriousness of the situation was as absurd as it was annoying. For him, it seemed like a game, a casual provocation, but you felt the weight of the inadequacy. Taking a step back, you adjusted your coat with calculated calm before answering firmly:

- Well, I think I've spent too much time outside.

He didn't move, he just kept smiling in that almost defiant way, as if he was testing his limits. You turned around and started walking back, but the discomfort persisted. Even without looking, it was impossible to ignore the weight of his gaze burning on his back.

When he got close to the salon, he saw Kendall, and the relief was immediate. Approaching, you lightly touched his arm and murmured something quick. He nodded, casting a discreet look at you before continuing his conversation.

As you left the room, you could feel Matsson watching everything from afar, his eyes fixed on every movement. What did he think he was doing? The confusion hung over you as you went up to the room, trying to remove the discomfort of that interaction.

After dinner, when most people were already starting to disperse, Matsson called Shiv, Roman and Kendall to his office. The room was minimalist, with dark wooden furniture and soft lighting that seemed to cast more shadows than clarity.

Roman, as usual, did not miss the chance to make one or two comments that made him laugh, while Shiv kept a clinical look at Lukas' roles and words. Kendall was attentive, but calm, following each point with a meticulous focus.

When the subject of the agreement finally sold out, Roman was the first to get up, with

Shiv going right behind. Kendall, in turn, mentioned accompanying them, but Matsson's voice interrupted him, casual, but firm.

- Kendall, stay a little longer. I want to exchange an idea with you.

Kendall stopped halfway, looking at the brothers. Shiv hesitated for a moment, narrowing his eyes, but ended up leaving without saying anything. The door closed with a soft click, leaving the two alone.

Lukas went to the bar in the corner of the room, the steps deliberately slow. He took a bottle of whiskey and poured two glasses, handing one to Kendall before casually leaning back on the counter. His smile had that ambiguous quality - friendly, but provocative.

- You know, you have an interesting team. - He started, turning the glass in his hand. - A little... predictable, maybe, but interesting.

Kendall laughed low, almost automatically, while taking a sip.

- Yeah, they do what they need to do.

Lukas tilted his head slightly, his smile deepening.

- Someone from your team caught my attention.

Kendall raised an eyebrow, curious, but still relaxed.

- Really?

- Yes. - Lukas took another sip, savoring the moment. - An assistant of yours, I imagine. She tried to stay professional, but... fuck, what a woman.

Kendall laughed lightly, shaking her head as if the situation were an internal joke.

- I didn't know she was your type.

Matsson arched his eyebrows, as if he were facing something too obvious to be discussed.

- Are you slutty? Damn, the woman is fucking hot. I tried to start a conversation, but she didn't make it easy.

Kendall let out a more genuine laugh now, completely certain that Matsson was talking about Jess. He imagined the assistant, who always seemed shy and out of place, trying to avoid the company's buyer.

- Well, that probably blew her mind. This kind of situation is not exactly her strong point.

Matsson shrugged, the smile loaded with subtext.

- Maybe. But nothing that a little... persistence can't solve.

Kendall still laughed, not realizing the true focus of the comments.

- Okay, good luck with that.

Matsson raised the glass, as if toasting to the "challenge", but the malicious glow in his eyes suggested much more. Finally, he changed the subject, but the tension in the air persisted, hovering between the two as something that would not be easily dissipated.

__________________________

The next morning, as soon as Kendall appeared, Roman intercepted him right on his arrival for breakfast, looking more curious than worried.

- So, Ken, what did Matsson want with you yesterday?

Kendall sighed, already anticipating Roman's insistence. In addition to having been briefly frightened by the abrupt arrival of his brother.

- Relax, man. I won't sell the company without you. - Kendall answers with a light smile with a humorous tone.

Roman, however, rolled his eyes, impatient.

- What did he want?

Kendall hesitated for a moment, but ended up letting out a short laugh while lowering her tone of voice.

- No big deal. He just wanted to talk about an assistant of mine.

- Assistant? - Roman narrowed his eyes, his expression confused.

- Yeah, I don't know, Jess. He said he thought she was hot or something like that. - Kendall gave a light laugh. - Surprising, right? Like, who would have thought?

Roman blinked, the plug suddenly falling, and his expression became incredulous. He grabbed Kendall's arm, pulling him away from curious ears.

- Ken, are you serious? - Kendall frowned in confusion, with no answer to what her brother meant by that. After all, why would he lie about that?

Roman rubbed his face, as if he needed a moment to reorganize his thoughts.

- Man, I hate being the bearer of the bad news, but... he wasn't talking about Jess.

Kendall kept not understanding, already getting impatient.

- What the fuck do you mean by that?

Roman lowered his voice even more, but the tone carried all the drama that only he knew how to apply.

- He was talking about your wife, Ken.

Kendall's face hardened, the laughter disappeared immediately.

- What?

- Do you remember that day at Waystar? He saw her passing by and, fuck, I swear, the guy almost drooled on the glass of my living room. It was so uncomfortable that I had to invent something on the spot.

- And what did you say, Roman? - Kendall asked slowly, her eyes narrowed.

Roman raised his hands, half defensive, half cynical.

- I said she was your assistant, okay? I thought you were helping. The guy was literally looking at her as if it were dessert.

Kendall ran her hand over her face, taking a deep breath, as if she wanted to punch a wall.

- Did you say she was my assistant?

- Yes, because Lukas was one step away from asking for her number. You know how he is. I thought I was playing fair for you. I thought that, because I was an assistant, he would lose interest, I don't know.

Kendall closed her eyes for a moment, as if she was counting to ten.

- And now he thinks he can talk to me about it as if it were a trophy he wants to conquer?

Roman shrugged, casting an almost apologetic look.

- Welcome to the world of Lukas Matsson. He's a cretin with an ego the size of fucking Norway.

Roman patted Kendall's shoulder before walking away, but Kendall stood still for a moment, looking at the floor, clearly trying to decide what her next step would be.

The worst was not only Matsson's behavior, but what it meant. It was a constant reminder that he was, of his own free will, about to deliver everything: Waystar, ATN, the legacy that his family carried, no matter how sick it was.

Kendall tried to focus on work for the rest of the day, but it was impossible to ignore. Whenever Matsson made a comment that seemed on the verge of something inappropriate, Roman exchanged tense glances with Kendall, as if he was expecting an explosion at any moment.

And, of course, there was the ATN.

Kendall knew that selling Waystar was already a complicated decision, but including ATN in the package? That was simply handing over all the weapons to the enemy. With the presidential elections coming, the ATN was more than a tool; it was a weapon of influence on a large scale. Leaving that in Matsson's hands was giving him a power that not even Logan would have dared to deliver.

___________________________

That same night, Kendall finally consolidated his decision. He knew that Shiv would never support him in this plan, so he went straight to what really mattered: convincing Roman. Manipulating her brother, twisting the arguments until they made sense to both of them, was something Kendall did with the skill of someone who had spent his whole life watching Logan. And, like Logan, he felt no remorse for leaving Shiv out. She was brilliant, but also mercilessly practical, and at this moment, Kendall needed something more emotional, something that only Roman could offer.

The next day, the morning was tense, but Kendall barely seemed to notice. He maintained his professional posture, and when the right time came, he set up the scene. During the meeting on a mountain trail, he pressured Matsson with insinuations about the fragility of GoJo's numbers and the potential increase in Waystar's value. It was a dangerous dance, but Kendall knew exactly where to step to make Matsson hesitate. The plan was moving slowly, but accurately.

At night, after dinner, Kendall was visibly closer to you. Throughout the day, he had left small gestures of proximity: his hand resting on the lower part of your back while you moved through the hall, one arm on the back of your chair. It was atypical for him, and you were surprised, but you didn't complain.

Already in the room, the dim light of the lamp next to the bed barely illuminated the room, but it was enough to highlight Kendall's tense expression as he closed the door behind him. He walked up to you slowly, his fingers running through his hair in an automatic gesture of frustration, before letting the weight of his body fall on the edge of the bed.

- Roman is with me - he said, without preamble, his gaze fixed on the floor. He tilted his head to you, his eyes softer, but still full of concern. - That's already something.

You frowned, closing the book you had in your hands and putting it aside.

- Okay, but what exactly are we talking about here?

He sighed, rubbing his face with both hands before turning completely to you. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost conspiratorial:

- I'm going to screw this deal. Make Matsson give up even before he gets to the council.

Your stomach jumped a little with the confidence in his voice, but you kept the expression neutral.

- And how do you intend to do that? - he asked, hesitantly.

- Force the bar. Inflate the numbers. Throwing enough shit on the table until he thinks it's not worth it.

You were silent for a moment, processing everything he had just said. It was risky, of course, but the part of you who knew the game well knew it wasn't impossible. Still, there was something in his tone, in his gestures, that suggested that he wanted more than just his approval.

- Ken... - you started, but he cut you off.

- And you? Do you have another idea? Because, honestly, I'm open to suggestions.

He hesitated. Of course there was something - the letter that no one else seemed to be thinking about. But it was risky. Not only for Kendall, but for you too.

- It's not exactly conventional - you started, carefully choosing the words. - But we've done things like this before.

He raised an eyebrow, a small smile thrown on his face.

- Okay, before your father passed away he kind of chose the next president, didn't he? Maybe... If you ensure that one of the candidates wins, but on the condition that the agreement is barred...

- Politics? - He laughed softly, more out of disbelief than humor. - Are you suggesting that I use ATN to create a political advantage and bar Matsson?

- And why not? The ATN takes care of him being elected, and everything is very simple: an election for favors to Waystar.

He didn't answer immediately. He was just looking at you, his eyes loaded with something difficult to decipher, as if he was evaluating not only the weight of your words, but you whole. Then, suddenly, a slow smile formed, that typical Kendall expression when an idea consumed him completely. Without warning, he leaned over and pressed his lips against yours almost desperately, as if you had just delivered the solution to all his problems.

- Damn, I fucking love you. - He murmured, his forehead touching yours while a small smile still hovered on his lips.

You couldn't avoid a laugh, half surprised, half enchanted, but full of the lightness that he seemed so desperate to feel.

At the same time, in Matsson's office, Shiv entered with a confidence almost identical to Kendall's, carrying on his shoulders the posture of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Shiv entered Lukas Matsson's office with calculated steps, like someone who knew the weight of his own presence. He was at the bar, absently fiddling with a bottle of whiskey, but turned around when he saw it. A provocative smile appeared almost immediately.

- Oh, Roy who really knows what he's doing. What an honor.

She ignored the sarcasm, approaching with the usual posture: absolute confidence. Shiv knew he loved a power game and wanted to make him confused about what piece she represented on that board.

- We need to talk, Lukas. Of course, my brother is... complicating things.

He poured himself a glass and offered her another one, which Shiv accepted without taking his eyes off him.

- Complicating? - He arched an eyebrow, leaning casually. - It's a polite way of saying that he's trying to fuck with the agreement.

- Well, considering the circumstances, it doesn't surprise me.

Matsson tilted his head, interested.

- Circumstances?

Shiv turned the liquid in the glass, taking his time to choose the words. She knew that the next move would be crucial.

- Before we go for this, I want something from you.

He laughed briefly, surprised by the audacity.

- Like what?

- A guarantee that, if I help you, my place in all this will be solid. No unexpected turnaround, no last-minute change of plans.

Lukas blinked, clearly intrigued.

- Are you serious?

- Always. - She took a sip of the whiskey. - You need someone who knows how to deal with things... and I need to know that, at the end of this, I won't be just a pawn.

Shiv observed his reaction with a subtle smile, as if he knew exactly the direction the conversation would take. She leaned back in the chair, keeping her eyes fixed on Lukas, while he still seemed to process her proposal. She had the feeling that he was beginning to realize the weight of his words, but still not enough to accept the offer without question.

- And what are you going to give me in return, then? - Lukas asked, more genuine now, as if the negotiation had begun.

She didn't hesitate.

- Kendall. - The word fell like a silent command, and she watched him, seeing the surprise twinkle in her eyes.

- Kendall? - He repeated, the disbelief evident in his voice.

- I want you to keep him in control. I'll help you deal with it, keep it more... tied to the agreement. But what I need is to know that my role in your structure will be clear and definitive. I'm not someone who submits to uncertainties.

Lukas was silent for a moment, watching her more intensely now. He realized that the conversation was not only about business, but about power and control. Shiv wasn't there to ask for favors, she was negotiating something much more valuable.

- And what do you think I need to know exactly? - Lukas asked, leaning forward. He seemed to want to better understand what was at stake, but something in the way he looked at her said that he was also considering the impact of this for himself.

- Something about Kendall, of course. But also about who he has next to him. You know, his wife is not just another woman in the equation. She's... strategic. Before being Kendall's wife, she already had influence, an influence that is not seen in the media, but that is very real. Politics, maybe. Real power, not this spotlight show you love. And, of course, she was always his right-hand man, helping him get where he got.

Matsson was silent, his expression changing as he assimilated Shiv's words. He tried to connect the pieces, and the surprise soon turned into a smile of recognition.

