#but its the only way i can deal with the ending

[ohmy-gojo]

"is nanami sensei pouting?!?!"

"what??"

megumi followed his classmate's gaze to see his ever so stoic, calm and level headed sensei, pouting. although that is kinda an overstatement, he just looks sad, with furrowed brows and somewhat jutted lips. kind of like a kicked puppy (megumi loves puppies ok)

he is curious to know the reason now, what is making the only person with a functioning brain here, pout? it is expected from someone like gojo, who pouts whenever his sweets run out or when his wife scolds him for pranking his students, seeing which never fails to make him cringe and want to die. but nanami?

"he is sad because his wife has a mission overseas."

shoko informed him and his classmates who were curious about their sensei's dilemma. she continued, "(name) has been assigned to an overseas mission with yuuta, meaning she will have to stay there for 3 days. which is not a lot if you ask me, but oh well." she shrugged

it is true. 3 days is definitely not a long period. is it really such a big deal that it made his no nonsense sensei sulk? megumi is pretty sure he can stay just fine without his girlfriend (or so he tells himself)

while megumi was deep in his musings, you went up to your dear husband who was drowning in his misery. he saw you and immediately his frown softened

"do you really have to go..?"

"its the higher ups order, ken," you gently smiled and brushed his hair aside

"i know, i just.. i will miss you."

"dont you worry," you pecked his cheek "i will be back before you know!"

he scoffed lightly, "easy for you to say miss, the house becomes way too quiet and empty without you there, i also cant stay here without missing you," he became sad once again just by imagining the situation

you giggle at your cutieful husband and cup his cheeks "i will miss you just as much, but we will video call! and i will also make sure to text you every updates that you will think im right next to you!"

he smiled lightly, "you better do."

and even though you called and texted him as you promised, it wasnt enough for nanami and he ended up joining you on your mission on the very first day. he cant be deprived of his wifey time, damned be sorcery. hes not sorry at all! :p

[nanamiskentos]

SCORCHED EARTH ✤ (五条 悟, gojo satoru)

── NO GOD, THE ONLY MAN IN THE SKY IS ME. Gojo Satoru is the nation's treasure, and its most dangerous asset. In a world where Supes are lauded as celebrities and heroes, there's only a select few that sees superheroes for what they really are ─ cogs in the propaganda machine, corrupt and lecherous. You're determined to hunt down the golden boy that leads them, to find Gojo Satoru and bring him down. But he's just as obsessed with you, and he gets to you first.

➤ 𝐉𝐉𝐊, gojo satoru & afab!reader, wc ─ 5k

cw ─ MDNI. enemies to lovers, THE BOYS AU, love/hate sex, HOMELANDER GOJO 😁, superhero au, cat & mouse dynamics, vigilante!reader, evil!gojo to some extent, mentions of a plane crash to be safe, kitchen sèx, breaking n' entering but they're into that, súb!gojo if u squint, fíngèring, òral (f), usage of powers, 3x01 homelander/butcher inspired, BIG DÍCK GOJO!!

呪術廻戦 : 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ( author says ) s/o to the evil man who inspired the gojo in this fic. and these scenes: 1/2 ofc (i'd rec watching to understand who reader/gojo is also inspired by). art, gojouify.

A ballpoint cap balances between your teeth as you scribble furiously, blue ink streaking across a spare napkin. The address is way too far out, a shipping container, two hours away and tucked into the skeletal maze of the port.

"This is a long drive for a maybe." You press the phone tighter against your ear, frowning at the scrawled numbers and letters, "You're sure I'll find something?"

On the other end, Nanami exhales sharply, the sound of a clock ticking faintly over the static. He's still in the office, no doubt hunched over a desk lit by the sickly glow of a desk lamp.

"Well," he hedges, ever the careful one, "I wouldn't go alone."

You tip your chair back, gaze drifting to the chaotic sprawl of files pinned to the red-string board by the wall. Photographs, names, offshore accounts that all lead back to the same festering rot. Lawmakers, politicians and billionaires.

The smiling, all-powerful titans who owned the system that was supposed to hold them accountable.

At the centre of it all? Gojo Satoru. The strongest superhero that the world had ever seen, barely held in check by Vought and international courts.

You chew at the soft inside of your cheek, "And you're sure this is the best lead we have?"

"After that shitshow at Congress?" Nanami sounds tired, stretched far too thin, "This is the only lead we have, or the only thing that I can find right now."

Ah, yes. The hearing.

The day you almost had them — Gojo, Vought and every polished, pre-packaged lie they peddled. A smoking gun to set the set the system ablaze.

And then, you could only watch the live television stream as every key witness's head popped like a balloon. Blood spraying against mahagony desks, gray matter splattered across the Capitol.

And not many had managed to escape that room unscathed. Save for a select few politicians and reporters, dealing out breathless, shaken interviews alongside an unshaken Gojo Satoru and Congressmen Geto.

You exhale through your nose, fingers tightening around the napkin, "Yeah, I'll check it out. See if I can find somethin' to nail that cunt."

"Let me know what you find," Nanami intones, a pause. And then, in a far more cautious tone, like he already knows you won't take heed, "Stay safe. And if you do come across Gojo, do not engage with him. In any way."

The line clicks dead.

You toss the streaky pen aside, reaching instead for the amber bottle on the cluttered table, the burn of whisky that's begging to be made familiar once more.

Regardless, it's far too late now to head out and check the address, for night has fallen and you doubt you'll manage to get far.

Beyond the murky glass of your balcony doors, the city pulses with sleepless energy. Neon signs flickering like dying embers, billboards — no doubt plastered with the airbrushed faces of the Supes who run this nation.

Sirens wail in the distance, and somewhere, far beyond the skyline you swear you see it.

A streak of white and blue, fast as lightning, splitting the sky for a fraction of a second. You blink, gummy and dry, nothing. Just the tired hallucinations of an exhausted, paranoid mind.

Pretending that there isn't a ghost in the sky watching you right back.

Your apartment is dying.

The walls peel like old skin, flaking onto the floors that were never properly finished. The overhead light's flickering, buzzing with a weak and dying hum. And the power outlets sputter like they resent being used. It's not a home, it never really was. Just another hideout, another temporary grave you haven't had to lie down in yet.

You press your knuckles into your eyes, willing the exhaustion away, but it sits heavy in your bones. Haven't you been running long enough? But even now, even here, you know it's not enough.

Because he knows. Gojo Satoru must have caught onto your trail months ago, and you can feel it in the way that the law often seems to let you go, and nation-wide manhunts culminate in no harm done. Like Gojo's toying with you.

Your fingers skim over the mess of papers on the table, stopping beneath a stack of unpaid bills and flyers. A small USB drive, wrapped in blue and silver.

Ah. Flight 37, a transatlantic flight carrying 123 passangers that never managed to land safely. But a goldmine had been fished out the torn wreckage, a shaky video clip that held proof of what Gojo Satoru truly was.

Not a saviour, not a hero. Not the golden boy that was worshipped on screens, talk shows and the international stage of diplomacy.

There's a prickling sensation under your skin, a slow burn that crawls up your arms. Then, it sinks deeper, heat. Your stomach clenches, cramping up as nausea slams into you like a freight train, your head spinning, your vision pulsing black at the edges.

You stumble, dropping the USB on the table as desparate fingers gripping the kitchen counter to stay upright. But you recognise the blisters blooming on the pads of your fingers, slow and ugly welts that bloom like flowers of rot.

This is no wayward sickness, for you would recognise the familiar decay of radioactive exposure. Something that's not quite human, or mortal.

Your blood turns to ice. Hold tightening around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the cheap laminate. Slowly, carefully, you approach the balcony.

The terracotta curtains are coarse under your fingers as you pull them aside. The city beyond is still alive, cars streaking through wet pavements and lights beaming in the smog. But it all feels muted.

Standing on the ledge, hands folded neatly behind his back, Gojo Satoru.

Your breath stutters as you force yourself to inhale, exhale. Slow and steady, through your nose. Whatever sick ploy he's radiating, you know it's simply meant to shake you. A twisted power play on his end.

So you hold your ground, and after a moment, the nausea ebbs. The blisters on your fingertips sealing over, cells stitching the edges of your frayed flesh back together.

You've never seen Gojo out of that deep blue suit, never without the brass eagles that pin the ridiculous cape over his broad back. Most heroes at least pretend to be human, some charade that they cling to for the chance of a secret life, away from the eyes of the press and the authorities. Supes often put on disguises, and casual clothes, something to blend in with the mortals that they claim to protect.

But Gojo?

There's no separation, no mask nor pretense. He doesn't walk among mortal men, he hovers above them. There's no separating him from the brutal power he wields — capable of striking a laser through a man's skull, or razing a city to rubble. Just a god with a PR-approved script, and the power to carve regimes into ribbons.

And yet, aren't you still standing?

If the strongest wanted you dead, he would have made a spectacle of it. Blood and fireworks for the evening news, another death used as collateral propaganda so the masses can thank him. That's the only mercy that Gojo knows.

You school your features, masking the instinct to flee. Or toss a plastic chair at his face. Gojo is akin to a hungry shark, and fear is blood in the water. You know that the safest way to deal with him is sheer indifference. If you give him nothing, he has nothing to bite or feast on.

You tilt your head, resting your weight against the large window as you pry it open. Letting the night air seep in, cold pricking at your skin, but it's nothing compared to the chill that Gojo's already dragged in with him.

He's staring. The blindfold is gone, and those impossible blue eyes fix on you, as though they're trying carve a jagged cut straight your ribcage — his handsome features stilled to stone.