- I'll make sure Kendall doesn't destroy the agreement. I'll help you keep him on the right track. And in the end, you'll need someone like me to make sure everything goes as planned.

Lukas was silent for a moment, evaluating her, before giving a low laugh, full of understanding.

Lukas let out a short and incredulous laugh, his smile widening.

- Damn, you Roy really hate your own family, don't you? - He said, the sharp sarcasm, but his eyes shining with something darker, almost fascinated.

Shiv tilted his head slightly, an ironic smile touching his lips.

Without saying anything else, she deposited the empty glass on the table with a slight click, keeping her gaze fixed on him for a moment that seemed to last longer than necessary. So, he got up with the calculated grace of those who always know the next move and walked out of the room, leaving Lukas with the trail of his presence and the sound of his jumps echoing in the silent space.

After Shiv's departure, Lukas Matsson remained motionless for a few moments, his gaze fixed on the door she had closed behind him. A slow smile formed on his lips, but it wasn't just satisfaction - it was something deeper, almost voracious. You.

Kendall's wife.

Lukas got up from the couch and walked to the window, the whiskey glass turning in his hand. He stared at his reflection in the glass for a moment, his breathing a little heavier. There was something electric, a mixture of irritation, fascination and a barely disguised excitement.

With a quick movement, he took his cell phone in his pocket and typed his name. In seconds, the information appeared: the first photo showed you next to Kendall at an event, the haugty look, a perfect smile, but distant. He narrowed his eyes, analyzing every detail of the image.

He moved on to the next photo. You alone, greeting some big guy at a formal event. Impeccable posture, wearing power as if it were a second skin. The almost non-existent smile was just enough to comply with the protocol.

A wave of irritation passed through Lukas. How had your team let something so grotesque pass? They had done a thorough research on Kendall and all his surroundings, but they hadn't realized that the person next to him was more than a wife.

Another article caught his attention, and he clicked. Your maiden's last name. Political connections. Zero direct involvement with the media, but an evident reach in other circles of power. Lukas laughed dryly, almost incredulous. You didn't need Waystar to be relevant.

He found another photo. You in a tight dress, walking alone to an event. Every line of his body seemed designed to exude control and elegance. Lukas pressed his lips, his jaw contracting. How did Kendall get someone like that? The thought hit him hard, a mixture of mockery and indignation.

He rested his hand on the bar, the smile on his face now a mixture of contempt and challenge. Kendall, with all her flaws and insecurities, had conquered something that seemed so out of reach. Maybe that was luck. Or maybe it was you.

The heat of the whiskey burned his throat, but it was not enough to relieve the tension that grew in his body. Every detail about you was like a piece of a puzzle that he wanted to assemble. How could someone so strategic, so imposing, be next to someone as pathetic as Kendall?

Leaving his cell phone aside, Lukas leaned back at the window, his gaze fixed on the horizon. You weren't just a challenge.

_______________________________

A/N: Okay, I know we ran over some things here, but I just couldn't contain my obsession, sorry!! 🫠

masterlist

xoxo, bebe🫶🏼💕

[mintyys-blog]

LOVE ME NOT | tim drake x west! reader

DC MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: extremely self indulgent, neglectful relationship, mention of virginity loss, seeking online validation, implied sex, angst.

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission.

— © @mintyys-blog

SONG: LOVE ME NOT — RAVYN LENAE

The quiet hum of the city outside does nothing to fill the silence in her room. The glow of her laptop screen fades as she closes another tab—another sweet comment on her latest fic, another reader telling her how seen they feel. If only she could feel that in her real life. If only he could make her feel like that again.

She hasn’t messaged Tim since Monday. Not because she didn’t want to, but because the ache in her chest is starting to feel like punishment. Four days of silence, and she tells herself it’s giving him space. But deep down she knows—it’s just her trying to protect what little self-worth she has left.

The knock on her door is soft, but she doesn’t answer. It opens anyway.

“Hey,” Wally’s voice is gentle, but there’s something in it that makes her gut twist. That careful tone—he knows something.

She turns away, brushing at her face quickly. “What’s up?”

He sits beside her, eyes scanning the room like he’s looking for ghosts. “I’ve been watching you,” he says plainly. “And I’ve been trying not to say anything because… I know you’re in love with him. But I can’t stay quiet anymore.”

She freezes.

Wally sighs. “I like Tim. You know that. But I don’t like what he’s doing to you.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he raises a hand.

“No. Let me finish.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You haven’t seen him in weeks. You text him, and he leaves you on delivered until it’s convenient for him. You cry yourself to sleep, and then you wake up and still defend him.”

Her throat burns. “It’s not—he’s just… busy. He has a lot going on. I knew that before we started dating.”

“Busy people still show they care,” Wally says, voice harder now. “I’ve seen you twist yourself into knots trying to be the perfect girlfriend, afraid that if you bring up your feelings, he’ll walk away.”

She doesn’t respond. She can’t.

Wally continues, softer now. “You lost your virginity to him, and you haven’t seen him since. That’s not love, sis. That’s abandonment.”

“I don’t want to lose him,” she whispers, eyes burning. “He’s everything to me.”

“That’s the problem,” Wally says quietly. “He shouldn’t be everything. Not if it’s killing you inside.”

She lies in bed long after Wally leaves, staring at the ceiling. The silence presses in on her again.

Maybe she is overthinking. Maybe she’s needy. Clingy. Too emotional. Maybe if she were more like him—cool, calculated, independent—he’d love her better.

But then again… shouldn’t love feel like something? Like effort. Like safety. Why does it feel more like starving?

She scrolls through her phone. Her finger hovers over Tim’s contact. The chat is mostly her—little blue bubbles trying to spark warmth, dying out against the gray silence.

She types something.

“I miss you. I don’t know if you care, but I do. So much it hurts.”

She stares at it. Then deletes it. No. Not tonight.

Tonight, she lets herself feel the weight of it. Not to wallow. But to understand. She’s not wrong for needing love. She’s not broken for feeling too much.

The days feel longer now. Too long.

She scrolls through her texts again, looking for something that isn’t there—him. The little blue bubbles on her screen are cold now, like ghost conversations with someone who hasn’t really been present in weeks.

She checks his social media. He posted a story this morning—a blurry shot of coffee, tagged at some café in Gotham. She tries not to take it personally, but her stomach sinks all the same. He’s out. He has time. Just not for her.

It’s been almost a month since she saw him. Two months since they’d crossed that line—since she gave him everything. And now she wonders if that’s when it all changed.

She’s tired all the time. Her creativity has slowed to a crawl. She used to pour her emotions into her writing, but even the fanfics feel forced now, hollow, like she’s faking joy. She stares at the blinking cursor for hours, trying to feel something that isn’t dread.

Then come the thoughts:

Maybe I’m not interesting anymore. Maybe I’m too clingy. Maybe I did something wrong.

And the worst of all:

Maybe I was just convenient.

She’s curled on the couch in an oversized hoodie, fingers mindlessly scrolling through nothing on her phone when Wally enters. He hesitates in the doorway, watching her. Concern written all over his face.

“You gonna eat something today?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” she says, not looking up.

“You said that yesterday.”

She exhales hard through her nose. “I’m not starving myself. I’m just not hungry.”

He comes to sit on the edge of the coffee table, facing her. “It’s about Tim again, isn’t it?”

Her fingers stop scrolling. She stiffens.

“Seriously?” she says, forcing a laugh. “You’re starting this again?”

Wally’s eyes narrow slightly. “I’m not trying to start anything. I’m worried. You barely leave your room anymore. You flinch when your phone buzzes. And when it doesn’t buzz, you stare at it like someone just died.”

“That’s dramatic,” she mutters.

“So is spiraling into a depression over a guy who hasn’t made time for you in weeks.”

Her jaw tightens. “He’s busy.”

“You’re busy,” Wally shoots back. “With your writing, your friends—hell, you used to laugh all the time. Now it’s like… watching a light go out.”

Her chest burns. She pushes off the blanket and stands, arms crossing over her chest.

“You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like—loving someone who’s got a million things pulling him in different directions. He’s not perfect, Wally, but he tries.”

“Does he?” Wally says, standing now too. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re the only one trying.”

She recoils like he slapped her.

“You think I don’t know how it looks?” she snaps. “You think I don’t see how pathetic I am, checking my phone every five minutes like a lovesick idiot? But I love him, okay?! I love him more than I probably should, and it’s not something I can just turn off because it hurts!”

Silence.

She wipes at her eyes, angry that she’s crying now. Angry that it’s Wally, of all people, seeing her like this.

“I’m tired,” she whispers. “I’m so tired of everyone thinking I’m just… sad and stupid. I’m not broken.”

Wally’s voice softens. “I don’t think you’re broken. I think you’re holding on to something that’s breaking you.”

She turns away. “Just leave me alone.”

He watches her for a long moment, then nods.

“I’m here when you’re ready,” he says quietly. And then he’s gone. She stands there, hugging herself, the silence pressing in again.

The moonlight cuts soft lines across her room. It’s quiet—too quiet. Her heart pounds in her chest like it knows what she’s about to do. Her phone glows in her hand. One text box open. His name at the top.

She stares at the blinking cursor, her thumbs frozen. Every version of the message has already played in her head a hundred times:

“I don’t think this is working anymore.”

“I deserve more than silence.”

“You hurt me, and I can’t keep pretending you didn’t.”

Her breath catches. She scrolls up through their messages—past her unread texts, her check-ins, her “just thinking about you”s, her little photos and open invitations. Each one was her way of saying I love you without really saying it.

Most of them never got a reply.

She bites her lip hard enough to sting. Her vision blurs, tears building. She’s so tired of waiting for him to notice. Tired of feeling like a placeholder in someone else’s life. Her finger hovers over the send button. This is it. She’s going to choose herself. She’s going to— Ping. Her phone vibrates. A new message. From him.

Tim: “Hey, wanna hang out tomorrow? I miss you.”

Her heart stutters. The tears that were about to fall just… stop.

Her brain screams: Don’t do this. You were ready. You were finally ready.

But her heart—the part of her that’s been starving—lights up instantly. He misses her. He misses her.

She erases her breakup message with trembling hands and types instead:

You: “Yeah, that sounds great.”

She hits send before she can regret it.

She lays back in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her chest feels tight. Not from sadness. Not from relief either. Something in between. Something like defeat. Because deep down, she knows tomorrow won’t fix anything. But God, she just wants to see him again. Even if it hurts.

She stood on his porch, heart hammering like it always did before she saw him.

For a second, she didn’t move. Just stared at the dark wood of his front door, breathing in the chill spring air and the nervous anticipation bubbling up in her chest. She hated how excited she felt. How her hands were already fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. How her lip gloss had been applied three times before she’d left the house.

The door swung open.

And there he was.

Tim.

Hair a little messy, dark circles under his eyes—he looked tired, but still managed that soft, lazy smile that always made her stomach flip.

“Hey,” he said.

Her heart jumped. “Hey.”

He stepped aside, letting her in. She didn’t hesitate. The warmth of his place wrapped around her like nostalgia, like something she missed but never really had to begin with.

He closed the door and led her upstairs to his room like it was just any other day. Like no time had passed at all. Like she hadn’t spent the last month crying over him, wondering if she meant anything anymore.

His room was the same as always—clean in a distant, impersonal way. Organized chaos with papers and files, half-finished coffee on the desk, blinds half-closed to keep the sun at bay.

She sat on the edge of his bed while he moved around, tossing his phone onto the nightstand and shrugging off his jacket.

“Sorry I’ve been kind of MIA,” he said casually, rubbing the back of his neck. “Things have just been… y’know. Busy.”

She nodded, smiling too fast. “Yeah. I figured.” She didn’t ask what kept him busy. She didn’t press. Because pressing might make him pull away again—and she couldn’t bear that.

He looked at her then—really looked. And his gaze softened. “How’ve you been?” he asked, voice light, almost teasing.

The question caught her off guard. Her smile faltered, just for a second. She looked down. “I’ve… been okay.”He reached out and touched her chin, turning her face gently to meet his again.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.

His voice was low, almost reverent. It made her breath catch for a second. That ache she had been carrying for weeks—tight and raw in her chest—eased, just a little. Like his words reached inside her and smoothed the edges of her pain.

Her heart fluttered, desperate for the feeling to last. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave him a small, almost shy smile. The kind of smile she used to give him all the time. Before things changed. Before she started wondering if she was the only one still trying.

He leaned in and kissed her—soft and slow—and she melted into it like she always did. Like muscle memory. Like instinct.

His lips were familiar, and in that moment, it was so easy to pretend that everything was okay. That she was enough. That she was still his favorite place to land after long days and long nights. That he still saw her.

They fell back onto the bed together, their bodies fitting like puzzle pieces worn down by time.

Hands moved over skin. Clothes slipped away. Whispers blurred into breathless silence. And she let it happen. Because she wanted to feel close again. Wanted to believe this was real. That this was still love.

This has to mean something, she told herself as his mouth found the curve of her neck. It has to. But later, when it was quiet again, and she was curled up against him—her cheek against his chest, his arm loosely draped around her waist—something inside her cracked.

The room felt cold. His touch, once a comfort, now felt distant. Like muscle memory for him too. Something he did out of habit, not hunger. She stared at the ceiling, heart pounding—not with excitement, but with emptiness. This wasn’t how it was supposed to feel. Not after what they’d just shared. Not after she’d given him everything. Again. Her chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths. And he didn’t notice.

His breathing was even, peaceful. Like he was already asleep. Like nothing was wrong. Like nothing had ever been wrong. She blinked back the sudden sting in her eyes, swallowing hard.

The ache had returned—worse this time. Because now she knew: not even closeness could fix the distance between them. He was next to her. But she had never felt so alone.

The moment his breathing settled into something deeper, steadier, she moved.

Slowly. Carefully.

She eased herself out from under his arm like she was trying not to wake a sleeping version of her old self. The floor was cool against her bare feet as she padded toward the bathroom, the sheet wrapped around her loosely.

The light stung her eyes when she flicked it on.

She stared into the mirror again, and for the second time in weeks, she didn’t recognize the girl looking back.

Her mascara had smudged faintly under her eyes. Her lips were still slightly pink and swollen from the kisses. She looked… loved. Desired. Like she should be glowing.

But her eyes were hollow.

Tired.

She turned on the faucet to drown the sound of her breathing, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes until stars danced behind her lids.

It wasn’t that he had been cruel. Or unkind. He had said the right things—held her, touched her, kissed her like he meant it.

And maybe that was what made it worse. Because even when he gave her everything, it still didn’t feel like enough.

She wiped her eyes quickly, fixed her hair. Re-applied a little lip balm like she was smoothing cracks in a mask. Then she looked at herself again. And she forced a smile.

FLASHBACK:

It was a quiet night.

The kind of still, late-summer air that made everything feel suspended in time. The porch light cast a golden haze over the two of them as they sat on the wooden steps, knees barely touching. The cicadas hummed in the background, but she barely heard them.

She could hear her heartbeat louder than anything else.

Tim was next to her, close but not too close. Like always. Respectful. Careful. It was one of the things she loved about him early on—how he never rushed her. Never made her feel like she had to be ready before she truly was.

They had been talking about something stupid—superpowers, maybe. She didn’t even remember. All she remembered was the way the conversation had drifted into silence. A comfortable one, at first.

But then it had stretched. And when she looked at him, really looked, she found him already watching her. His expression was soft, eyes a little unreadable. Like he was trying to memorize her. She felt her breath catch. His voice broke the silence first—gentle, almost a whisper.

“Can I kiss you?”

Her heart stuttered in her chest. It had been months. Months of lingering glances, of hands brushing and holding on just a second too long, of late-night texts and slow-building affection. And yet, even now, he didn’t lean in without asking.

She nodded.

Barely.

And he moved in slowly—so slowly—giving her all the time in the world to change her mind.

His lips brushed hers like a secret. Feather-light. Testing, almost. When she didn’t pull away, he kissed her fully—still soft, still slow, like he was savoring something sacred. She remembered the way her hands shook slightly as she clutched the edge of her sweatshirt, grounding herself. How his thumb lightly traced her jaw when he pulled back, just enough to look at her.

“Was that okay?” he asked. She had smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “That was… perfect.” They stayed like that for a while—heads leaning together, hands brushing, hearts wide open. And in that moment, she believed he was someone who would always handle her like she was something precious.

He was already sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling on his phone. The food she had started—some scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit—was on two plates, waiting.

She walked over, slipping into the stool beside him.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes still half-glued to his screen.

She smiled, too brightly. “Yeah. Just needed a minute.”

He nodded and put his phone down long enough to grab his fork.

She watched him, every little movement. Noticed how he glanced back at his phone between bites. Saw the lock screen light up every so often. Instagram. Maybe Twitter. A couple missed notifications.

Her chest tightened. He was on his phone constantly. Constantly.

So why didn’t he text her back when she said she missed him? When she asked if he was okay? When she told him she couldn’t sleep without hearing from him?

He could see her messages. He just didn’t care enough to answer. The bite of toast in her mouth turned to dust. She chewed. Swallowed. Smiled again. She wanted to scream.

But instead, she said nothing. Because if she said it—if she spoke that truth out loud—she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stay. And she wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet.

The city passed in a blur on the ride home. Streetlights streaked past the window like quiet stars, each one casting light on the gnawing hollowness blooming in her chest. The silence in the car wasn’t peaceful—it was loud. It echoed louder than any goodbye ever could.

Tim hadn’t even walked her out.

Just a kiss on the forehead, a distracted “Text me when you get home,” and then the door had shut behind her.

She didn’t cry this time.

She just… felt nothing. Like there was a version of her still sitting in his bed, still pretending his arms were enough. And now this version—the one in the back of the car, face blank and hands clenched in her lap—was just a ghost wearing her skin.

She peeled off her jacket slowly, letting it drop onto her chair. The soft glow of her desk lamp was the only light in the room. Her bed called to her like a tired whisper, and she sank into it without changing clothes, curling up into herself.

The tears came then—quiet, barely there. Not sobbing. Just… leaking pain.

She didn’t want to think about how cold his arms had felt. How distant his voice had sounded, even when he was right next to her. She didn’t want to feel how she felt used again—like her body was welcome, but the rest of her was inconvenient.

You’re so beautiful, he had said. But beautiful wasn’t the same as loved.

Wiping her face, she reached for her laptop. Her fingers hovered over the keys for a moment—then began to type.

A new chapter. A new world.

One where love was soft and certain. Where someone noticed the cracks in her voice when she said “I’m fine.” Where someone reached out first. Held her tighter. Chose her.

Word by word, the ache in her chest began to ease. Her inbox pinged—a comment.

“This made me cry. Your writing always hits me so deeply.”

“I wish I could hug the character. You make them feel so real.”

“Please never stop writing. Your stories are everything.”

She smiled softly, fingertips resting on the keys. Her eyes were still glassy, but a small warmth grew in her chest. At least someone cared.

At least here—in these stories, these messages, these strangers—she mattered. Here, she was seen.

It had become a ritual.

Long after everyone else had gone to bed—when the world was silent and her texts to Tim had once again gone unread—she would curl up in bed, knees drawn tight to her chest, and open her laptop. The screen’s soft light washed over her like moonlight through a window.

It was the only time she felt like herself anymore.

Her fanfic site loaded automatically—like it knew. Notifications flooded the corner of the screen: dozens of reblogs, likes, new follows, and—bless them—comments. So many comments.

She exhaled, already feeling the tension in her shoulders start to unwind.

They were still reading. Still following the slow-burn romance she updated religiously, like clockwork. In her story, the love interest never forgot the little things. They noticed when something was wrong. They asked. They held her through the heartbreak, kissed her forehead, and made stupid little jokes to make her laugh.

She clicked into the new batch of comments:

“This chapter emotionally suplexed me and I thanked it afterward. Are you a wizard???”

She laughed out loud, snorting into her sleeve. God, they were dramatic—but it made her feel warm in her chest.

“You write slow-burn like it’s a martial art. I am both devastated and in love.”

Another laugh. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye—not even sadness, just the weird mix of affection and gratitude that came with being seen by someone who only knew her through her words.

“This is so specific I know you’ve been in love before. Like painfully, hopelessly in love. Whoever hurt you, I hope they stub their toe.”

She paused, eyes lingering on that one. A soft smile touched her lips. They didn’t know how close they were to the truth.

“The way you write love… it’s like you’re inside my head. I cried. Then I reread it. Then I cried again.”

“Your dialogue is better than my real-life relationship, and I wish I was joking.”

Her heart swelled, bittersweet and full. She wasn’t invisible here. She wasn’t too much, too needy, too emotional.

Here, she was magic. Here, she was wanted. Not for her body. Not because someone felt obligated to answer her texts. Not as a placeholder or a convenience.

Just… her. Her words. Her soul. Her broken, bleeding, dreaming heart. And it was enough. Meanwhile, Tim hadn’t texted her since the day she left his place.

No follow-up. No “Did you get home okay?” Not even a reaction to her latest story update—something he used to tease her about with mock jealousy. She glanced at Instagram.

He was tagged in a story. Laughing. Some rooftop bar. His arm slung over a friend’s shoulder, smiling like life was full of sunshine and freedom. Not a single thought spared for her. Not even a shadow of her in his world. So, she opened a blank doc.

And she wrote.

She wrote the ache she couldn’t say out loud. She wrote love that burned and held and chose her. She wrote the kind of softness she only got from people with usernames and no faces. And when she hit post, and the comments rolled in like waves, she didn’t feel so hollow.

It was 3:27 a.m.

The kind of hour where the world felt still and strange. Where the silence became loud, and your heart said the things your mouth never dared to. Nothing good ever happened at this hour.

But somehow, everything made sense.

She lay on her back, tangled in the bedsheets like a ghost of herself. The ceiling above her was cracked in one corner, a detail she’d never noticed before. Funny, how heartbreak made you suddenly see everything.

Her phone rested against her palm, the screen lighting her face in a soft, tired glow. Her eyes were puffy, rimmed pink from crying earlier—but the tears had long since dried. Now there was only quiet.

Quiet… and resolve.

Her thumb hovered over Instagram. A digital world where people curated joy, cropped out pain, filtered flaws away. She wasn’t going to make a scene. No long paragraph. No sad song in her story. No cryptic quote to spark gossip.

Just… her. She tapped on her profile.

Her chest tightened the moment she saw it: the photo of her and Tim. He was pressing a kiss to her temple, and she—God, she looked so happy. So radiant. Her cheeks were lifted in the kind of smile that came from laughing too hard, from feeling too much.

That used to be her favorite photo. Now it felt like a lie. A cruel reminder of what it used to mean. Of what she used to mean.

Her heart thudded once—a low, dull ache—and she stared at it for longer than she meant to. Letting the pain wash over her. Letting it bleed through one last time.

Then, with a breath held in her chest, she changed it.

Just a simple selfie. Warm lighting. A soft smile. Barefaced. Real.

Her face. Just hers. No caption. No message. No cry for attention. Just a quiet reclaiming of her image, her narrative. Her self. Her hand trembled slightly as she hit save.

It was done.

It didn’t feel triumphant. It didn’t feel like revenge. It just… was. Like taking off shoes that never fit. Like closing the door to a room that no longer felt like home.

She exhaled slowly, thumb dragging through her feed.

Photo after photo—her hand in his, arms wrapped around each other, blurry Polaroids on late nights that felt like something permanent. Each one made her flinch a little, like pressing on a bruise just to see if it still hurt.

It did. But not as much as before. She didn’t delete them. She wasn’t ready for that. But she began to archive. One. Then another. Then a third. Not in anger. Not in bitterness.

Just in gentle self-preservation. Like pulling thorns from her skin one by one. Tiny wounds healing, quietly, without anyone watching.

No one would notice. Not right away. There wouldn’t be messages asking what happened. There wouldn’t be drama.

But she would know. Her page was hers again. She switched apps—instinctively, her fingers opening the tab that brought her comfort: her fanfic site. Tumblr. Notifications blinked across the screen, soft little stars in the dark.

A new message waited in her inbox.

“Your writing is something I look forward to every week. Thank you for sharing your heart with us 💗💗💗 ”

Her breath hitched.

She smiled, faint and shaky, as her eyes filled again—not with grief, but with something that shimmered quieter. Gentler. Someone saw her.

Not for how she looked next to someone else. Not for what she could give, or what she withheld. But for what lived inside her.

Her words. Her pain. Her heart. She didn’t need to scream to be heard. She didn’t need to beg to be loved.

She was still here. Still writing. Still breathing. And slowly, without fanfare or ceremony, he was disappearing from her story.

Not erased. Just… rewritten. And this time, the main character was her.

PART TWO

[mannequinreligi0n]

Sins - Chapter 3: Penance

wake up priest!vergil nation, let’s get to fuckin’

pairing: priest!vergil/nun!reader

wc: 3.5k

warnings: nsfw! - penetration, body worship, implied self-mutilation/harm

author’s note: thank you for being so patient with me !! sorry for the delay :’) will maybe write another freak nasty chapter bc i have a few unused idea. enjoy !!

links: chapter one , chapter two , ao3

The word ‘late’ rang in your head like a gong. Father Vergil had a strong distaste for tardiness, almost as much as he disliked the lazy and the ignorant. You bowed your head in forgiveness, silently cursing yourself for letting your nerves cause time-blindness.

“Forgive me, Father. Punctuality was never a strength of mine,” you mumble out, preparing for a deserved scolding. Instead, you hear Vergil’s steps stop in front of you, the faintest sigh leaving him.

“It’s alright, y/n. Please.”

He takes a step toward you, lifting your chin with single finger to beckon your eyes to him. The wide nature of your eyes gives away your surprise from the use of your name so casually, the absence of professionalism and humility. Vergil drops his hand from you and offers a tight smile in exchange, his own inhibitions raging war in the back of his mind. He stands there awkwardly under your confused gaze, shifting his weight from left to right and back left before clearing his throat.

“I- uh.”