You arch a brow, "If you're here to watch me get off, it'll cost you a tenner."

A beat of silence. And then, the smallest flicker of something that isn't amusement, but not quite irritation. Gojo doesn't rise to the bait, but his brow ticks up. The barest movement, as though he's debating whether or not to indulge you.

Jaw twitching as though Gojo seems to chew his words, slow and measured, "May I come in?"

You stare at him, gaze sweeping up and down, almost against your will. The way his suit hugs his body, emphasising the unfair curve of his chest, the sharp lines of Gojo's muscles, the tensions in the fabric as it stretches taut over skin. Eyes falling to the strand of white hair that flutters across his face, swaying in the night's breeze. Absurdly perfect, as if he's crafted from some celestial ideal.

But you refuse to indulge him, pressing your lips together tightly, not even a flicker of acknowledgement to the fact that he's standing on your balcony like he owns the damn place. Slowly, you step aside from the window, taking the invitation. Gojo doesn't need permission, but you give it anyway.

As Gojo sweeps past, your eyes linger on the sharp strands of his undercut, the delicate sweep of his hair, so pale it almost looks unreal. But you can see his nose wrinkle, disgust painted across his fine features as electric eyes skim the clutter of your apartment. The peeling walls, the cracked appliances, the mess of papers strewn across your table.

Gojo stops at the red string board, his gaze lingering on the photos and notes that have been painstakingly pinned up, and you see his mouth twitch. As though he's amused by your conspiracy, your obsession, your silent war.

"It's really always about me, isn't it?" Gojo's tone carries the faintest edge of mockery, that damn entertained smile curling the corners of his petal-pink lips.

Your jaw tightens, a flash of anger rearing up inside you. You tear your gaze away from him, "Why are you here? Got no-one to fuckin' torture over at Vought?"

Gojo sighs, almost theatrically, and he's puffing his cheeks out. As though he's bored, like this is a mild inconvenience for him, "So, you're going on a trip tomorrow, huh?"

You track his gaze to the napkin still resting on the table, the address scribbled carelessly across its surface, "What's it to you?" Hoping that your voice is level, and as neutral as it can get.

Gojo Satoru doesn't quite answer immediately. Instead, he pulls off those thick blue gloves, one finger at a time. His hands are oddly elegant, but you know just how capable they are of ending a life in a second, how capable they are of tearing a throat out without breaking a sweat. The very same hands now tuck the gloves into the bronze-metal band of his belt with an almost unsettling level of care.

"Well, I'm just hurt you're going somewhere without me," Gojo quips slyly, "We could have had ourselves a little road trip, sweetheart. Thelma and Louise on the open road, eh?"

You don't say anything, although you're dying to mention how Thelma & Louise ends. Gojo just rolls his searing-blue eyes skywards dramatically, as though he's used to your stubborn attitude.

"Y'know, I could jus' pull you apart, limb by limb," Gojo tacks on casually, "Make you tell me where you're going."

You can feel the tension in your gut tighten, but you refuse to let the Supe catch onto it, although you have no doubt that his superhuman senses can hear the beat of your heart pumping, every hitch in your breath.

"Nah," you bite back, "That'd be worthless. Victim always goes into shock. You gotta' start small. Fingers, nails, ears..." Your voice trails off, calling Gojo's bluff, forcing your words out as if the prospect doesn't shake you.

Gojo's vibrant, jewel-tone stare doesn't break, but the amusement in his eyes sharpens like iron against a whetstone. "It could be a matter of national security, you know," he murmurs, "I have a duty to protect his nation, to weed out any enemies of the state."

You huff in weary, mock exasperation, dragging a hand over your chin in faux-contemplation, "Look, uh, I don't mean to be rude, but can we just skip to the part where you laser my fuckin' brains out?"

Gojo just swears under his breath, "Oh, for fuck's sake," he's muttering, side-stepping around your rickety table, stepping closer as an almost fond smile tugs at his lips, "Where's the fun in that? Come on, look at ya'. It'd be like putting down a wounded dog?"

You don't flinch, you refuse the possibility. But there's that pulse of heat, low in your spine, when Gojo leans into your space. An electric storm about to crack wide as he studies you, eyes falling to the table where your cards are laid out blatantly, and you jolt. Remembering the innocuous little thing, that USB. The one that could very well be his undoing.

"What do you have on me, doll?" Gojo drawls, his voice smooth and untempered, towering over you like an impossibly magnetic force. You hold your ground as his eyes widen, "You do have something, I presume?"

With slow precision (and trembling fingers), you lift the USB, dangling it between your nails as Gojo's eyes flicker for a split second. Amused smile slipping just enough to show something that's less calculated. As though he knows what you grasp, what you're capable of.

Gojo's expression hardens for a split moment, blush-pink lips parted as he watches you, drinks in the sight of you gredily. All before cold steels locks into place once more, his demeanour laced with something far more callous, like a man cornered who knows exactly how to strike back.

"Go ahead. Release it," Gojo steps closer, until you can feel his breath against your skin, and you catch the tang of iron and clean, expensive leather. "Let's light this candle, huh? I mean, sure, I'll lose everything, doll. But then, I'll have nothin' to lose." His voice is quiet, but there's unmistakable malice beneath it.

"First, I'll take out the nerve centres. The seat of the government, the High Courts. Then, any domestic defense capabilities. Critical infrastructure, cellular, Internet, all of it. And then?" Gojo pauses, teeth catching onto the plush flesh of his lower lip.

"Then, I'll just wipe this city right off the fuckin' map, for fun," Gojo adds, a dark smile curling at the edges of his lips, "Hell, I'll throw in that little town your friend's from. Kento, right? Nanami, from the office? Because, why not?"

Gojo's lips brush the shell of your ear, and you resist the urge to shiver, locking your eyes with his own defiantly, venomously as he continues, "See, sweetheart, I'd prefer to be loved. Y'know, as the strongest, I really would. But if you take that away from me? Well, being feared is A-one, okey-doke by me."

Gojo wants you to challenge him, to hear you break the silence with something other than terror, "So, doll," he murmurs, practically cooing, "Go ahead. Do it." His lips curl, sharp fangs poking out from his glossy, red mouth, "No? You don't wanna? Well, then, I'd say you have absolutely no fuckin' leverage. Because I am the strongest, and I can really do whatever the fuck I want."

You blink angrily, breath catching as Gojo watches you with an almost affection gleam in his eyes. As though he's enjoying this, this sparring match where he's got you pinned. So you swallow thickly, and deep down, you know he's right.

Gojo Satoru is unstoppable. He could easily turn on the world that worships him, props him up, and there's nothing anyone could do about it. No nuclear treaty, no tank nor fighter jet could stand a chance against Unlimited Void or Hollow Purple.

There's no undoing the seams and stitches that hold Gojo together. None, apart from...

Your eyes flicker downwards, instinctively, to the thick curve that bulges through the tight suit he dons. That mouth-watering, delicious bulge that's packed, and if Gojo steps any closer, it would jostle against your thigh.

You inch closer, smoothly, grasping at the stray strand of ice-white hair to tuck it behind Gojo's ears. His expression widening, raw and open for a split second as he shivers, purrs.

"Say I call your bluff, Gojo," you say coolly, "What are you gonna' do, right here, right now?" Your hand trails away from his ear, brushing the high, stiff collar of his suit. Fingers gently pressing into the warm flesh of his neck. You feel his pulse jump under your touch, staccato beats that hiccup along.

And you could have sworn that Gojo breathes out a gentle sigh, lips parting around the words, "Finally."

But his cerulean eyes are narrowed, jaw still clenched, as though he's trying to figure out your angle. Now, he truly does push closer to you so that packed curve brushes against your thigh. And it's big, larger-than-life, like everything about Gojo Satoru is.

Fuck this, you shake your head, as though you're tossing away your rationality. Reaching up to thread your fingers through soft, white hair. Pulling Gojo closer as he groans, closing the distance. Lips crashing against your own, forceful and desperate.

You can feel Gojo freeze, stutter as he seems to work through his shock. But then, something irrevocably shifts in him. Ocean-blue eyes fluttering close, so white lashes kiss his creamy skin. A large hand gripping at your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

It's rough, and messy — and your tongue lingers on the taste of something like espresso, and sweet, sugar syrup to boot. The creamy taste of Gojo Satoru that lingers on your tongue and makes your mouth water.

"Tch', you –" Gojo murmurs, as though all the air in the world has been stolen from his lungs, "You jus' don't k-know how long I've wanted this. Ever since you, heh, fired that bullet at me when we first met."

His tone is erratic, large hands splayed against the small of your back, pushing you further against the kitchen counter.

"That shit went right through ya' head," you breathe, struggling to stay steady against the hard plane of Gojo's form, the muscles curling into you, "Didn't do a fuckin' thing."

Gojo's giggling, giggling as though he's already drunk on your touch, so utterly dangerous. Tugging at your top, fingers spread wide over the curve of your chest. Flicking at the sharp peaks of your nipples, "Waste of a perfectly good round, eh, doll?"

The tips of Gojo's ears are a searing shade of crimson, as he's pulling and toying with your clothes. You have never, ever in your wildest and most illicit fantasies imagined Gojo Satoru like this.

You've never pictured him so obedient, so desperate to meld into your hold. Bright blue eyes glazed over, filmy and hazy as his cheeks are mottled pink.

The most dangerous man in the entire world (or so you'd wager) has you firm against the cracking plastic of your counter, with his lips finding home on whatever skin he can find. Kissing, bruising, sucking at the tender flesh in a way that you know will leave blooming marks.