Christ, Vergil, pull it together. He exhales hard, his clammy hands twitching at his sides.

“…….I fear I have not been honest with you, and with God. Your confession has…rattled me deeply, and I cannot, for the life of me, find a solution that would appease both the trouble in my soul and the will of God. Frankly, I’m…I’m at a loss.”

Your heart falls to your stomach at his words, knowing that your confession was only going to create problems. Your hands fiddle with the rosary around your neck, praying that maybe God could grant you one last word of wisdom in this time of need - you are only greeted with the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. Vergil’s hand returns to his mouth, biting at the frayed skin of his nails, and starts to pace again anxiously. The silence between you two is all-consuming and seems to last an eternity before your shoulders slump, ripping the veil from your head and holding it out to him.

“I shall pack my things and be gone by noon tomorrow. I do not wish to bring any more shame to you or the coven. Plea-“

“What?! N-No! That’s not-!”

Vergil panics and interrupts you immediately, rushing to you and clasping his hands around your veil to push it back towards you. There’s a spark between the two of you at the touch of skin, a small grace in the daunting moment. He loses his train of thought at the sight of your hair pillowing down to complete the picture of your face, his breathing shallow and frantic.

“No,” he stammers out again, blinking hard and squeezing your hand. “You misunderstood me. My issue doesn’t lie with you - it is with myself.”

You blink dumbly at him, brow scrunched with returning confusion. “I…I don’t understand,” you shake your head at him, words barely a whisper.

“Neither do I, my child,” Vergil sighs, his clammy fingers still curled around yours. “I have prayed, and prayed, and prayed to The Lord for answers, and yet he has abandoned me in the dark. I fear that this is a test of my faith, that you are a test of my faith - and I am failing miserably.”

Vergil’s eyes lack their usual hardness, a man frayed to his wits end as he searches your face for the answers he longs for. A single hand lets go of yours and moves to the cross around your neck, his thumb running over the pointed ends of the pendant.

“I have stood before our congregation and preached time and time again of love and purposeful fulfillment,” He murmurs, eyes falling to the crucifix. “I can’t help but wonder when it will be my turn to be blessed with such gifts….But then, when I look at you-“

He pauses, stormy blues tracing the line of your neck up to meet your eyes - eyes that he swore held the light of the morning sun and the grace of the midnight moon all at once.

“-I swear I can see my purpose for living, for breathing, in your face alone.”

You can feel the intensity of his words prick at your heart like thorned rose. It was taking every nerve in your body not to panic and ramble out confused nonsense, uncertain if you’re hearing him correctly. You were almost convinced you were dreaming, but the tight grasp of his hand on yours was keeping you present, if the look in his eye wasn’t convincing enough.

Without a thought in your head, you close the sea of space and press a chaste kiss to his lips, pulling away just as soon. Vergil audibly makes a sound between a gasp and yelp, eyes popping out of his head. There’s a symphony of heavy breathing between you, both staring at each other with fear and desire. You immediately prepare an apology mentally, opening your mouth to verbalize it, but it doesn’t get the chance to come out.

Vergil nearly knocks you off your feet when he dives down to kiss you once more, large hands desperately gripping the side of your head and threading in your hair. Your veil falls to the ground as you scramble to grasp at his garb for stability, lips trying to keep up with the sinful motions of Vergil’s. It’s all-consuming and starving, teeth clinking together and tongues lapping with inexperience. It was everything you had imagined and more, the taste of him alone worth the shame and punishment that was sure to come from such an act.

You’re the first to pull away, gasping for air with swollen lips. Vergil heaves against you, not daring to let go of you for even a second. No words were necessary to convey the lust or longing you shared with him, and with a few passing blinks, Vergil’s hands drop from your face and pry yours from his chasuble. He entwines his fingers in one hand and whips you along behind him, his long legs striding through the courtyard and back into the church. You nearly trip behind him, being pulled like a rag-doll. Words get trapped in your throat as you attempt to ask him where you’re going, but your question is answered as he all but shoves you into one of the small sacristies. The moment the door closes, your lips magnetize to his, his hands guiding you to a shoddy wooden table against the wall. You don’t even have time to process before he’s lifting you onto the table, pushing up your tunic to your hips to stand in between your legs.

It was a mockery to preform such a crude act where they stored the ‘blood and body’ of Christ, the decanter of fortified wine jostling on the table as you clawed at each other’s clothes. The chasuble and tunic fall to the ground, your hands unfastening the buttons of his dress shirt as he trails his mouth along your shoulder with reverent kisses, teeth clamping around the strap of your underdress and sliding it off your shoulder. Freeing his torso from the shirt, your eyes immediately gravitate to the strip of red creeping up his back and over his shoulder.

“Vergil.”

His name pulls him out of his daze and he lifts his head from your shoulder with hooded, hazy eyes. He’s about to question you when your fingers graze over the somewhat fresh scar, making his nose scrunch in a faint wince. Averting his eyes from you, he stares down at your lap, breathing deeply.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing… Turn around.”

You rest your hand on his arm, beckoning him to turn and he fights against it for a moment, a deep scowl on his face. He finally obeys and slowly 180s to reveal uneven, healing marks scattered on his porcelain skin. Worry morphs your features, hearing Vergil sigh at the wall in front of him.

“Penance, for my depravity…for my thoughts of you,” Vergil whispers, an underlying shame in his tone.

It should’ve clicked sooner that these were the makings of a discipline. Self-flagellation was a dying practice, but of course someone as rigid as Vergil would partake. You’re almost too stunned to move, taken aback by the brushstrokes of red.

‘This is my fault,’ you think to yourself.

Leaning forward, you gently hold his waist and let your mouth brush against the scars, feather-light kisses gracing them. Vergil hisses at first, the raw skin bristling at the contact, but it soon gives way to breathy sighs, relishing in being adorned by your forgiving kisses.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you murmur into his skin, nose inhaling his sweat and scent.

“Christ would come down and dispute that, if he could.”

He turns back around, looking down over his nose at you with a pensive expression. A calloused thumb traces the shape of your bottom lip, his hand tilting your chin back to let the worn-out bulb in the storage room hit your face better. It’s hard not to notice the tremble of his fingers, the slight shake drumming against your skin.

“This…this is wrong,” Vergil’s eyes are fixated on your mouth, transfixed by the soft, plump skin under his digit. “I am undeserving of you, of your flesh,…your soul.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth,” you rebuttal, trying to focus on his words and not his thumb pressed against you lip, the muted smell of cologne radiating off of him, the heat of body between your legs. “If anyone is deserving, it’s you. It’s always been you.”

You lean your head forward and take his thumb into your mouth, tongue lassoing around it. Vergil’s own mouth parts with a throaty moan, reigning back the intrusive thought to shove his whole damn hand in your mouth just to have it touched by you. He slides his thumb out and replaces it with his mouth, desperate to quell the thirst in his lonely heart. You reciprocate immediately, scooting slightly off the table to be closer to him. Hands moving to his belt, Vergil groans into your mouth and shoves his tongue inside, deepening the kiss. Your own hand pulls off the other measly strap on your under-gown, letting it pool at your hips and exposing your chest to the dry air. Breaking the kiss, Vergil shifts back and ogles the new skin with hunger and awe, a single finger leaving a wake of goosebumps as he trails it down to a breast.

“‘You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you’.”

The verse falls from Vergil so softly that your brain almost doesn’t register it, hyper-fixated on his hand now cupping your chest, thumb flicking over your nipple.

“Song of Solomon, 4:7,” you manage to get out, swallowing thickly.

“Correct, dove.”

The smile of pride that appears on his face from your answer makes you melt in his touch, heart soaring. Your own fingers linger on his chest before slowly sliding down to the still-fastened clasp of his slack, glancing between the painful tent in them and his face. Vergil gives you a faint nod and you make work of it, undoing the hardware as he crowds over you, mouth returning to your shoulder to kiss up to your neck. His moan that rings in your ear when you finally free his length makes everything worth it alone, the sound making your heat twitch with unbridled need. Vergil’s hands fall to your hips and pull you closer to him, sweaty fingers clinging to the silk of your fallen gown. Cock pressed against your soaked underwear, his hips buck into them. Your head wobbles back from the smallest sensation, your strained whine making Vergil bite back his own groan. He gives a few more tentative rocks of his pelvis, nose pressed into your neck as he savors the newfound stimulation.

“May I…?”

You feel a hand let go of your hip and slip between your legs, tracing the border of your underwear. You nod embarrassingly fast against him, forehead coming forward to rest on his shoulder. Vergil pushes the fabric to the side and then guides his length to rub against the slick folds, his breathing labored on your skin. That alone probably would’ve made him come if he didn’t have years of self-control to hold him back - the warm and delicate skin of your sex making it hard to form coherent thoughts. He backs away from your neck to look down at you, his other hand meeting your face and caressing your cheek. All he can think about is how blessed he is in this moment, to be so close to the most divine creature he’s ever laid eyes upon. It almost brought tears to his eyes. Almost.

He shifts his hips closer to you and you subconsciously wrap your legs around his hips, ankles locking together behind him. His hand on your cheek moves to card through your hair, pushing back strands that dare to obstruct his view of you.

“Do you recall the Act of Contrition?”

You nod softly at him, eyes fluttering with every twitch of his cock against your nerves or brush of fingers in your hair. “I remember,” you murmur back.

“Good,” his hand between you two positions his head at your dripping slit, not yet pushing it in. “Recite it for me, for us. Can you do that, little bird?”

You forget to answer initially, sparks of pleasure firing in every nerve at just the feeling of him being one push away from entering you. You swallow back the pool of saliva in your mouth and nod again, eyes trying to remain locked on his.

There’s that smile again - that proud, adoring smile of his you’d see in your dreams for the rest of your days. He nods in return and looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to begin.

“My god, I am sorry for my sins with all my hea-, heart, oh my-“

Vergil pushes an inch of himself into you and the fullness makes you shudder. Your hands fly to hold his arms, brow knit together as a croaked moan disrupts your prayer. When you stop speaking, he halts his movement, despite his own desperation screaming in his body to sheath himself.

“Keep…keep going,” he breaths out, face flushing a faint red as your walls squeeze around him.

“-w-with all my heart…in choosing to do wrong and failing t-to do good..”

The descent continues, another inch separating your walls to accept him in. Vergil’s hand in your hair cradles the back of your head, holding it steady and preventing it from lolling away from him. His chest heaves above you as the prayer echoes in the sacristy, mingling with the buzz of the light above.

“I have sinned against you, whom I should love above all things. I firmly in-intend, with your help-“

You pause again, eyes rolling back as he finally hits the hilt. It was unlike anything you’ve felt before, so intimate and fulfilling, like the last puzzle piece of your body was finally put into place. Two souls no longer forming but one soul. Vergil, himself, was having a difficult time staying focused, the hug of your body around him sending signals throughout his limbs. He pulled back out, stopping just short of emptying you.

“-to do penance, to sin no more, to a-a-ahh!”

Vergil shoves himself all the way back in, a growl rumbling his chest. Your vision blurs for a second, the full feeling almost too much. He doesn’t wait for you to keep going, starting a steady, uninhibited pace as he frees himself from the shackles of guilt. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyways - he has felt you, smelled you, tasted you. It was all he needed anymore. The table rocks against the wall, glasses clinking together with the motion. A hand in your hair and a hand on your hip, he ruts over and over and over into your hole, face flushed a sunset red as he moans and gasps for air.

He asked you to recite the prayer, and damn it all, you were gonna comply, regardless of how much you only wanted to praise his name instead. Your nails dig into the skin of his arms, staccato whimpers leaving you as you try to regain your train of thought.

“…to avoid…whatever leads m-me to sin. Our savior, Jesus Christ….Christ-…s-s-suffered and died….for us..”

It was too much. There was only one line left of the prayer and you couldn’t even get it out, reduced to a moaning, heated mess as he clambered into you. Vergil was dripping sweat from his hairline, the beads falling to your face as you stared up at him. He looked like an angel - a faint halo of light around his head from the backlighting of the lamp. Your core tightens at the sight, an unfamiliar buzz forming in your heat from the sight and his ministrations. It felt like your whole body was plugged into a live socket, heart about to beat out of your chest.

“In his name,” Vergil mumbles out, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to finish the prayer and not himself. “Oh, my God…my God, have mercy.”

You mewl under him, hands shifting to hold his back. Your nails dig into the skin and Vergil lets out a mix between a growl and a moan, your fingers attacking the already raw marks on his back from the whip. He doesn’t stop, though, slamming into you repeatedly as he chases that glorious high. With a handful of more thrusts, you’re putty on the table, body taut and snapping as your orgasms ripples through you. It feels like the gates of heaven have opened, trumpets blaring and white light invading your vision. Vergil can’t hold himself back once he sees you give out, the sight of you coming around him making up for every godawful, lonely night of his life. He spills his load deep inside you, shuddering with a guttural groan. Pressed as deep as he can into you, his hips jolt uncoordinatedly as he gives you every last drop, forehead falling to press against yours. His hand on your hip leaves to join the other on your head, cupping your face to his, scared he’ll open his eyes and it’ll be a cruel dream. How could you be real? How could that sinful release he just felt be reality? It must’ve been-

“Vergil.”