"C-can I?" Gojo pleads, as though he hasn't spent a lifetime whispering quiet threats into your ear, but now his large hand is softly pressed against the back of your neck.

Slick-strands falling from his lips as he sips at your taste, sucking gently on your tongue.

He kisses you firmly with such force that it leaves you dizzy, and the way he strokes at your cheek with a bruised knuckle is far too tender for a man who's practically a walking, ticking bomb.

He's roughly cupping your tits, kneading at the soft fat and flesh, "Hah, pretty, aren'tcha?" Strands of snow-white hair tickling at your neck as Gojo leans his head down, wrapping his lips around your nipple, lickin' and sucking wherever he can reach.

You arch your spine, pulling Gojo even closer. Grinding your clothed core right up against the hard length taut in that damned suit. Feeling every inch brush up against you.

"F-fuck," Gojo murmurs, slurring out babble and praise out through his kiss-swollen lips. You're slowly rocking your hips back and forth, unintentionally honestly, but you're desperate for some friction to relieve the ache that's blooming within your searing groin.

The pads of his fingers are tilting your jaw at the perfect angle, swollen lips sticky against yours, "Just like that," Gojo grunts, running his pink tongue over the kiss-bitten flesh of your own mouth, "N-not so mouthy now, are we?"

But then, because you think Gojo Satoru is unable to go even a second without antagonising you, the white-haired man is lifting his head. Glossy eyes tearing over your apartment as he pulls an unimpressed face, "Damn, this place is kinda' a dump. You really live like this?"

Your fingers latch onto the stray strands on his head, bucking your hips into his bulge harsher, "Says the cunt who made me a fugitive."

Gojo shakes his head, making a faint pshh, dismissive sound as he scoops you up, biceps not even curling to strain as he roughly stomps towards your meagre, thin bed. Laying you flat on the flat mattress as he rumples the waistband of your pants, hooking his thumb underneath the fabric.

You don't even realise it at first, but you're admiring those razor-sharp, strikingly handsome features. Watching as Gojo tugs at his cape, rough and coarse until the fabric tears away from his shoulder plates — until the azure stars and stripes end up on the wooden floor discarded.

"So, doll, how exactly do ya' want me? " Gojo titters, gently pulling a finger into the flimsy cotton of your panties. You can see his nose twitch, eyes flutter shut for a split second as he visibly reels from the messy, filthy slick pooling under his nails. You can only groan, arching at the sudden stimulation as he begins to crook his fingers faster against your folds.

You suddenly pull your thighs taut together, clenching the flesh to trap his hand, "Taste me, Gojo." Breath shuddering as Gojo's fingers suddenly still, ice-blue eyes blown wide at your gall to give him a command.

But he's always been an excellent soldier, hasn't he? Because he seems to be moving on autopilot, pulling his dripping fingers away and gently lolling his tongue on your translucent sheen, "Hah, I can't believe you're g-giving me orders." Gojo almost whimpers at your sweet tang, desperate to have your pussy drool into his waiting mouth.

"M-more, can you – oh, fuck," You inhale sharply, feeling Gojo's fingers imprint on your thighs, firmly spreading your legs apart so he can shuffle further back, his breath moist against your wet cunt, "Heh, never thought you'd ever be like this."

Gojo gives you a flat look, the underside of his eyes crinkling as he stares at you, "Don't get used to t-this." He's grumbling, but his eyes are blown wide, tongue darting out of his mouth to catch a stray drop of your precious arousal dribbling down your inner thigh, "It's just 'cause –"

You don't give his smart-alec mouth time to formulate any words, groaning as you pull at the thick, soft and tousled strands of white hair. Letting the tip of his sharp nose nudge against your clit as Gojo suddenly muffles a desparate, thirst-laden whine, "Mhm, mhm, fuck!"

"Yeah, y-yeah," You breathe, sighing in relief as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, laving thickly at the glossy folds that he's desperate to munch at, "That's what I thought."

Stifled sounds prick at your ears, a mantra of words falling from Gojo's mouth, something that sounds suspiciously like "Thank you, t-thank you, thank —." The strongest man in the entire world losing his mind, so grateful to wrap his lips against your swollen bud, your throbbing clit as he sucks. Hard.

Your walls clench suddenly, and you can feel the tip of Gojo's tongue prod at your entrance. That length somehow managing to render you gummy, dazed and speechless as he pushes the wet muscle into your cunt, "Ah, ahh, 'Toru, please."

Nothing prepares you for how Gojo's long, slender fingers come to slap at your pussy. Lengthy digits pistoning right into your tender, sensitive walls as he's eager to curve and search for that sweet spot that will make you scream, "What'dya call me, sweets? 'Toru?"

Gojo's looking up at you, and if you didn't know better, you'd say his expression was almost shy. Those eyes, blue like the core of a searing star, like something inhuman was barely contained and desperate to break free. There's something eerie about how bright they are, how they seem to glow even in the dim, murky light of your apartment.

There's glossy, snapping strands of Gojo's new favourite thirst-quencher falling from his lips as he laps at you. Long lashes fluttering against high cheekbones as there's a slight sheen of exertion beading at his temple, "If, if I had known that all I had to do to shut ya' up was eat you out, then —" Gojo whistles low, the vibrations echoing through your cunt, "Woulda' drank this pussy a longgg time ago."

You buck your hips against his nose, canting against his shapely nose bridge, "Don't get c-cocky." Seems that Gojo's just that desperate for you to boss him around, because he's already turning his attention and bratty mouth back to your cunt, licking you right up until he's certain you're seeing stars.

He's still got his suit on, broad-shoulders snugly wrapped in the textured fabric. Sculpting over his bicep even as he draws you even closer, until he's face to face with his new, second favourite girl. With you being his number #1, of course, Gojo isn't afraid to admit that you plotting to kill him has turned him on immensely over the years.

The idea of you planting your thighs around his head 'til he's devoid of air has had him pulling and jerking at his cock, whimpering until he was shooting blanks.

"Come on," and Gojo's snickering at his own play on words, "Or s-should I say c-cum on." Smacking his lips filthily against your folds, fingers pushing at your clit and rubbing furious circles over and over again until you feel the world go blank, and you're star-struck.

Gojo's whispering sweet nothings, adoring praise into your cunt as you ride out your high against his face, "Pretty girl, s-so good for me, heh. Think 'm fuckin' addicted."

You're already lazily pulling yourself up, propping yourself back on your elbows as you take in the sight of a teary-eyed Gojo Satoru. You watch as he pulls himself up, frame towering over you in the flimsy bed as he tugs and paws at the thick, firm bulge in his suit. Now darkened with a translucent patch of his release.

Gojo's fisting his hand over his cock in some ineffective form of relief, "Wanna' show you, g-gorgeous, wanna' show you how the strongest fucks."

But then, his eyes are looking up, wide and superhuman. Searing blue that lights up the dim room like a torch, and it's only then you notice that the lightbulb that once precariously teetered from your ceiling has shattered, and there's a crack in the large window that you swore you've never seen before.

And clutched within Gojo Satoru's fingers, shards of silver metal and blue chips. Fuck, that hag, that doped-up cunt must have had that USB clenched between his fingers the entire time, swiping it off the table when you pulled him in.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," Gojo scoffs, pulling out a cock that beams with an angry, red mushroom tip. Thick spurts of cum already clinging to the slit as he hisses, and your thighs clench in anticipation of the delicious split, "I got something b-better for you right here."

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒 𝓍 𝑔𝓃! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Crowe has been working himself into the ground dealing with the never-ending mountain of student council paperwork, ridiculous club requests, and—worst of all—the ever-demanding student council president. 

You've begged him, time and time again, to get an assistant, but of course, he refuses. Something about ‘not trusting anyone’ and ‘preferring to suffer in silence’ like some kind of tragic protagonist. So, naturally, you took matters into your own hands. if Crowe won’t take care of himself? Well, you’ll just have to do it for him.

Even if it means driving him absolutely insane in the process.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: this was a request from anon! so, of course, my dumbass turned it into a full-blown story. MIND YOU, I’VE BEEN STRUGGLING WITH THIS FOR THREE WEEKS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT THE ENDING. And it's not really poof read as I just annoyed looking at it but i haven’t written crowe in a minute, so here we are.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: overworked student council vp!crowe, chaotic & teasing assistant!reader, fem body!reader, reader takes no shit, boss/assistant relationship, playful banter, teasing, mutual pining, secret relationship, possessive behavior, possessive crowe, sassy reader, fluff and smut, slow burn (kinda), soft dom!crowe, playful sub!reader, and mutual obsession  

Sooooooo……

What’s an assistant? you should already know

Well, an assistant can be a person who helps someone else—or a device, or a product designed to make life easier. Something you’d been telling Jericho Ichabod—sorry, Crowe, Prince Charming himself—that he desperately needed.  

The campus was alive with its usual midday bustle. From noon to around two, the student center became a chaotic mess of movement and noise. 

The hallways were clogged with students threading through the crowd, half-zipped backpacks slung over shoulders, their conversations weaving together into a dull roar.  The on-campus market beeped and whirred as it spat out overpriced snacks, and groups of friends hovered near the food court, laughing, talking, and shoving each other playfully before heading to their next class.  

None of it really registered with you.  

While the rest of the student body thrived in the high-energy atmosphere, instead, you moved at a different pace—faster and more worried.

Your thoughts were elsewhere as Crowe had been on your mind since the moment Geo had texted you while you were in the middle of your classes. ‘He's stuck with more student council crap,’ as Geo had so eloquently put it.  