His name in your mouth opens his eyes for him, making him take in the sight of you flushed and disheveled from his doing. His half-hard length twitches inside you from the image and you wince a little at the overstimulation, ushering a small laugh from him, from disbelief at what just happened and how delightful you look right now. He gingerly unsheathes himself, the wet sound mingling with the heavy breathing. Vergil can’t stop himself from looking down at where you were once connected, watching his seed muddle with your release as it gushes out of your hole. His mouth waters at the sight, the heady scent taunting him. God, he would lick you clean, if there was time, if you two weren’t shoved in a closet for anyone to walk into.

“Apologies…for…defiling you. I couldn’t ah, pull out in time,” he mumbles out, eyes following the trail of come leaking from you.

“None needed.”

You chuckle, sitting up to pull the straps of your silk gown back over yourself, taking the debauched sight from Vergil’s view. He holds still for a moment before following suit, pulling his pants back up and collecting his shirt off the ground silently. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to bear to you, but he didn’t know where to begin. He averted his eyes from you as you hopped off the table, scooping up your tunic and pulling it over your head.

“I’d like to see you again,” you start, breaking the silence with a reserved whisper. “Possibly…tonight, if you’ll have me.”

Vergil’s eyes flit back to yours at the proposal. ‘If you’ll have me’? Lord, you must have no idea what you do to him. He has to refrain from falling to your feet, kissing your hand and begging you to come to his quarters, wanting to show you just how much he worships the ground you walk on. He resigns to a curt nod, buttoning up his shirt, “Tonight, it is.”

“9’o clock?”

“Sharp. No excuses.”

[mysticbby2009]

Rivals & Revisions Part 6 – This Is Worse Than Hell.

(masterlist) ; (part 1) ; (part 2) ; (part 3) ; (part 4) : (part 5)

Two hours.

You had been stuck in this library with Rafe Cameron for two whole hours, and somehow, you hadn’t committed murder yet. A miracle, honestly.

"Okay," Rafe said, stretching his arms behind his head. "Let’s test your knowledge. Quickfire round. No thinking, just answering."

You sighed. "Do I have a choice?"

"Not at all." His smirk was way too pleased. "Alright—marginal cost?"

"Change in total cost divided by change in quantity."

"Good." He tapped the table. "Law of diminishing returns?"

"As you add more of a variable input, at some point, the additional output will decrease."

"Perfect. Deadweight loss?"

"When the market is inefficient—why are you looking at me like that?" You narrowed your eyes. "Why do you look impressed?"

Rafe shrugged, but the way he was grinning made you suspicious. "Just surprised you actually retained information. You know, since my notes are so useless."

You groaned, shoving your textbook toward him. "You’re so annoying."

"Annoying, but right." He leaned forward, tapping the book. "And speaking of right, this next problem? No way you get it on the first try."

You exhaled sharply, willing yourself to focus, and started solving it. Halfway through, though—

You stalled.

You stared at the equation, pen hovering above the paper, but your mind would not cooperate.

It wasn’t just the econ problem. It was everything. The exhaustion from the past two weeks, the pressure of catching up, the weight of whatever the hell was still dragging you down.

Rafe noticed. Of course he did.

"Hey," he said, and this time, his voice lacked its usual taunting edge. "You’re overthinking it."

You clenched your jaw. "I’m not—"

"You are." He tapped the paper. "Look, you got the first part right. Just finish it."

You tried. You really did. But nothing clicked, and your frustration only grew.

"Jesus," you muttered, shoving the paper away. "I can’t do this right now."

Rafe was quiet for a second. Then—

"Want to take a break?"

You blinked. "What?"

"A break," he repeated, closing your textbook before you could protest. "You’re fried, and I refuse to be blamed when you short-circuit mid-exam."

You huffed, crossing your arms. "I don’t need a break."

"You absolutely do," he said. Then, with a teasing smirk, "Unless you’re scared you’ll fall behind me again?"

You gave him a deadpan look. "This is why people hate you."

"And yet, here we are."

You groaned, but… maybe he had a point.

Maybe, for just a second, you needed to breathe.

So, against your better judgment—

You let Rafe Cameron lead you out of the library, your unfinished problem set temporarily forgotten.

[shake-your-money-maker]

Bourdain (why he stayed trimmed and why he was hooked on Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu): “…I used to hang around cold stairwells first thing in the morning waiting for dope. Now I hang around stairwells waiting for Jiu-Jitsu to open. My then-wife (Ottavia) was a full-time martial artist and invited four of the least likely people she knew to take a private training session in the hope it would be hilariously funny and pathetic. — She picked me, Doug from Big Gay Ice Cream, and two others. I’d never been in a gym in my life. I was 35 pounds overweight, a chain smoker, flabby, zero cardio. Taking stairs was not fun. To my shock and surprise, I endured, barely, that first session… I found it very strategically and intellectually intriguing. I love problem-solving and I also like being the stupidest person in the room. I like being at the foot of a very steep incline where you never reach the top. It’s one of the reasons I like Japan. When I’m not in New York — when I’m on the road shooting Parts Unknown — I go to whatever local gym, yoga studio, garage, cellar claims to teach Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu… places where the term ‘parts unknown’ can really apply. Will the ‘facility’ be an austere, Japanese-style dojo, a freezing garage, an airless, 110-degree closet, a military base, a boxing ring? I have trained in all these places: Glasgow, Maui, Istanbul, Beirut, Budapest, Kuching, Kuala Lumpur, Okinawa, Marseille — and all over the US.“

— Bourdain like most creative artists love to solve creative problems and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is known for the many positive benefits its practitioners reap. The most common is that practitioners learn about self-defense and thus develop a strong body, experience weight loss, and boost self-confidence. While most improvements are seen in a practitioner’s body. — Importantly training Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu forces you to solve and overcome the problem at hand. Live grappling against someone is like solving a puzzle using your body, but the puzzle constantly changes. Problems in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu are dynamic. Once you think you may have answered the problem, the opponent then proposes another problem. On top of that, it requires you to solve dynamic problems under pressure. — As Bourdain solved stressing creative problems in his career with fast and appropriate solutions.

[somedaylazysomeday]

An Emissary of the (Goblin) King

Your quiet life as a teacher falls apart when a student wishes you away. Eventually, Jareth has to decide what to do with you.

Jareth x fem!reader (no use of 'y/n')

*This was written for a request in which the reader was supposed to be plus-sized. As such, there are a few scattered references to weight and body shape.

**Not related to my other Labyrinth works.

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 6,800

Warnings: themes of being forgotten, slight loss of identity, bar flirting, slight harassment, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie.

Masterlist

---

When you had gotten wished away in your thirties, you were… perturbed. 

After all, you had been long past the days of fairy tales and make-believe. Magic was a lovely story element for children, a way to encourage their imaginations and allow them to dream of the impossible. But it wasn’t real. 

At least, that had been your theory between the ages of ten and thirty-something. Then, one of your second-grade students in the after-school tutoring session had gotten upset with you. You had told him that he couldn’t have a second helping of snacks unless he agreed to work on his math problems with you. He had been struggling with subtraction in particular, but was so energetic that it was difficult for him to focus. 

You hadn’t really been able to blame him - it was after school hours and the sun was beginning to set, throwing beams of blazing orange light from beneath a carpet of dark purple clouds. It was the perfect counterpoint to the playfully spooky Halloween decorations you had put up around the room. 

Anyway, when you had insisted that your student sit down and focus on his math sheet before you let him have another handful of gummy worms, he had pouted his tiny face. With an impressive amount of venom for a six-year-old, he said, “Well, I wish the goblins would take you away right now.”

You were still wearing an indulgent smile when you appeared in the straw-strewn throne room with an anticlimactic pop!

The Goblin King was lounging on his uncomfortable-looking throne, watching you with his own indulgent smile. “Wished away by a child, were you? Pity. He likely meant nothing by it, but… well, what’s said is said. I doubt he will opt to run the labyrinth, but let us see if he calls.”

Operating under the idea that you had fallen and given yourself a rather nasty concussion, you simply nodded and took a seat on the cleanest section of the stone floor you could find. It was quiet in the throne room, though you could hear the unmistakable sounds of distant chaos.

It had started small - brushing a piece of straw from the stone slab next to you. It fell into the pit and that made you feel a little better. Then you pushed the straw from the next stone, and the next until the section around you was clear. Then you started using your feet to push the straw down the stairs until it was gathered in a neat pile at the bottom. 

“Would you like a broom?” the man with the wild hair asked. You were cautious when you faced him, but he simply looked amused. 

“And a dustpan, if you don’t mind.”

He shook his head. “Unnecessary.”

You hadn’t bothered asking what that meant. Instead, you applied yourself to neatening the throne room, working from the edges and sweeping all the debris toward the pit in the center of the room. Even the brown dots - ones you hoped were mud but suspected were some kind of dried fecal matter - lifted easily enough under the stiff bristles of the broom. 

At last, the room was clean and you swiped your forearm across your perspiring face. You didn’t know how the pit was going to get clean, but you were going to be miffed if the answer was ‘you’. 

When you caught movement from the corner of your eye, you jumped. You hadn’t forgotten the room’s other occupant - how could you? - but he moved with such impossible silence that you couldn’t track him with hearing alone. 

The man came to stand beside you and you took the chance to study him subtly. He looked… strange.

You shook yourself, reflexively berating yourself for the unkind thought, but you hadn’t been wrong. His face was narrow, flaring out at the cheekbones. His eyes were mismatched, but not in a heterochromatic way. No, one of his eyes was bluish-green while the other was simply black, as if it were entirely pupil. 

His hair was long and straight, though cut at various lengths that left it tapering from his  head down. Like a shag haircut on steroids. You were a little jealous and had vaguely started wondering whether you would be able to pull off the style when he turned. You realized just how tall he was. 

His mismatched stare was heavy and intense, and you redirected your attention as soon as possible. You opted to look at the pit instead, to take in the pile of straw and droppings, but it was gone. 

“What happened to the straw?” you asked, bewildered by the empty pit in front of you.

He smirked, lips twisting with an amusement that didn’t reach his eyes. “I discarded it, of course.”

“No, you didn’t,” you contradicted. “I’ve been standing there the whole time.”

“I used magic,” he clarified.

“Magic isn’t real.” 

The man’s eyes widened, then narrowed at you. “Have you not yet realized that you’re in a different place than you were when you were wished away?” 

“You said that earlier,” you remembered. “‘Wished away’. What do you mean?”

“At last, the typical questions,” he sighed. “Admittedly, far later than they are usually asked. Allow me to explain.”

The explanation that followed had been interesting, if mildly ludicrous: the man was actually a fae named Jareth. He collected lost and wished away items, though the only ones of them people cared enough to chase down were living things. He guarded the Labyrinth, collected the living things that appeared in the Underground - mostly children and pets, as he had explained - and allowed the wishers to run the Labyrinth if they wanted their disappeared item back. 

It could have been a far shorter explanation if you hadn’t been far more convinced by your concussion theory. 

In the end, Jareth had gotten tired of listening to your counterarguments and had sent you to ask Hoggle the rest of your questions. Hoggle had answered your questions… eventually. With a lot of complaining and work between giving those answers. You didn’t mind - work was something to keep you from running in circles in your own thoughts, and you learned a lot about the Labyrinth and the Underground simply by following Hoggle around. 

Jareth didn’t call you back to the throne room for nearly a week. 

“It seems as though your wisher is not going to run for you,” he said, taking on an expression he may have thought looked pitying. “He is at home with his mother, playing and eating and sleeping quite well without another thought of you. Quite the heroic youth."

“He’s six!” you reminded, mildly outraged at Jareth’s censure. “Even if he had offered, I wouldn’t want him running your labyrinth. It’s a death trap.”

Jareth’s expression had flattened at your insult, his mismatched eyes glittering with irritation. “Whether he would have run or not is irrelevant in the end. The real question is: what is to be done with you?”

“I…” You disliked asking questions you already knew the answers to, but there was nothing to be gained by playing things cool. “Could I go back home?”

“No.”

The blunt answer, though exactly what you had expected, still made you wilt. 

Jareth, for all that he made you nervous, didn’t look cruel about it. In a voice that was kinder than you had hoped, he said, “Even if I would agree to send you home, it would be impossible. You have been here too long. You have eaten and drank from the Underground. A single bite, a single sip… those could be reasoned with. Enough to influence a dream, forge a connection. But anything more? You are of this place now, more one of us than one of them.”

You wanted to argue, but something in your chest agreed, some nameless tangle of a thing recognizing that everyone and everything you had known were ‘them’. And you were not. 

Not anymore.

You had expected to be eaten by the Firies or thrown into the Bog or at least turned into a goblin, but Jareth had given you a different job: you were to be his hands and eyes in the human world.

“After all, no one will wish their belongings to me if they are ignorant of my existence,” he had told you. “You will spread information. Books and legends, stories told by firelight and in dark rooms as their occupants drift to sleep.”