That wasn’t surprising. 

Crowe had a habit of stretching himself too thin, juggling responsibilities like it was some kind of sport. But what bothered you wasn’t just the workload—it was that, for all his charm and effortless control, he never let anyone see when it got to him.

You’d planned to meet him for lunch today, a rare breather in the middle of his overbooked schedule, but now you weren’t even sure if he’d bother to eat.  

Annoying.  

Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, you made your way upstairs toward the student council room. It was tucked away in a quieter part of the building, hidden beside the upper-level seating area where students went to eat lunch away from the main chaos. You’d come straight here after class—your day was already done, but his, knowing him, was far from over.  

And if he thought he could brush this off like everything else? 

Yeah, no. Not happening.

The second you reached the door, the noise from the hallway seemed to dull, like the chaos of the outside world just couldn’t quite reach this space. The air felt heavier here, still in a way that made you hesitate. Even the fluorescent lights above barely made a sound, their low hum swallowed by the quiet. It was almost eerie—like stepping into a place that existed just slightly out of sync with the rest of reality.   

Through the small window on the other door, you spotted him.  

Crowe was hunched over his desk, his shoulders drawn tight with the kind of tension that looked like it had settled there hours ago. His head was bent low, nearly buried in a mountain of papers that had practically taken over his entire workspace.

 It wasn’t just a mess—it was a battlefield of assignments, reports, and hastily scribbled sticky notes, some half-crumpled, others barely hanging on. His usual easygoing energy was nowhere in sight. Instead, there was only this heavy, rigid focus that clung to him like a weight.   

His fingers drummed against the desk in a steady, repetitive rhythm—soft, but insistent. You’d seen him do it before, a nervous habit, a tell he probably wasn’t even aware of. The sight of him like this, so unlike himself, made something sink in your chest.

The usual spark in his eyes—the one filled with humor, mischief, that unmistakable Crowe charm—was nowhere to be found. 

Instead, he just looked… drained.  

You hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to step inside or leave him be. Before you could decide, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled you from your thoughts.  

Turning your head, you spotted Geo strolling down the hall, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket. His expression was that signature mix of exasperation and indifference he always seemed to wear, like he was perpetually caught between amusement and suffering.

As he reached you, he let out a deep sigh—whether it was for dramatic effect or genuine exhaustion, it was impossible to tell. 

“He’s been at it since, like, forever,” Geo muttered, jerking his chin toward the window without breaking his stride. His boots scuffed lightly against the floor as he came to a stop beside you, one shoulder propped lazily against the doorframe. 

The bad lighting light from inside the office cast long shadows across his face, but the slight furrow in his brow was still obvious. “Pretty sure he hasn’t even looked up once. Council’s been dumping a mountain of work on him lately.”  

You followed his gaze to the desk across the room. Crowe sat hunched over a chaotic spread of papers, ink stains dotting his fingers as he scribbled something with near-frantic precision.

Again, the lighting itself was casting sharp angles against the exhaustion clinging to him. His normally neat braid was barely form together—stray strands falling into his face, but he didn’t seem to notice.  

Your frown deepened. “He hasn’t even taken a break?”  

Geo let out a short, exasperated scoff, shaking his head. “Please. When does Jericho ever ask for help? He’s as stubborn as a damn mule when it comes to work—worse, even. Dude acts like taking a breather is some kind of mortal sin.” He tilted his head toward the office, his voice dipping into something dangerously close to concern, though he tried to keep it casual. “I mean, just look at him. He’s running on fumes. Won’t be long before he passes out face-first into those papers.”  

Something twisted uncomfortably in your chest as you studied Crowe. He was always the composed one, the one who had everything under control—even when he didn’t.

But right now? Right now, he just looked... weighed down. Buried under the sheer amount of responsibility he refused to share with anyone else.  

Geo nudged you lightly with his elbow, breaking you out of your thoughts. “You should probably go snap him out of it before he actually fuses with that desk,” he said, tone dry but not unkind. “Just... don’t expect him to admit he needs it.”  

You inhaled quietly before stepping forward, your footsteps barely making a sound on the polished floor. Crowe didn’t react, too absorbed in whatever he was working on. Up close, the signs of his exhaustion were even clearer—dark circles under his deep blue eyes, tension carved into his shoulders, the pencil awkwardly tucked behind his ear like some absentminded afterthought.  

You lingered just long enough to take it all in before leaning down and knocking your knuckles lightly against the wooden desk. “Knock, knock,” you said, keeping your tone light. “It’s me—your lunch date-slash-concerned friend, here to drag you out of your impending paper-induced demise.”  

For the first time in what felt like hours, Crowe blinked and finally looked up. His eyes, wide and unfocused for a split second, darted around in mild panic before recognition settled in, dulling the shock. He blinked sluggishly, like he was dragging himself out of some deep, paper-induced trance, before exhaling through his nose and shifting his gaze back to the disaster zone that was his desk.  

“Oh. Hey,” he mumbled, voice scratchy from what was probably hours of silence. “Didn’t see you there.”  

“Yeah, no kidding. You were about five more minutes away from fusing with these papers.” You crossed your arms, tilting your head as you gave him a once-over. His posture was stiff, shoulders hunched in that telltale way that screamed exhaustion, and the dark circles under his eyes looked even worse up close. “Are you even taking a break? Or let me guess—‘I’m fine, I’ll finish soon,’ right?”  

He mustered up something that might’ve been a smile in another life, but now it just looked strained, like his face wasn’t quite up to the task. “I’m fine,” he said—right on cue. “I’m just trying to catch up. There’s a lot to do... I’ll finish soon.”  

You gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. “Geo ratted you out,” you informed him, watching as his eye twitched just slightly. “Says you’ve been glued to this desk all morning. So unless you’ve suddenly figured out how to cram ten hours of work into two, I’m calling total BS.”  

Crowe opened his mouth, either to deny or argue—probably both—but you were already moving, plopping yourself onto the edge of his desk without waiting for an invitation. Papers crinkled beneath you, but honestly? He had too many to begin with.   

“Alright,” you announced, clapping your hands together. “New plan. I’m your assistant now. Consider me officially hired.”  

His brows furrowed, somewhere between confused and mildly alarmed. “What?”  

“You heard me.” You grinned, reaching for the nearest folder. “If you won’t take a break, I’m gonna help you power through this so you can. Think of me as your unpaid intern—but better-looking and way more fun to be around.”

Crowe thrust out a hand like a human stop sign, his usual smooth-talking charm dimming under the weight of sheer, soul-crushing exhaustion. “I don’t need an assistant,” he grumbled, voice teetering on the edge of a breakdown. “And definitely not one who thinks ‘alphabetical order’ is a conspiracy theory.”  

You scoffed, waving him off like an irritating fly. “Oh, come on. Filing is just alphabet soup but with extra steps. Besides, it’s either this, or I start making the most obnoxious noises known to mankind until you surrender and flee this room.”  

Crowe stared at you. Hard. You could practically see the internal debate waging behind his tired eyes. He wanted to fight back, to assert some semblance of authority in his own workspace, but let’s be real—he didn’t have the energy for that. 

After what felt like an eternity of silent suffering, he let out a long, suffering sigh, the kind that screamed, ‘I have officially given up on life.’ He dragged a hand down his face. “Fine,” he muttered in defeat. “But don’t touch anything important unless I told you.”  

“Relax,” you chirped, already rifling through a stack of papers with the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be trusted with paperwork. “I’ve got this. What’s the worst that could happen?”  

The worst did happen.  

Many times in fact.

You just didn’t realize it until it was too late.

By the time two weeks had passed, it was like you had unknowingly signed a blood pact with Crowe—minus the actual blood, but definitely with the same level of inescapable obligation. Somehow, without fully realizing how it happened, you had been roped into the prestigious yet completely unpaid role of Crowe’s unofficial official assistant.

Like clockwork, as soon as your classes wrapped up for the day, there you were—reporting for duty like some poor soul enlisted in a student council boot camp, minus the combat training but with twice the paperwork.  

And the workload? 

Oh, it was something else. 

You couldn't make this up if you tried. The sheer volume of tasks dumped on Crowe was enough to make you question whether the entire campus had collectively mistaken him for their personal secretary.

Student club events? His problem. Fraternity and sorority requests? Yup, tossed onto his ever-growing pile. Small-time guest speakers, whose only real compensation was probably free coffee and a handshake? Also somehow his responsibility.  

At one point, you found yourself holding a stack of papers detailing plans for a campus-wide "stress-relief yoga night," and you very nearly asked if Crowe had been secretly elected mayor of the university while you weren’t looking.  

And, because you were clearly a genius with absolutely no impulse control, you had, at some point, volunteered to help him with all of it.

Cleaning up his disaster of a desk? You were on it. Sprinting across campus to drop off forms like some kind of academic carrier pigeon? Already flapping your metaphorical wings. Sitting through excruciating planning meetings for student events? 

Sure, why not? It’s not like watching Crowe argue with five sorority reps over whether they could hold a ‘glow-in-the-dark karaoke night’ in the ‘library’ was a fever dream you ever expected to have—but here you were, living it.

It didn’t take long for you to figure out that Crowe wasn’t just overburdened—he was the burden. A walking, talking monument to suffering.  

“Hey, uh, question,” you said one afternoon, dumping yet another stack of papers onto his already paper-laden desk. You weren’t even sure if there was a desk under there anymore, or if Crowe just sat upon a sacred altar of unfinished paperwork. “How many of these events actually needto go through the student council? Like, for real?”  

“All of them,” Crowe said flatly, not even sparing you a glance as he scribbled furiously on some poor soul’s event approval form.  

“No, no, I mean…” You leaned in, lowering your voice as if you were about to drop some grand revelation. “How many actually need to go through you?”  

Crowe finally paused, pen hovering mid-signature as he slowly—painfully slowly—lifted his gaze to meet yours. His expression was the physical embodiment of ‘I will throw you out of this room myself.’  

“All of them,” he repeated, but this time, slower. Like that somehow made it less absurd.  

Sometime later, while you were valiantly battling yet another stack of event proposals—seriously, why were there so many bake sales?—you dramatically collapsed into the chair across from him.  

“So, uh,” you drawled, tossing a paper into the abyss that was Crowe’s inbox, “is this a student council or a circus? Be honest.”  

Crowe didn’t even look up. Didn’t even hesitate.  

“Yes.”

What.

Anyway, somehow, even with all the chaos, you managed to find a rhythm in it all. Cleaning Crowe’s desk became second nature—so much so that you started questioning if you had become some kind of sentient maid. You even unearthed what could only be described as a historical artifact: a half-eaten sandwich wedged between two stacks of papers. Given its fossilized state, you figured it was either from last semester or from the founding days of the school itself.  

Running errands across campus turned into an unintentional workout program. Who needed a gym membership when you were speed-walking between buildings, dodging rogue club recruiters, and carrying stacks of paperwork heavier than your will to live?  

And attending meetings? That became your personal form of entertainment. You even started timing how long it would take before someone made an absolutely insane request—your record was three minutes. The last champion was some guy from the Gardening Club who tried to get funding for a “therapeutic koi pond.” In the middle of the cafeteria.  

Today, though, you and Crowe were actually making progress, discussing the upcoming club events without any major disturbances. A miracle, honestly.  

Then the door slammed open.  

What waltzed was him—the student council president, looking like he had just stepped off a runway and onto your last nerve. He was an upperclassman with the kind of aura that screamed, ‘I was born better than you, and I will remind you every chance I get.’ 

“Ichabod,” he drawled as if merely saying Crowe’s name was a task beneath him. Then, with all the grace of a medieval tax collector, he dumped another towering stack of paperwork onto Crowe’s desk, causing several precariously balanced forms to slide to the floor. “More approvals. Get them done.”  

Crowe had been hunched over, pen in hand, scribbling out what seemed like his last remaining shred of hope. But as soon as the president stormed in, dropping the latest avalanche of paperwork onto the desk, he froze. His hand hovered in the air for a moment—was he about to launch his pen at the door, or was he just letting the despair wash over him? 

You couldn’t tell, but you knew Crowe had just about hit his limit. He closed his eyes briefly. Was he praying? Meditating? Or was he visualizing the sweet, sweet release of just escaping this nightmare by launching himself through the window?

It was hard to say.

You, on the other hand, were getting mildly entertained by the absurdity of the situation. "Wow," you said, blinking at the fresh chaos that had just descended upon the desk. "I didn’t know you were accepting job applications for ‘Official Paperwork Mule.’"

The president—who had somehow magically entered the room without making a sound, like some kind of overpriced ninja—turned his icy gaze on you. He looked you up and down with all the disdain of someone who had just stepped in a puddle of something they’d prefer not to identify, his eyes narrowing like you’d just insulted his firstborn. "Oh, you're still here?" His voice dripped with condescension. "How quaint."

You couldn’t help but grin. You had been waiting for this. "Yep. Unlike the funding you approved for that haunted house event last week." You paused for effect, casually flipping through the pile of forms as if you weren’t even phased. "I suggest you get to it quick, though, before I let the officials know about your… interesting decisions."

Crowe made a noise. It was an odd noise—something between a strangled laugh and a desperate cough. He tried to cover it up, but the damage was done.

The president, however, either completely oblivious or choosing not to dignify your retort with a response, turned back to Crowe with the practiced air of someone who thought his very presence should be worshipped. "This needs to be finished today."

“Of course it does,” Crowe muttered under his breath, already sinking into the depths of his inevitable paperwork doom. You could practically hear the weight of his soul dragging itself down further into the abyss.

The president gave a tight, self-satisfied smile, like he’d just handed down some sort of royal decree, and turned on his heel to exit the room. His steps were as calculated and ridiculous as his whole existence. You couldn’t help but notice his outfit—tailored suit, perfectly polished shoes, and the kind of cologne that probably cost more than your tuition. 

It was almost as if he thought his appearance alone could somehow make him better than everyone else in the room. It was adorable.

He was halfway out the door when you casually called after him, "Hey, by the way—are you wearing that suit to go rescue puppies or attend a high-society funeral?"

The president paused, looking over his shoulder at you with an expression that could’ve been carved into marble. He said nothing, but his eyes briefly flashed with the kind of ‘I’ll ruin you’ look that only the truly entitled could master. 

You, however, weren’t even remotely phased.

"Yeah, I thought so," you added, pushing another pile of forms onto Crowe’s desk. "You’ve got the whole ‘I’m better than everyone’ look down, but next time, maybe try not looking like you belong in a museum." 

Crowe groaned as the door slammed shut, leaving the two of you alone with the mountain of paperwork once more. You sighed, nudging a piece of paper that had somehow escaped the clutches of the abyss. "So… koi pond in the cafeteria is looking less ridiculous by the minute, huh?" 

Crowe didn’t answer.

He was too busy looking like he might spontaneously combust from exhaustion, or maybe just give up on life entirely. You considered offering him a donut or a bucket of coffee, but really, at this point, nothing was going to save him.

“Crowe? You good?” you asked, leaning in closer. His entire posture screamed ‘I’m about to faceplant into this paperwork and never wake up’. You wondered if he was trying to figure out how to escape into the sweet oblivion of the nearest nap corner or if he was plotting his own demise. At this point, it could go either way.

“I’m... fine,” he muttered, but the way his hand slid across the desk in slow motion, like he was having a mental breakdown in real-time, told you everything you needed to know.  

“You sure? You look like you’re one coffee away from crying on a stack of forms."

Crowe groaned, a sound so filled with despair it could’ve been the opening line to a sad indie movie. “I just want to finish one thing today, ‘just one thing,’ without someone handing me more stupid paperwork. Is that too much to ask for?”

“Probably,” you said, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. “But, hey, that’s what you signed up for, right? Like, what was your grand plan here? To turn the student council into your own personal administrative hell?”

Crowe shot you a glance that was somewhere between ‘I could kill you’ and ‘Please, for the love of all that’s holy, be quiet.’ You could practically see the little clock in his head ticking down, counting how much longer he could withstand his own existence before he collapsed in the pile of paperwork like some sort of sad, overworked martyr.  

"At least give me a minute to process the chaos." His voice had that exhausted, cracked tone that made you wonder if he’d been functioning on three hours of sleep for the past week.  

You took pity on him. "Alright, alright," you said, grabbing the latest stack of event forms and flipping through them. "Let’s at least start brainstorming for these. I’m guessing half of these are doomed from the start.”

Crowe’s response was a wordless nod, his head still resting on his hand as if that would somehow reboot his brain. It looked like he might pass out at any moment, but somehow, he managed to pull himself back together. Barely.  

"Alright, what's the first one?" you asked, leaning over to get a better look at the next form.  

Crowe’s finger shakily pointed to it. "‘Classical music night... on the roof... with fog machines.’"

You blinked. "I… I don’t even know what to say to that. What, are we trying to summon ghosts now?"

Crowe groaned again. "It’s a real proposal. They want it approved for next week."

"Okay," you said, rubbing your temples. "I think we’re officially past the point of saving this year’s student council. This is just a slow-motion train wreck."

Crowe was too exhausted to even form a proper sentence, his mind clearly whirling through a mental tally of disasters. You could practically see the gears grinding in his head—he was done. It wasn’t clear whether he was about to drop dead or have a full-on emotional meltdown, but either way, the path to recovery was nothing but more paperwork, endless meetings, and a growing sense of doom.

"Here," you said, tossing him a coffee cup with a little too much flair. "You need this more than I do."

Crowe didn’t say a word, just took the cup and stared blankly at his desk. You half expected him to fall asleep standing up, but then he took a long, defeated sip like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. For a moment, you swore you saw him look almost… human again. Though still on the edge of total collapse.  

“Only… five more hours of this shit,” he muttered, voice raw and tired. His words hung in the air like a bad omen, but the way he said it was almost like he was trying to will it into something less awful.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. 

You leaned against the desk—looking over a few documents that Crowe just signed, watching him as he rubbed his temples like he was trying to massage the chaos out of his brain. Then, he took a deep breath and dragged himself to his feet, his movements slow and heavy as if each step took effort.

You stood there, waiting for him to make the move, knowing he was about to drag you both back into the hell that was his office. 

You followed him out to the coffee area just outside Crowe’s office, the place practically empty except for the hum of a few vending machines in the corner. Most people were in class, living their lives while you and Crowe were stuck in this chaotic little bubble of misery together. But honestly, you didn’t mind. Being stuck with Crowe wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

In fact, you might even go so far as to say you kind of liked it—chaos and all. It was weird, but after all the hours spent with him, this was just your rhythm. He was like a broken record, and you were along for the ride. 

Crowe leaned against the the desk beside you, staring out at the empty room, looking just about as done as any human could be without literally face-planting. “Let’s just…” He paused, running a hand through his unbraided hair as if he were trying to shake the tiredness out of his bones. “Finish this,” he muttered, but there was no real conviction behind the words. 