And that was your task, had been for an eternity before you thought to check what year it was at all. People didn’t recognize you when you went to the human world, not even if you happened upon someone you had once known. That was fortunately rare, and became more so as the years faded. You didn’t seem to age, not the way you had. Perhaps there was an extra strand of silver in your hair or an aching joint where there never had been before, but it was uncommon. 

Oh, you looked the same as you always had. You could verify that any time you were on the surface. Just then, for instance, you were standing outside of a bar and could see yourself in the shine of the old-fashioned, gilt-edged windows. You were generously curved as you had been before, your face the same shape. 

If you stared too long, though, you could catch something strange in your face, in the way you walked. Nothing overt, of course, but something that made you look… sharp. Wild. It drew some attention when someone watched you for too long. The mask of your humanity - what remained of it, anyway - fell away with exposure. From there, it could go either way. Sometimes, humans fled like prey before a predator. Other times, they hit on you. 

Had humanity always been like this? So willing to run into danger? You didn’t think so, but it was getting difficult to remember. 

Either way, you had barely sat down at the bar and ordered a glass of wine before someone slid onto the barstool beside you. To be fair, you couldn’t be too upset about it. You had been searching for company.

“I’ll pay for that,” the man announced to the bartender. The bartender didn’t look like she could have cared less, but she managed a nod. “So, what’s your name?”

“I’m much more interested in learning yours,” you deflected. 

The stranger beamed at that and you smiled back. If you had your way, he wouldn’t learn your name. Even if he did, he would forget it before the day ended and you would never see him again. You would feel guilty about that, but you needed him for temporary relief from your body’s needs, nothing more. 

He could never be anything more. 

You pushed all of that from your mind and focused on your partner for the evening. He was handsome, the type of person you dated before you were wished away. It was getting harder to remember those days. 

The man’s personality was a little intense, but that tended to ease back a bit after someone realized that you weren’t going to disappear from them… yet.

Two drinks in, you had offered a smile that was almost genuine and were getting ready to suggest a change in location when your chest vibrated.

That wasn’t quite the right way to phrase it, but it was a difficult sensation to describe. It felt as though your ribcage and all of the organs it protected shook in tandem. The closest you had ever come to pinpointing the sensation was to compare it to the ringing of a gong, though thankfully, without the noise of the actual strike. 

The sensation was a warning that the Goblin King wanted you back in the Underground. It would happen more often the longer you ignored the summons, and would eventually grow painful. 

You rarely let it continue that long.

“I have to go,” you told your potential partner, standing abruptly from the stool and handing your credit card to the bartender. “Drinks are on me.”

At least, you assumed it was a credit card. It had no numbers or identification on it and you certainly didn’t have any money, but you had never had trouble paying for anything with it. Jareth had given it to you with minimal explanation. 

“Hang on-” the man protested, catching at your arm. You looked at his hand, then at him. Some of your strangeness must have shown through, since he slowly withdrew. He wasn’t wary enough, since he continued to speak. “What happened? I thought this was going somewhere.”

“It was,” you agreed simply, accepting your card from the bartender and scrawling a series of loops on the receipt she slid toward you. “Now it’s not.”

Fortunately for your almost-partner for the evening, he thought better of trying to physically stop you again and you left the bar unaccosted. 

Transportation to the Underground was rarely as dramatic as it had been that first time. Instead of a sudden, jarring switch in location, it happened as a slow fade. In this instance, you were walking and your surroundings seemed to blur slightly. When you could see clearly once more, you were in the Goblin King's throne room. 

Your forward motion hadn’t stopped, but it was far more risky to keep walking with the goblins thronging around your feet. You looked down at the group currently blocking your way and said, “Excuse me.”

The goblins - who had apparently been occupied in some kind of chicken-based game, shrieked and tumbled to either side. You continued toward the throne. 

For his part, Jareth was pretending he hadn’t noticed you yet. Instead, he was sprawled across his throne and studying the riding crop he had resting across his knees. Most observers would believe he was pensive, utterly lost in thought, but you knew better. Jareth loved to be watched, and if he could convince you that you had chosen to look without any prompting from him, so much the better. 

“You summoned me, sir?” you asked, reaching the base of the throne and offering a small incline of your head. 

Jareth glanced over, managing to look surprised, curious, and haughty. “Yes, I want a report on your progress.”

“Do you mind if I dismiss your subjects?” 

“As if you do not number among them?” Jareth tested, a corner of his mouth quirking upward knowingly. When you simply maintained eye contact, he gave a slight nod. “Very well, if it would please you.”

With effort, you managed not to shake your head at him. You were well able to focus even with the din of goblins around you, but Jareth took any respite he could get from them. 

“Can you all go downstairs for a while?” you asked, directing the question to the room at large. “I need to speak with the king.”

“You’s is speaking to him now,” one squeaky goblin pointed out, sounding sullen. 

Before the others could agree, you quickly cut in and diverted them. “You’re right, I am. But we need to talk about some very boring stuff and we need the room to be quiet. If you want to stay, you can’t make any noise. In fact, you could even help clean the throne room…”

You didn’t have a chance to say anything else, the goblins rushed out of the room in a panicked tide. You smirked at the receding wave of excitable, temperamental creatures. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since you had taught six and seven year-olds, but the goblins weren’t so different from human children. 

When you turned around, Jareth was sitting on the throne like it was a chair rather than a fainting couch. One of his eyebrows was raised and he looked impressed despite himself. “Someday, you must help me gain such mastery over my subjects.”

“Impossible,” you told him flatly. “They’re too focused on impressing you.”

“That has always been my burden to bear,” the Goblin King drawled, preening slightly as you tried not to roll your eyes. 

Jareth was the king. If you were to be technical about it, he was your king. He had left you alive when he didn’t need to. Even more than that, the nature of the job he had given you meant you had certain powers. The Goblin King did not bestow those lightly. You felt like you owed him at least basic respect, if not anything more subservient.

Besides, Jareth had enough people - well, goblins - trying to respond to his every need. You liked to think that he enjoyed the bits of personality you were willing to share with him. 

Rather than voice any of that aloud, you gave a shallow nod. "But you summoned me for a purpose. What do you need?" 

With the amusement still dancing across his fine features, Jareth tilted his head at you. "The work I gave you has never taken so long. I wanted an update on your progress." 

"My…" For the first time since you had found yourself in this strange land, you were thrown off by Jareth. He had never given any deadlines for your work, never ordered you to be done by a specific time. In fact, the opposite had been true. On the rare occasions that you worried about how long something took, Jareth was the first to remind you that he - and, by extension, you - had all the time that would ever exist. 

You managed to scrape together a semblance of competence. "An update. Yes. I can- That is, the work you gave me is complete. I distributed the books, set up special showings of the film, and orchestrated the release of some photographs." 

"All of that has been done?" Jareth checked. When you nodded, he gave you a stern look. "Then why did you not return to me immediately?"

As if on cue, something low in your stomach gave a heaving, disgruntled throb. You had never been overly desire-driven when you were fully human, and you blamed that for your current awkwardness - sex had never been common enough for you to grow blunt about your need for it. But you still had that need, and your body’s complaints were almost enough to drown out the weight of Jareth’s stare. Almost.

“I was in the middle of a different task,” you replied, trying to make it sound as bland as possible. Jareth’s attention span was stronger than that of his subjects, but he still made a concerted effort to avoid boring subjects. “Nothing of importance.”

Jareth studied his hands. “No, I imagine there is not much of importance in a dirty tavern.”

You froze. Not that you had been moving very much before, but every muscle locked down in response to the pointed revelation that Jareth could and did know where you went when you were Aboveground. “I-”

“You?” Jareth repeated mockingly. “Yes, you. You allowed a human to ply you with alcohol, then to paw at you. Though I suspect, given the tone of your conversation, that is far more innocent than what you would have done if I had not summoned you back here.”

“But how-”

Your question cut off abruptly when Jareth made a noise of impatience, tapping his cheekbone twice, just below his human eye.

“You watch me?” you demanded, surprise turning swiftly to anger and embarrassment. “Why?”

Jareth treated the question as literal rather than rhetorical, musing for a moment before he answered. “At first, to see if you intended to flee. It would not have worked, but it is always amusing to see humans try. Then, to be certain that you were performing your tasks to my standards. And finally…” The smile on Jareth’s face was indolent, with more than a hint of mischief. “Simply because I can.”

Glaring at an omnipotent fae king was probably not the wisest thing you could do, but your fury made you bold. “And have you watched me during my personal time before?”

Jareth let his head loll toward you for the best view of his self-satisfaction. “Yes.”

With a barely stifled noise of outrage, you spun with every intention of storming out of the room. Unfortunately for you, the powers Jareth had allotted you were nothing compared to his own. Without a sound or a motion from him, Jareth ordered the heavy doors to swing closed and there was nothing you could do to force them open once more. 

“I do not see why you are so offended,” Jareth told you, conversational tone coming from nearer than his throne. “I am well aware that humans have needs.”

“Then why interrupt me…” Your hissed demand had caught in your throat when you turned to find Jareth much closer than anticipated. The Goblin King twisted his head slightly to one side, matching the smirk that twisted his lips. You cleared your throat. “Why interrupt me when you know I’m occupied? Like you said, I have needs. It doesn’t help anyone if I’m too busy to meet them.”

“You are missing the most obvious solution,” Jareth informed you, spreading his hands to either side. “I can help meet those needs.”

“You?” you repeated skeptically. 

Jareth’s arms dropped and he looked almost offended. “And why not me?”

It may have been a rhetorical question, but you gave it as much thought as he had to your earlier question about his reasoning. “Well, you don’t seem like you would be interested. You don’t usually do things unless you have something to gain.”

“Have I not struck you as altruistic?” he asked. You shook your head, opting for honesty above tact. “Good. You are right, I don’t perform favors out of something as naïve as kindness. I have much to gain from this offer.”

“Like what?” you asked. The suspicion in your voice was so thick as to be almost comical, but Jareth didn’t seem offended.

“Pleasure,” he answered simply. “Do you want to meet your needs now? Or will you wait until the next time you have a spare moment to be disappointed by some human in a bar?”

You thought about waiting, you really did. Jareth was cocky enough without giving him access to something as personal as your pleasure. But you were growing close to desperation. That could make you more likely to be careless in Aboveground, something you weren’t willing to risk.

“You’re right,” you said. “It is the most obvious solution.”

The only thing that saved you from the self-congratulatory smile that slid across Jareth’s face was the fact that you erased it with your lips a moment later.

The Goblin King’s teeth were sharp. It had been one of the first things you noticed when you met him so long ago, but you were still a little shocked to be confronted by that sharpness when you slipped your tongue between his lips. 

Jareth’s surprise rivaled your own, though for different reasons. For half a moment, he seemed taken aback by your ardor, but he recovered and took control of the kiss before you could get used to the taste of him. He was like the sweetest wine, and you were instantly addicted.

A hand latched around your jaw kept your head positioned just where Jareth wanted it, and he swept through you like a hurricane. It was all you could do to keep up with him, but you were the first one to succumb to wandering hands. 

His clothes were always so decadent, and you had been waiting a long time to see if they felt as lovely as they looked. You were delighted to say that they did - textures sliding and dancing beneath your fingertips - but you were more focused on what you felt under those clothes.

The heat of Jareth’s skin was immense even through his clothing, enough to pull an answering sensation of heat from you. Every item of clothing you removed from him ratcheted the temperature further up until you felt like there was fire under your skin. 

Halfway through removing Jareth’s ostentatious cape, you pulled away to deposit it safely on his throne. It wouldn’t do to have it trampled by goblins or, worse, land in chicken excrement. 

Jareth muttered complaints for every moment you were away from him, pulling you impatiently closer the moment you were in arm’s reach. “I don’t know why you did that. I intend for that throne to be our next destination.”

You cast an assessing glance toward the door. It looked heavily barred, and you hadn’t been able to budge it, but there was a distinct possibility… “Fine with me, as long as you’re sure we won’t be interrupted. I don’t want to toss any of your subjects from the window of your throne room.”

“The door is locked,” he assured you, ducking his head to press wet kisses down your neck before blowing gently across his handiwork. 

With a shiver at the abrupt shift in temperature, you nodded. “And no goblin has ever managed to circumvent a locked door before.”

Jareth paused, clearly intent on undoing your shirt, but gave a marvelously exasperated groan. “Fine.”

Your triumph was cut off by an abrupt shriek as Jareth pulled you into his arms so strongly that your feet left the floor. “Jareth! What are you doing?”

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this, pet,” he replied, pouting. “I’m not wasting any more time.”

And then he was striding toward a section of the throne room that looked distinctly… soft around the edges, and you recognized it as a portal. All of that was secondary, of course, to the ever-present awareness of being held in Jareth’s arms. 

As someone with a proud set of curves, you could count on one hand the number of times you’d been lifted by a lover. That was a shame, since being carried was something of a weakness for you, especially when you weren’t worried about being dropped. And nothing in Jareth’s expression or posture warned that he was about to run out of strength. 

You were still basking in the sensation as Jareth stepped through the portal and into a room that was nearly as large as the throne room. The major differences were that there was no pit and that the place of the throne was occupied by the largest bed you had ever seen. 