It was more like he was just going through the motions, a man trying to survive one last round of office hell before he collapsed into a pile of paperwork rubble.

You shrugged, leaning a little closer to him, not caring much about the empty room around you. "Yeah, sure. Let’s just get through this so you can collapse into your desk in peace."

Crowe didn’t laugh, but you saw the corner of his lips twitch. It was the closest thing to a smile you’d get today, and that was enough for you. He took another sip of coffee, staring at the distant empty chairs like they were mocking him. Honestly, the whole situation was ridiculous, but if you had to be stuck in this hellish paperwork vortex, you couldn’t think of anyone better to be stuck with.

Despite the avalanche of paperwork, the never-ending meetings, and the constant chaos that seemed to follow Crowe everywhere, there were small, quiet moments when his gratitude actually managed to slip through the cracks.

It wasn’t loud or obvious—no heartfelt speeches or dramatic declarations of appreciation. No, it was more like a fleeting shadow, there one moment and gone the next, but it still spoke volumes.  

It was one of those afternoons when you were buried under yet another mountain of event proposals, flipping through them with all the enthusiasm of a sloth on a caffeine crash. Your eyes had glazed over, the words on the pages blending together into an unintelligible mess of overly ambitious plans and unreasonable requests.

You were pretty sure you could start a new career as a professional paperweight at this point, considering how often you were parked next to Crowe’s desk. But hey, someonehad to keep the chaos in check, right?  

Instead of fighting for your own desk—because, honestly, that would’ve been a lost cause given the sheer size of Crowe’s desk, which could’ve fit a small army and their gear—you'd just claimed a corner of it. You’d made it your own little nook, the edge of his mountain of papers your personal workspace. 

Sure, it was a little unconventional, but considering Crowe's desk practically looked like the inside of an office supply store exploded on it, it made sense. Plus, it was way more fun to pretend you were part of the madness instead of standing on the sidelines.  

So there you were, half-buried in a fresh pile of event forms that had been hastily shoved into your hands the second you walked into the room, flipping through them with the kind of mindless speed that comes from hours of sheer boredom. 

You didn’t even look up, thinking it was just another stray form that had somehow wandered into your orbit. But then you heard it—a soft clink. And when you glanced over, there it was: a steaming cup of tea, perfectly brewed and a small snack, sitting on the edge of his desk as though it had always been meant to be there. 

Crowe didn’t say anything. He didn’t even speak to you.

He just silently placed it down, then you felt his hand on top of your head, planting what felt like kiss on top. Afterwards, he gave you a brief, exhausted glance, and went back to his own paperwork like nothing had happened. As if that tiny, thoughtful gesture wasn’t quietly shifting the entire atmosphere of the room. It was his way of saying, ‘I see you’—without actually saying a word. 

Then there were the rare occasions when you handed him something that, frankly, could have been labeled as a ‘miracle’—like a perfectly organized event schedule, where the scattered mess of dates and details had somehow been magically turned into something resembling order. His eyes would flicker to it for just a second before he’d mutter a quiet, almost begrudging “thanks.” 

The words were always there, but they came out like he was fighting them every step of the way as if the concept of gratitude wasn’t quite his thing. Still, the small nod that followed—something barely noticeable, but unmistakably there—told you everything you needed to know.  

Those little moments were a rarity, but when they happened, they felt like an entire month’s worth of appreciation crammed into a second. No fanfare, no grand speeches—just Crowe, the overworked, underappreciated student council lifeline, showing his gratitude in the most subtle ways possible.

It was like he didn’t know how to say it out loud, but his actions spoke louder than any words could. 

It wasn’t much. But it was enough to keep you going.  

That, and the sheer comedy gold of watching Crowe try—and fail—every time a club proposed something so ridiculous it could’ve been pulled straight from a fever dream. Like the latest masterpiece—a ‘puppies and pizza’ day in the science building. The look on his face when he read that? Priceless. 

It was like watching someone go from a hopeful puppy to a full-on terrified deer caught in headlights. Half of him expected to ask if it was some kind of prank. It wasn’t.

But today?

Today’s mark a day of early freedom 

One of those rare, blessed afternoons where Crowe managed to finish his work before sunset. That alone was enough to make you believe in higher powers—like the universe had decided to give Crowe a break for once. And honestly, you were enjoying it too. 

Crowe seemed... different. Less like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and more like he was just a dude who'd had a good day for once. His hair was actually neat—an anomaly that deserved to be framed and hung in a museum—and his outfit looked like it had been picked out by someone who didn’t live off caffeine and stress. His usual tense, I’m-one-email-away-from-a-breakdown stance was gone, replaced by a more relaxed posture. 

And the best part? That trademark smirk of his wasn’t the usual ‘I’m-exhausted-but-I’ll-pretend-I’m-cool’ look. It was... real. Like he actually meant it. You had to blink a couple of times to make sure you weren’t hallucinating. 

"You know," he started, hands stuffed in his pockets, walking a little lighter than usual. He glanced over at you, his face not quite as guarded as usual, like he was letting his walls down just a little. "You've been a such lifesaver."

You raised an eyebrow, figuring he was about to make some sarcastic remark. But instead, he hesitated for a second, exhaled, and with a tiny shake of his head and a soft half-smile, he added, "I don't think I would've survived without you."

Okay, that? That was huge.

For Crowe, the guy who acted like he had the entire universe under control at all times, admitting that he needed help was like watching a robot suddenly develop emotions. You could tell he meant it, too, judging by the way he looked at you. There was no sarcasm, no defensive wall—just a genuinely appreciative look. And yeah, maybe it made your heart do a weird little skip. 

You coughed to cover up your smile, not wanting to get too sappy about it, but there was no denying the warmth spreading through you. 

"I need to wrap up a few things before I can lock up the student council room," he said, voice steady and calm. "After that... we came to meet at my place?”

You couldn’t help it. Your lips twitched into a grin, arms crossed, watching him with an amused glint in your eye. "Wow, Crowe, are you suggesting a private date?"

The reaction was instant.  

His eyes widened, and for the first time, you swore you saw the faintest hint of color dusting his cheeks—a slightly deeper shade against his usual warm brown complexion. Just for a second before his usual playful demeanor slid back into place. He let out a half-laugh, half-grumble. "It’s not a date," he muttered, though you could tell he was trying not to smile. "Just... you know. A thing."

"Uh-huh. Sure, a thing," you teased, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I mean, if ‘things’ include pizza and not having to talk about student council for once, I’ll consider it.” 

He rolled his eyes, but that little real smirk was back again. "You’re impossible."

"Yeah, but you love it," you shot back with a grin.

Crowe let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head at himself. “You’re such a tease.” 

You tilted your head, your smirk widening. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  

His deadpan stare told you he definitely knew exactly what you were doing. You could practically hear the thoughts running through his mind: I know you’re trying to distract me with that nonsense, but it’s not going to work.

But instead of entertaining your antics, he let out a long exhale, like the weight of the world had just landed on his shoulders, and straightened up. His hands moved quickly to gather the last of his papers, that familiar rhythm of someone who’d been in a constant state of ‘paperwork battle’ for way too long.  

"I’ll be done in a bit,” he muttered, glancing at the clock, looking like he was calculating the exact time when he could finally escape the clutches of his responsibilities. “Shouldn’t take long. Just… come to my place, please.”  

The way he said it was almost a plea, like he was clinging to the last shred of hope that you would save him from his own self-imposed chaos. There was something in the way his voice dropped, that quiet vulnerability that even Crowe couldn’t hide when he was completely overwhelmed. 

He didn’t ask for help. Ever. 

But right now, it seemed like he couldn’t bear to be alone with all that paperwork for even another minute. 

Without even thinking, you stepped forward, about to throw out some joke or tease him, but before you could, his hand shot out, fingers lightly brushing against yours, like he was desperately reaching for something, anything to ground him.  

You froze, blinking at the unexpected contact. Crowe’s hand lingered there for a moment, not quite holding yours, but not pulling away either. His gaze met yours for just a second—there was something there, a flicker of something deeper than just the usual exhausted annoyance.

“I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said, his voice a little quieter, a little more raw than you were used to hearing.

Your heart skipped a beat, and it took everything in you to resist the urge to give him the classic ‘it’s fine, we’re cool’ smile. But you could see it—he was yearning for just a little bit of peace, a little bit of support. 

Maybe more than he’d ever admit.

So, you squeezed his hand, just a little, before giving him a half-smirk. "Don't worry, Crowe. You’ll survive. Just don't expect me to help every time you feel like a nervous wreck." You smiled, slowly walking away. “I’ll gonna go change. See you later.” 

His lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything else, only shaking his head as he returned to his work. You turned on your heel, heading out of the student center with an extra pep in your step. Whether he meant it as a date or not, he still invited you over.  

And that was definitely something to work with.  

With that, you made a break for it, finally escaping the chaos of the student council room. You decided to take the scenic route back to your apartment—aka a detour to your place to freshen up a little. Nothing too extravagant, just a little something to feel less like a walking disaster.  

You slipped into your long-flare yoga pants, because, let's be honest, they were basically good thin material and nobody could judge you for that. You paired them with a long tank top and layered it with a cropped graphic tee that you’d definitely cut at the shoulder yourself for that ‘I woke up like this’ off-the-shoulder look. 

Sure, it looked like you couldn’t be bothered to try, but you weren’t heading to a red carpet event—just to Crowe’s place to eat dinner. Who needed to look cute when you were about to inhale your body weight in food, right?  