A smile stretched across your face as Jareth set you down on that large bed, and he frowned at you. “What is amusing you?”

“This bed is enormous,” you explained. “Yet I’ve never seen you with anyone.”

“I’ve had a partner here on numerous occasions,” he told you haughtily. “Perhaps you have not seen them because you are so busy finding partners among the humans.”

“Perhaps,” you agreed readily enough. “Or perhaps it has been such a long time that your last partner and I missed each other.”

“That…” Jareth’s lips pursed, “...is possible.”

You didn’t necessarily remember closing your eyes while you laughed at that, but you must have. When you opened them once more, Jareth was looming over you. “Pleased as I am to provide amusement, there are other noises I would rather pull from you.”

Your breath caught at the rough admission. Jareth’s face descended before you could scrape up a response, and then you were too concerned with meeting the intoxicating rhythm of his mouth against yours. 

The next thing you knew, you were resting more securely on the bed with Jareth holding himself above you. Both of you were fully naked and you had no idea how you had gotten that way. Most likely, he had used his magic to remove your clothing, but it was possible that you had been too thoroughly distracted by his kisses to worry about something as minor as what his hands were doing. 

In any case, you were reveling in the way your hands could roam over him without encountering any barriers. Jareth’s body was pale, muscles dancing subtly under his skin. That paleness was marked with occasional scars - silvery marks that spoke of injuries from long ago. You couldn’t see much of him below the mid-torso since he was pressed so tightly to you, but you could feel the delicious length of him, hot and hard against your thigh. 

When Jareth finally pulled away, he only went far enough to make eye contact without either of you crossing your eyes. “I want to taste you. Is that acceptable to you?”

“You’re the king,” you reminded him with a sardonic smile. 

Jareth’s jaw flexed and his mismatched eyes narrowed. “Precisely. Which is why I expect an honest answer when I ask a question. Do you want this?”

“Yes.” The confirmation was a little breathless, but Jareth’s reply had been unexpected for someone who placed such an emphasis on retaining control. “Yes, I do.”

“Good,” he told you with a nod. 

His patronizing tone might have set your teeth on edge, but Jareth accompanied it with a praising stroke down the length of your body. His fingertips trailed fire from your collarbone, over one breast, across the swell of your stomach, and down to the part of you that was aching for him. At the same time, he slid down until his face was even with your hips and you could hardly keep still with the anticipation filling you. 

With your knees already parted around him, Jareth had only to wedge his shoulders between your thighs to gain full access to your core. The sudden exposure to the air of the room sent a chill through the parts of you that were burning the hottest, but the coolness only heightened the sensations. 

Jareth didn’t give you any warning, any time to brace. Instead, he ducked his head suddenly, swiping the flat of his tongue from the bottom of your slit to the very top. He paused for a moment while you made a sound of startled pleasure, his lips quirking. 

“Delicious,” he told you. “I wonder if you’re even sweeter inside?”

Before you could offer any reply, Jareth apparently decided to see for himself. One of your legs was tossed over his shoulder while he pinned the other to the bed. That was the only thing that kept you from trying to strangle him with your thighs when he began to torment you in earnest. 

Those plush lips and wicked tongue explored every part of you, wringing pleasure from you like it was something precious he could save for later. 

An elegant finger pushed into your core, pressing into the heat and slickness of you without a bit of difficulty. Your muscles spasmed so dramatically that it forced you to sit up - or, more accurate, to try. Jareth’s arm across your hips kept you pinned to the bed, leaving you to writhe, squeeze your legs around him, and cry out your pleasure loud enough for the entire castle to hear. The hand pressing you into the softness of the mattress strummed fingers across your hip.

With an expression that felt wild with pleasure, you stared down between your own thighs and clenched even harder around that finger. Your eyes had met Jareth’s mismatched gaze where it peeked over the roundness of your tummy. Mischief glimmered on what you could see of his face, and there was a clear sense of enjoyment in his bearing. 

That eye contact sent an electric thrill through you, and you were gone. Your head kicked back against the pillow and you seemed to leave your body for an eternity, shattering into infinite pieces under the onslaught of pleasure Jareth was using to assault you.You may have made a noise - probably had, if you were judging from your experience so far - but you couldn’t hear it over the way your ears rang with the sound of your mind shattering. 

When you finally settled back into your body again, it felt too small to possibly contain everything you had felt. Jareth was applying long, luxurious licks to your core, sweeping over the entirety of your slit and it was all you could do to push him away. 

Jareth gave you a moment to collect your breath, but soon enough, he was peering down at you with no small amount of pride on his strange face. “Will you recover?”

You were a bit embarrassed by the strength of your reaction to him, but you managed a smile and a nod. “Guess I needed that more than I thought. It’s been a while.”

The fae tilted his head to the side, a hint of a smile showing the white points of his teeth. “My dear, do you honestly believe I have lived so long without learning to draw pleasure from someone? Your state of arousal has little to do with it.”

The post-orgasmic glow kept you from mustering the scoff that deserved. After delivering a sad little huff, you told him, “Humble as ever, Goblin King.”

“I would so hate to leave you with an inaccurate idea of my skill,” Jareth drawled. “I would be happy to provide further proof at your earliest convenience.”

Your breath caught in your throat, leading to an embarrassing cough. On the positive side, that cough gave you a moment to internally puzzle through that. Was Jareth volunteering to do this again sometime? He was technically your boss and your king, and thus a romantic connection you had never experienced before, but you couldn’t honestly say you wouldn’t be with him again. Even ignoring the pleasure - difficult as that was - you… really wouldn’t mind repeating this experience. 

“Uh, okay,” you said elegantly. 

Jareth simply smiled at you, but something about his intent gaze warned that he understood your thoughts as clearly as he did his own. Still, all he said aloud was, “Did that satisfy you, pet? Or would you perhaps like to continue?” 

Before you could fight it, your gaze dropped to the apex of his thighs. He was visibly hard and ready for you, his body betraying an eagerness that was totally hidden in his expression. Despite his state of arousal, Jareth was still giving you the option to be done with him. As he was known for his lack of tact, you recognized and appreciated the effort Jareth was putting into making you comfortable. 

And what better way was there to show your appreciation than to offer some relief?

“I think I might need a little more,” you told him, playing coy. You even added a demure drop of your gaze, though you could see him through your lashes. 

That was how you watched when Jareth’s expression sharpened, though his voice stayed careless. “I don’t believe in offering partial respite. I shall see this task through until it is complete.”

The smile that fought to spread across your face was only stifled by the way Jareth caught at your ankle and pulled you further down the bed. He surged upward at the same time until you were firmly beneath him. The fae dotted your face, jaw, and neck with kisses as he settled heavily on top of you. Your legs parted automatically to wrap around his waist and draw him closer, but you were taken aback when the length of him pressed against your still-sensitive core.

You were still surfing the wave of heightened sensation when you felt the tip of Jareth’s length notch into your opening. 

Jareth’s fingers trailed from your forehead down to your jaw, turning your head until he could peer into your face. “Are you ready for me, pet?”

“Yes,” you agreed eagerly. “Please…”

“Don’t beg, sweet thing,” he instructed. “You never need to beg for me.”

And then he was driving into you - robbing you of any ability to process that.

Jareth had seemed to have an average build below the waist, as you had expected from his elegant physique and slender limbs. Still, he felt earth-shattering as he eased inside of you, enough to take your breath away even considering how wet you were with the remains of your earlier orgasm. 

You were utterly still as he pressed in, locked in place by the amount of concentration you had fixed on the feeling of him. But the first time he withdrew from the depths of you, every part of you writhed beneath him. Your hands grasped, your toes curled, your head tilted in an attempt to ease the groan that fought for release from your throat. 

Jareth swallowed that groan, dipping down easily to sweep through your mouth just as thoroughly as he had the first time. He plundered you greedily, feeding on the sounds you made for him as his hips danced closer and away, closer and away. 

Infuriatingly, he kept you - and himself - poised on the edge of orgasm for an eternity, slowing whenever either of you came too close to the precipice. Jareth chased pleasure eagerly, though, tormenting you with fingers and lips to push you higher without allowing you the relief of release.

“Jareth, please,” you begged as his hips slowed once more.

He arched a brow at you. “Yes, pet? What do you need?”

“I-” You gave a hoarse gasp as a deliberate twist of his hips left the length of him brushing against your g-spot. It was followed by a noise of frustration when his pace slowed to a fraction of what it had been. “Please, I need to come.”

His smile was so sudden that it looked almost fierce. “My dear, why did you not tell me earlier?”

A retort sprang to your lips, but it died there as he shifted infinitesimally inside of you. That minor change had devastating effects on the angle of his thrusts inside of you, which picked up speed until it was all you could do not to drown in him. 

Your body tightened around his as it had done so many times before, but he didn’t slow this time. Instead, his lips caught yours as his thumb strummed your clit.

That kiss was only broken when your orgasm hit you like a train, kicking your head back and dropping your mouth open so you could cry out from the incredible intensity of the pleasure that filled you. Your limbs curled around Jareth, constricting to keep him pressed against you as tightly as possible.

On his side of things, Jareth didn’t seem inclined to fight his imprisonment. His hips pistoned between your trembling thighs, burying himself in you over and over until - finally - his rhythm faltered. 

Those sharp teeth were bared in a snarl as he pushed himself as deeply as he could get. The warmth of his release flooded you. 

When the frantic pulses of his hips slowed, Jareth let himself drop on top of you. His weight was on you for a fraction of a second before he twisted to pull you on top of him instead. Since he was still buried in your core, the motion left you in the grip of an aftershock, but you recovered enough to move off of him. 

Jareth’s eyes were closed, but his hands lashed out to keep you from moving as soon as you started to. “I don’t know where you think you’re going, pet, but you are mistaken.”

“I’m just rolling off of you, Jareth,” you told him, exasperated. “If I crush you, it’ll be regicide and I can’t imagine a goblin trial is pleasant.”

“It isn’t,” he agreed, eyes still closed. “But mostly because they show an inability to focus on a single issue for more than seconds at a time. And as for being crushed by you… Not only is it an impossibility, but it sounds rather pleasant.”

“Jareth…” you sighed. 

That made him open his mismatched eyes and you were startled to see the changes in them. The blue-green of his human eye was expanding both toward the pupil and over the white sclera. The pupil-less darkness of his fae eye was doing the same, slowly working out until the entire orb of his eye was dark. 

When Jareth finally spoke, it was with a smile that showed his sharp teeth. “Did you know there is a difference in the way you say my name now?”

You paused, scanning over his face for a moment before you asked, “And what does that mean?”

Jareth didn’t immediately answer you, but his smile didn’t fade during the stretch of quiet. At long last, he said, “It means that things have changed between us. It means that I encourage you to seek to satisfy your needs in my bed. And it means that I chose the perfect person to serve as my emissary in the human world.”

That was significantly less worrisome than what you thought he would say. In fact, it was even… sweet. “I certainly never thought I would end up here, but I can’t say that I regret it.”

“Faint praise,” Jareth said dryly. “But praise nonetheless. We shall see whether we can further improve your outlook on your place in my kingdom.”

“I look forward to that,” you admitted, relaxing slightly into him. 

Jareth’s arms tightened around you, drawing you even closer. “As do I.”

---

Author's Note - Thanks for reading! I'm not officially accepting requests, but someone sent this one in and it caught my interest enough to help me break through some writer's block.

Happy Halloween!

I don't offer a taglist for spicy fics, but you can find other works on my masterlist.

[ladymrf]

so I'm back with more sad (?) sht

....

"I thought you were off the streets today?"

The voice modified by the helmet reaches Tim, he doesn't turn to acknowledge Jason, just waits for him to approach, Jason comes to the edge of the roof and looks at what Tim is observing hidden.

A few rooftops away, Batman and Robin fight a fair amount of thugs, Bruce and Damian alone, they are good, of course they are, familiar fighting styles and Tim swears he saw Bruce smiling at Damian's skills at some point.

"What? Planning to pull a Red Hood on the kid? No offense Red, but we both know the problem is the Bat, never the Bird."

Tim frowned and looked at Jason in confusion.

"What? No. I mean, sure it sucks to be replaced by a kid after having been through so much shit in that position, but no, God, I can't pull a Hood on the kid, that would be stupid… No offense."

Jason knew very well that he meant to offend.

"So? What are you doing here? Reviving the old habit of stalking?"

"No, I just needed to make sure you two were well adjusted to each other, I'm pleased with what I've seen so far." Tim stepped away from the edge of the roof "Finally free."

"Of what?"

"Of the weight." Tim answered easily, he looked at Jason with a hint of curiosity "I understand all the bitterness of losing the mantle and the place in the family, I really understand Hood, but didn't you feel relief?"

Jason considers in silence for a long time, Tim realizes that probably not, Jason was dealing with a lot more along with the loss of all aspects of his life in Gotham, he had lost his life in general, so he rephrased the question.

"After you stabilized a bit, wasn't it better? Easier to breathe? Without all that weight."