You kept your hairstyle in check, though—that was the one thing you weren't willing to sacrifice. A little effort to at least pretend you had it together. And the earrings? Oh, the earrings were a must. They hung from your ears like delicate little reminders that you were, in fact, capable of caring about something.

Maybe not your best outfit, but its’s something.  

Before heading back out, you made a pit stop in the kitchen to grab a small blueberry cheesecake from your favorite bakery. The one where the guy behind the counter always slid an extra smile your way whenever you came in, like he was secretly rooting for you to get that slice of dessert joy. 

You grabbed it like a pro, but this wasn’t just any cheesecake. Oh, no. This was the kind of cheesecake that required ID verification because they had to make sure you were worthy of its glory.  

It was rich, creamy, and topped with a glossy layer of blueberry wine reduction that probably had magical properties. Or at least, that’s what you liked to tell yourself. You figured the extra indulgence might help Crowe decompress a little, so, like a good friend, you were willing to go the extra mile.  

“Maybe it’ll help Crowe unwind,” you mumbled to yourself, adjusting the strap of your bag before heading out. “Not that he’d admit to it. He probably thinks ‘relaxing’ is a dirty word.”  

You snorted at the thought. Crowe would probably rather eat a salad than admit he was anything less than an overworked machine. But hey, everyone deserves a little luxury now and then, right? Even if that luxury was blueberry cheesecake and a very reluctant attempt at unwinding.

The walk to Crowe’s place was mercifully short, tucked just on the edge of campus. The air was crisp, carrying the lingering chill of the evening, and the faint glow of his windows stood out against the dimming sky.

It was a modest place—large, practical, the kind of space that was meant for luxury rather than convenience. But the moment you spotted the faint flicker of movement inside, a shuffle of shadow passing by the window, you knew he was home.  

You hesitated for just a second before knocking.  

Part of you hoped—no, expected—that when he answered the door, he’d look at least a little more relaxed than he had earlier. Maybe the stiffness in his shoulders would be gone. Maybe he’d be in something softer, a hoodie instead of that ever-present button-up. Maybe—dare you dream—he’d actually be smiling.  

But when the door swung open, it was immediately clear that reality had other plans.  

Crowe stood in the doorway, his hair once again was an absolute wreck—not the effortless kind of messy that turned heads, but the kind that screamed, ‘I’ve run my hands through it too many times out of frustration.’ A furrow was etched deep between his brows, and his usual sharp posture was stiff like he was physically bracing against the weight of his responsibilities.

And—oh, fantastic—a folder was tucked under his arm, looking as though it had permanently fused to him at this point.  

You exhaled through your nose. Of course.

Yet, despite the exhaustion written all over him, something in his expression softened when he registered it was you at the door. The tightness in his shoulders didn’t fully disappear, but there was the faintest tug of a smile at the corners of his lips—tired but real.  

“What’s with the face?” you asked dryly, raising an eyebrow as he stepped aside, silently motioning you in.  

“I’m fine,” he replied automatically, the words so robotic and rehearsed that you almost laughed.  

“Right. And I’m the student council president,” you deadpanned, stepping inside and crossing your arms. “You look like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Again.”  

“Funny thing about the student council president,” Crowe muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he shut the door behind you. “It turns out he can, and will, dump work on me at all hours. Apparently, I’m not allowed to have a life outside any paperwork.”  

Crowe allowed you inside, leading you up the sleek, polished staircase to his bedroom. As he pushed open the door, you were immediately struck by how effortlessly luxurious it felt—like stepping into a five-star suite rather than your living space.  

The room was spacious, barely lit by the warm glow of a single overhead light and a tall, modern floor lamp near his desk. The walls were painted a deep, muted blue, the color rich yet understated. But it was the bed that truly caught your attention—elaborate and inviting, draped in dark blue satin sheets that gleamed subtly under the soft lighting.

The bedding was pristine and neatly arranged with thick pillows and a comforter that looked like it belonged in a high-end catalog rather than a broke college student apartment.  

And yet, despite the undeniable elegance of the space, the desk against the far wall told a completely different story.  

Stacked with an obscene number of papers, open binders, and what you were pretty sure was the same coffee cup from this morning, his desk looked like a war zone of responsibilities. A sleek laptop sat open, its screen casting a faint glow over the scattered documents, and a small, gold-rimmed clock ticked quietly beside a stack of folders. 

The faint scent of ink and paper lingered in the air, mixing with the rich undertones of expensive cologne and the barely-there scent of cedarwood. The place had the distinct feel of someone who had been trapped inside for far too long—like a space meant for relaxation had been forcibly converted into an office.  

And honestly? That pissed you off a little.

You turned back to him with an unimpressed look, arms crossed as he carelessly tossed his folder onto the desk. “You invited me to hang out, and now you’re telling me I’m supposed to just sit here while you work?”  

“I’ll multitask,” he said with a faint smirk, already lowering himself into the sleek, leather chair at his desk like that settled the matter.  

You let out an exaggerated sigh, setting your bag down on the small couch tucked into the corner of the room. Of course, even his couch was high-end—dark velvet with a few neatly arranged cushions, barely touched, like it was there for decoration rather than actual use.  

“Unbelievable,” you muttered. “What a great person you are. Let me guess, next you’re going to ask me to fetch you coffee?”  

Crowe didn’t look up, but you caught the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “If you’re offering.”  

You rolled your eyes before reaching into your bag and pulling out the carefully packed cheesecake you had brought. With deliberate flair, you set it on the small wooden table near the couch, ensuring the movement was just noticeable enough to break Crowe’s focus.  

And to your satisfaction, it worked.  

From his place at the desk, Crowe’s eyes flicked up, momentarily distracted from the mountain of papers in front of him. His gaze landed on the dessert, his brow raising slightly. “Is that… blueberry cheesecake?” 

You shot him a smug grin. “It is. And not just any cheesecake—blueberry wine-glazed cheesecake. Only the best.” 

Crowe’s lips twitched, almost forming a real smile, but as his gaze flicked back to the cheesecake, hesitation crept into his expression. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Wait… you said wine-glazed?”  

You raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was going. “Yeah? It’s just a glaze, Crowe. It’s not like I’m trying to get you drunk off dessert.”  

He exhaled, glancing between you and the cheesecake as if debating whether he should risk it. “Still…” His fingers tapped idly against the arm of his chair. “…I don’t know if I should.”  

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face before throwing him an exasperated look. “Crowe. It’s cheesecake. Not a bottle of aged whiskey.”  

His eyes narrowed slightly, but the reluctant amusement in them told you he wasn’t completely opposed. He just wanted to be difficult.  

“You’re seriously overthinking this,” you added, crossing your arms. “One bite won’t turn you into a lawless delinquent, I promise. It’s just something to help you relax for once.”  

Crowe exhaled slowly, glancing at the dessert once more before shaking his head with a smirk. “Sorry but no, I need to work—because if I suddenly start making reckless decisions, it’s your fault.”  

“Oh, please.” With a scoff, you pushed yourself up from the plush velvet couch, smoothing your hands over the soft fabric before stretching lazily. “I’ll be right back.” Crowe barely acknowledged your movement, too focused on whatever tedious task he was drowning in.  

Perfect.  

You slipped out of his bedroom, padding down the sleek hallway and down the grand staircase that led to the main floor. The house was eerily quiet, save for the faint ticking of an ornate grandfather clock positioned near the entrance. Of course, he had something so unnecessarily extravagant in his house. You shook your head, making your way toward the kitchen.  

And, unsurprisingly, even his kitchen looked like it belonged in some high-end interior design magazine—black marble countertops, dark mahogany cabinets, and sleek, modern appliances that gleamed under the warm glow of overhead lighting. The air carried the faintest scent of coffee, no doubt from whatever caffeine-fueled disaster had taken place earlier that morning.  

You pulled open a drawer, rummaging through its neatly arranged contents until you found the gold forks—because, of course, even his utensils were unnecessarily fancy, polished to a pristine shine. You hesitated for a second, eyeing the wine bottle in your other hand. You could technically be a menace and grab another fork just for him, despite his earlier protests, just to see if he’d cave.  

A slow smirk curled at your lips as you picked up another fork and then made your way back upstairs.  

By the time you reentered Crowe’s bedroom, he was exactly as you left him—hunched over his desk, a hand buried in his long brown tousled hair, muttering something under his breath as he scribbled furiously onto a page. His laptop cast a faint glow across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, and the way his brows furrowed with quiet frustration.  

You shook your head in fond exasperation, setting the forks onto the small wooden table—top of a paper towel near the couch with deliberate flair. The sound of metal forks against wood was just loud enough to pull his attention away from whatever crisis was currently occupying his mind.  

His gaze flickered to you, then to the newly placed items, and finally, to the bottle of wine you were already uncorking with far too much enthusiasm.  “You don’t take ‘no cake for me’ seriously, do you?” he asked dryly, watching as you handed him a fork, which he took. You raised an eyebrow, swirling the liquid slowly before taking a deliberate sip. “Oh, I heard you,” you mused. “I just chose to ignore it.”  

Crowe exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, but there was no real irritation in his expression—if anything, the corners of his lips twitched upward, like he was fighting off a smile.  

You handed him a fork, gesturing toward the cheesecake. “Now, be a good boy and eat before I start burning your paperwork.”  

That earned you a full, amused huff of laughter. “You wouldn’t.”  

“Oh, I would,” you said smugly, already reaching for the nearest document with mischief glinting in your eyes.  

And just like that, for the first time that evening, Crowe finally relented. With a quiet sigh of defeat, he grabbed his fork, cutting into the cheesecake with a small shake of his head.  