"Robin should never be heavy, kid." Jason looked at him, Hood's helmet conveyed the expression of displeasure very well "It should be light, because birds must fly."

"Hm. I guess you and N. were always stronger than me then." He looked back at the place where the fight was taking place "I think D. will be the lightest of us." Tim shook his head and smiled "I hope so."

"What were you talking about before? About relief."

"Isn't it a relief not to be responsible for Batman anymore?" Tim asked bluntly, Hood just blinked "If we're not Robin, we're not subject to his shit, I mean, fuck if the patrol sucks, fuck if something puts him in a bad mood, fuck if he's angry. It's not our problem anymore. It's not our responsibility to try to make him see reason. To bring him back from his dark mind to the real world. To be the light. That's Robin's job."

Jason is silent, he stares at Tim completely surprised at how relieved the boy seems, it's like a weight is lifted off him with each sentence, it's like Tim is returning to his normal posture after being crushed for years.

"Don't you think that's a lot of responsibility for a child?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, but D. will do fine, he has plenty of people on his side to intervene if something goes off the rails." Tim shrugged and with more bitterness than he should have said the next part "Someone always intervenes for him. Besides, he has Nightwing."

"We both had him too."

"Not the way he does it, you know that." Tim laughed at Jason's speech "Well, it's not my problem. Not anymore. Dealing with B. is Robin's responsibility and the current one will have to deal with it."

"You're telling me, that the first time B screws the boy over, because he will, you and I both know, you won't jump in to solve the problem?"

Tim looks at Jason, really looks at him with a look that borders on physical pain.

"Of course I'll go." Tim says easily, "Because I want to, because Robin is a child and we have to protect children, not because I need to keep B in line. It's good to do things because you want to, not because you have to."

Jason almost asks if someone ever jumped between Batman and Tim's Robin, if someone ever interfered in their disputes, if someone looked at the boy walking next to the bat and saw a child and not the sidekick.

He knows the answer, Jason himself hasn't done it before.

Instead, he sighs and says, "Want to go blow up a gang downtown?"

Red Robin smiles at him, "Yes, please."

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

Part 1 | . . . | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Just then Eddie walks in, raising his brows at the veritable mountain of food Steve and Eleven are putting together. “What’s all this?”

Steve smiles warmly at him. “Hey, Eds,” he says, which is certainly an experience. He’s spoken roughly twice with the guy—in his memory—but Steve’s three chapters—nay, three books ahead. Eddie is Frodo, about to embark on his first journey, and Steve is Bilbo, or even Gandalf: someone who’s done this all before, whose eyes carry the weight of worlds.

Speaking of, Steve’s eyes dim slightly the longer Eddie takes to answer, so he waves his fingers at Steve, trying to ignore the swoop in his stomach when Steve’s smile brightens again. “So… what’s this?”

“Dinner,” Eleven answers. “We are making sandwiches.”

Eddie nods, because sure. Why not. “Okay.”

“How’s the song coming?” Steve asks, and the swoop returns, because not only is Steve asking, but he’s asking about Metallica, and Eddie’s gay, metal little heart can’t take it.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out, grinning. “It’s so good, oh my god. I mean, it’s gonna take a bit to learn, but it’s gonna be the most metal solo I’ve ever done.”

Steve’s smile dims again. Probably because he’s remembering what happened last time, i.e., Eddie’s death. Eddie pushes down the queasy feeling.

“Eddie,” Eleven says.

“Yeah?”

She turns to face him. Her eyes are more serious than any twelve-year-old’s eyes have any right to be. “You will be okay,” she says. Then, apropos of nothing, “And I can move things with my mind.”

Eddie blinks at that. Apparently his face is doing something, because Steve chimes in. “She can.”

“I can show you,” she volunteers.

“Anything but the utensils,” Steve says in a distracted voice, like this isn’t the first time he’s had this conversation. Eddie wants to laugh hysterically, or maybe cry. Smoking a joint seems like the best third option, except all his stuff is at home. Fuck.

Then she does, lifts a whole cutting board—complete with tomatoes— and moves it over to him. He resists the impulse to snatch a piece and eat it. He doesn’t even like tomatoes, what the fuck, brain.

Steve’s watching with an amused little smile, like he can somehow read Eddie’s mind. That legitimately wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen today, so Eddie does his best to stop thinking about it, because he doesn’t think he can deal with more than one real-life superpower right now.

“I need that back, El,” Steve murmurs, and she grins at him before zipping it back over, stopping it just before it hits his face. He nods, brows raised, impressed. “Nice control. Put it down and go wipe your nose, please.”

She does, Steve watching her as she goes, fond little grin on his face. “She’s a good kid.”

“She can move things with her mind.”

“Yeah. Honestly, that’s one of the easier things to get used to. Y’know one of the craziest things, to me?”

“Do I want to know?” Eddie asks hesitantly.

Steve just grins at him. “Jonathan Byers has this baseball bat that he sticks a bunch of nails in.”

Eddie blinks at him. “What the actual fuck.”

Steve nods. “I took it, sometime back during the first year. Actually,” he thinks about it, “what month are we in?”

“Um. October.”

Steve winces. “Great. October…”

“Um. Twenty-fourth.”

Steve hums and thinks. “In about… less than a week, actually, I think—I don’t really know, the concussion messed up my days—oh, hey!” He suddenly says excitedly, then raises his voice. “Rob!”

Robin pops her head in a moment later. “What’s up?”

He grins at her. “No concussions!”

She stares. Slowly, a grin spreads across her face. “Holy shit!” She says. “No concussions!”

“No memory loss!”

“No hearing loss!”

“No eyesight problems!”

She freezes. “Steve. You were having vision issues?”

“Um. Not anymore?”

She groans. “Since when?”

“Um…” he thinks, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “Billy, I think. At least that’s the first time I really noticed it.”

She sighs. “I’m going to murder you.”

“Are not.”

“In cold blood.”

“Are not.”

“Nancy’ll help.”

Steve considers this. “She might. She’d be good at it.”

They both pause for a moment, then Robin turns to leave. “I’m gonna go make sure Jon doesn’t give you a concussion this time.”

“Have him make the nail bat, too!” Steve calls as she leaves.

“What,” Eddie says desperately, “the fuck.”

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[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddiemicrofic April challenge.

All Alone

April Prompt: Fool | Word Count: 454 | Rating: T | CW: Fear of Mortality, Prior Parental Loss, Prior (Unnamed) Health Problem, Anxiety | Tags: Eddie POV, Established Relationship, Long-Term Relationship, Steve Harrington and His High EQ, Beloved Wayne Munson, Everybody Lives, Happy Ending

The overhead light in the bedroom flickers on, and Eddie buries his head deeper into the pile of pillows on the bed. 

He's not getting up. 

"Eddie," Steve says, gently. Quietly. 

"I'm fine," Eddie mutters from under the linens, but he's sure he's not very convincing. 

"The hospital called," Steve says, and Eddie's whole body tenses with blinding, overwhelming fear. "Wayne can go home tomorrow. After lunch." 

And it's good news. Something to celebrate. But something catches in his throat and he chokes out a sound, somewhere between a whine and a cry. 

He's a grown man, unable to get out of bed, and he feels like a fool. 

"He's fine," Steve says softly, sitting down on the bed, rubbing Eddie's back. 

Sure, Wayne's fine. For now. But someday he won't be. Someday Eddie will be all alone, and the weight of that knowledge suffocates him. The fear of it. The inevitability. 

His mom is dead. His dad is dead. He has no siblings. Grandparents, all dead. He has Wayne. That's it. That's all that's left of his family. Wayne, the only connection left to his childhood. 

Wayne, keeper of the memories, answerer of the questions. 

"Hey, remember when…"

And Wayne will remember. 

"And what was…?"

And Wayne will know. 

But Wayne will go someday, and he'll take those secrets with him. 

Then, Eddie will have no family left. 

"Eddie," Steve says, "talk to me." 

And he can't. 

He can't tell Steve, the love of his goddamn life, his family, this. Steve is his family. He is. They've chosen each other. Over and over, year after year. 

Steve's his future.

But he's not his past. Not his beginnings, even as fucking rough as they might have been, more often than not. 

"Honey, he's okay. I promise," Steve says gently. 

It's foolish, this preemptive mourning. This wallowing. 

"Wayne's gonna die someday, and I'll be all alone," Eddie chokes out, and he hopes Steve doesn't take it the wrong way. 

He doesn't. 

"I know how scary that is," Steve says, and Eddie relaxes. Steve probably does know. He's an only child, too. With only his mom left, now. It's scary.

Maybe they can be scared together.

A week later, Wayne's on the couch, recovering, and Eddie is buzzing around the room.

Steve's sitting right next to Wayne, notebook in hand. Taking extensive notes. An oral history. 

Steve won't ever have been there, but he'll have Wayne's own words to reference. 

"...and the little fool thought he could drive my car. Couldn't even reach the pedals. Rolled it right into the shed," Wayne says, and Steve laughs.

Eddie had forgotten that. 

And Eddie smiles, standing in the kitchen, listening to his past share secrets with his future.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiemicrofic and follow along with the fun! ❤️

[macgyvermedical]

can you talk a little about wegovy and muonjaro for weight loss?

The answer is maybe.

If it were just the drugs themselves, I'd say absolutely. But there is a surprising amount of cultural baggage associated with these medications, and I don't really know that I can do them justice.

So first, let's talk about weight. There's a fantastic book called "Fat Talk" by Virginia Sole-Smith, about being overweight or obese in an age that prioritizes thinness, and how diet culture in particular is a threat to young people. Another, called "Intuitive Eating" by Elyse Resch, discusses how calorie restriction- commonly cited as the "way" to lose weight along with exercise- only works once or twice, because our bodies get wise to it and want to hold onto fat.

Humans evolved to gain weight. Fat is how we store energy for times when we might not have enough to eat. And if "not having enough to eat" (whether because of famine or because of calorie restrictive dieting) happens repeatedly, we have evolved to change hormones and metabolism so we a) don't need as much food to stay alive and b) are primed to eat more food than we need when it is available.

Aren't human bodies cool?

In the medical world, there are a lot of things tied to weight. For example, statistically, being overweight or obese means you're more likely to have health conditions like high blood pressure, diabetes, and heart disease. It is unclear, though, if those problems are caused by the weight itself, or other dietary, activity, and behavior patterns that may also happen to contribute to the weight gain. Things like a sedentary lifestyle, frequent consumption of foods with low nutritional value, avoidance of medical care due to stigma, or even chronic calorie restrictive dieting.

Unfortunately, due to this statistical tie, there is a lot of effort made in the medical world to get patients to "lose weight at any cost" instead of recommending dietary, activity, and behavior changes for health reasons alone.

Culturally as well, we prioritize thinness as attractiveness. I remember in high school there was a poster in my health classroom that read "Ideal weight- or it might be hard to get a date!". There are lots of negative associations with people who carry more weight, including that they are lazy or stupid- things that have nothing to do with body size.

Now, that doesn't mean that there aren't things that could be benefits of losing weight. For example, joint and back pain can be improved with weight loss. But weight loss is probably not the end-all be-all cure-all it's touted to be.

Because it is really hard for most people to meet this standard of "lose weight at any cost", there has long been medications that purportedly help people lose weight. Most of these medications have been stimulants, which decrease appetite and make it more comfortable to engage in calorie restrictive dieting. They also increase energy, which can make it easier to exercise or tolerate more exercise than would otherwise be possible.

Before we talk about the drugs, I want to say- there are risks and benefits to all medications, including these! The discussion you should always have is what risks are you and your healthcare provider willing to tolerate for the potential positive outcome. Also, this is a discussion of the drugs when used for weight control. The same drugs used for diabetes are at different dosages and have potentially different risk/benefit comparisons.

Ozempic/Wegovy (semaglutide) and Mounjaro/Zepbound (tirzepatide) are both a type of medication called a GLP-1 agonist. GLP-1 agonists are also called incretin mimics, because they mimic a type of hormone (incretin) that tells the brain and body that it is full. This makes it easier to eat a small amount of high nutrition food and feel satisfied. They also work by increasing metabolism. Between the decreased consumption and the increased metabolism, weight is lost.

Over the course of a year and a half, tirzepatide causes about 15-20% average reduction in body weight with continued use. Over the course of about the same time, semaglutide causes an average of about 15% body weight reduction with continuous use. Say, for example, you weigh 100kg. A year and a half on one of these medications could get you down to 85kg.

The problem is, as soon as that drug is withdrawn, the body realizes it was starving, and tries to compensate. These drugs are good at getting rid of weight, but maintaining a new weight usually means staying on a lower dose of the drug perpetually. Most people regain all weight (and potentially more than they lost) within 5 years of stopping the drugs.

Some studies suggest that repeatedly regaining lost weight may be more detrimental to health than remaining overweight or obese when it comes to statistical risk of type 2 diabetes, heart disease, and other "weight-associated" illnesses.

The main side effects are GI-related. Most of these are nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, gas/bloating, constipation, dizziness, and abdominal pain. More severe side effects include pancreatitis (inflammation of the pancreas) and gasteroparesis (paralysis of the stomach and part of the digestive tract).