“Happy now?” he muttered, bringing a bite to his lips.  

You grinned, raising your fork in victory. “Ecstatic.”  

Later on, You ended up sitting in Crowe’s bed, which, honestly, wasn’t part of the original plan. You’d offered—very generously, might you add—to just sit on the floor, but Crowe wasn’t having it. And of course, that turned into a whole thing. A full-blown back-and-forth argument that went nowhere because, shocker, Crowe won.

So now here you were, cross-legged on his bed, scrolling through your phone while eating cheesecake like it was just another day.

Meanwhile, Crowe was buried in paperwork, signing off on whatever ridiculous event proposals students had cooked up this time.

Between the scribbling of his pen and the occasional tap of your phone screen, the two of you fell into an easy rhythm of conversation—nothing deep, just the usual random nonsense that somehow never failed to keep things interesting. 

You could say literally the most out-of-pocket thing, and Crowe would have an opinion on it. 

“You think pigeons ever feel bad about stealing people’s food?” 

“No. They’re menaces.” 

“What about geese?” 

“Demons in feathered form.” 

It went on like that for a while, but then, out of nowhere, Crowe, still focused on his paperwork, casually muttered, “If you end up drunk, you can stay here.” 

You blinked, glancing up from your phone. “Huh?” 

“I have hangover pills for situations like these,” he added as if that was just normal information to throw out there. 

You squinted at him, completely lost as last time you checked—he didn’t drink. “Crowe, sir, what the hell do you have those for?” 

He didn’t even hesitate. “They’re normally for my mother.” 

Oh. 

…Well damn. That changed the vibe.  

You suddenly found a very interesting spot on the wall to look at, your brain screaming at you to not ask any follow-up questions. Just let it slide, move on, talk about geese again— 

“…How come?” Damn it.

Crowe paused mid-signature, his pen hovering over the paper for a second too long. He didn’t immediately answer, which only made the air feel heavier. You shifted a little on his bed, suddenly regretting asking. But at the same time, you had to know. 

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, setting his pen down and leaning back slightly. “She’s a businesswoman,” he said simply like that explained everything.  

It kind of did.  

You nodded slowly. “Ah. So… business meetings, long nights, expensive wine, and regrettable choices?”  

“Basically,” he said, rubbing his temple. “She doesn’t get wasted often, but when she does, it’s always a mess. It’s better to just have something on hand so she doesn’t call me at two in the morning complaining about a headache and demanding I fix it.” 

You raised an eyebrow, resting your chin in your hand. “So what I’m hearing is… you’re the designated babysitter for your mom when she goes too hard on the fancy liquor.” 

Crowe gave you a flat look. “I wouldn’t call it that.”  

“But I would.” You grinned, taking another bite of your cheesecake. “Imagine that. Big, serious Crowe, the man who runs student council like a military operation, reduced to fetching electrolyte drinks and aspirin for his drunk mom.”  

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly like he was reevaluating all his life choices. “You are so lucky I tolerate you.”  

“Tolerate? Please. You’d be bored out of your mind without me.”  

Crowe rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the way the corner of his lips almost twitched up. Almost. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”  

You smirked, then gestured toward his desk. “Speaking of you tolerating me, when are you actually gonna stop working? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve been signing papers for the last hour and I’m starting to think you might be stuck in an endless loop.”  

“I’ll be done when I’m done,” he muttered, flipping to the next page.  

You squinted at him. “Liar. You never finish. The work just keeps coming.”  

Crowe didn’t deny it. He just let out a long sigh, rubbing his temple again. You could tell he was exhausted but too damn stubborn to stop.  

So, naturally, you had to push a little.  

“Y’know,” you started, setting your plate aside and stretching out on his bed dramatically, “I’m not a heavy drinker. I won’t get drunk.”

Crowe quickly said, “That’s what you said last time.”

“Blame Britt, she needed someone to take shots with at that club.” You sighed, “But If I look drunk, there’s a chance I might be pretending.” You mentioned. “Why,” Crowe asked. “…I’ll be able to get the tender loving care of a certain man.”

Crowe somewhat blushed, then added. “And If I’m the one who gets drunk, will you look after me? Or will you let me fend for myself?”

“Ehhh, that depends. What kind of drunk are you?” You gave Crowe a pointed look, lazily kicking your legs back and forth. “’Cause remember when Britt got wasted after we passed our exams and threw up in the car?” You grimaced at the memory. “Still sorry about that, by the way.”

Crowe, who had been signing something, paused and flicked his eyes up at you. “There are different types of drunk?”

You snorted. “Uh, yeah. There are levels to this, Crowe.” You started counting on your fingers. “Tipsy, somewhat affectionate—y’know, the giggly, slightly dumb but still functioning stage. Then there’s a buzz, which is what I usually am. A nice little warm feeling, maybe a little too honest, but still got control.”

Crowe raised an eyebrow. “And then?”

“Oh, it just gets worse from there.” You grinned. “There’s sloshed, where your words start slurring, and you start thinking you can dance when, in reality, you cannot.” You pointed at him. “Britt was sloshed. Then there’s blacked out, which—self-explanatory. Bad decisions are made. Regret is guaranteed.”

Crowe hummed, going back to his papers. “Lovely.”

“Oh, we’re not done,” you continued, thoroughly enjoying this. “Then you got aggressive drunks—you know, the ones who suddenly wanna fight everyone, including their own reflection. Confident drunks, which are honestly my favorite ‘cause they act like they own the place and think they’re hot shit. Sad drunks—kinda self-explanatory. They cry about their ex, their childhood, or how the bartender didn’t smile at them enough.”

Crowe sighed like he already regretted indulging this conversation. “And?”

“The two everyone really looks out for are lightweights and heavyweights.” You leaned forward a little, smirking. “I used to be somewhere in the middle, but, uh… college happened. And Britt happened. So now I’m lowkey more of a heavyweight.”

Crowe set his pen down and gave you that look. The one that was half disappointed professor, half exasperated parent. “Really.”

You shrugged. “What can I say? I build tolerance fast.”

Crowe pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not something to be proud of.”

You waved him off. “Anyway, what about you? Heavyweight or lightweight?” You already knew the answer, but you wanted to hear him say it.

Crowe let out a slow breath, glancing at you like he was debating whether to humor you or just ignore you entirely. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, “I have work to do.”

You gasped dramatically. “Avoiding the question? That means you’re a lightweight, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t respond.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, grinning. “Crowe, do you get tipsy off one drink? Is that why you don’t go out? Are you—”

He gave you a look. A very pointed, very shut up before I actually throw you out look.

You just cackled. “Yeah, alright. Go back to work, lightweight.”

Soon after, it didn’t take long for Crowe to start feeling something—not that he’d ever admit it. You had finished your slice—even had another one without issue, enjoying every bite while Crowe had been more hesitant, taking small, slow bites as if waiting for some dramatic effect to kick in. And, to your delight, it did.   

He shifted in his chair, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the odd sensation creeping up on him. His usually sharp gaze had softened just a bit, and though he kept his expression neutral, you didn’t miss the way his fingers drummed against the desk a little too loosely or the way he exhaled through his nose, slower than usual.  

You smirked. “Feeling okay over there?” 

Crowe shot you a flat look, but there was something off about it—like his focus wasn’t entirely there. “I’m fine.” You tilted your head, scrutinizing him. His dark brown skin had taken on a noticeable flush, heat blooming over his cheekbones and creeping down his neck.

 You knew that look.  

“Oh my god,” you gasped, leaning forward with barely contained laughter. “You’re lightweight, aren’t you?” Crowe blinked, frowning slightly before scoffing. “No.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated. “It’s just warm in here.”  

You bit your lip, trying to stifle your amusement. “Crowe, this is embarrassing. I ate the same cheesecake on my third slice, and I feel fine.” He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening for a second before he muttered, “You have an unfair advantage.”  

You grinned. “No wonder you avoid alcohol like the plague. You can’t hold your liquor.” Crowe furrowed his brows at your mocking tone, his face turning into a bit of a pout.

"I can hold my liquor," he grumbled, though the faint tinge in his face betrayed his words. He shifted in his seat slightly, crossing his arms defensively. "I just don't see the appeal of losing my inhibitions and making a fool of myself. Unlike some people."

Your expression turned into a smirk, tone still just as condescending.

"Ah, the classic excuse." Your gaze remained fixed on him with a hint of judgment. "Inhibitions are what make us human, you know. Or perhaps you fear the idea of letting go and having a little fun."

Crowe bristled at your words, a slight frown tugging at his lips.

"I'm not afraid of having fun," he retorted, his voice betraying a hint of defensiveness. "I simply prefer to maintain control over my actions. I see no need for losing myself to something as shallow as alcohol."

He let out a scoff. 

"Besides, true fun can be had without the need for impairment."

You let out a short, derisive laugh. "Ah, yes. The need to control everything around you, even your fun. How incredibly dull of you." She leaned closer, her expression a mix of mockery and superiority.

"But tell me, Princess, do you ever truly feel alive, or is your life merely an endless cycle of monotony and self-imposed discipline?"

"Oh, please." Crowe rolled his eyes at your mockery. "Just because I don't partake in mind-numbing substances doesn't mean my life lacks excitement. I simply find joy in more meaningful pursuits." He crossed his arms, his expression hardening. "Unlike some, I don't rely on alcohol or other substances to feel alive. My life is filled with purpose and discipline, and I take pride in that."

You tilted your head, the smirk still dancing on your lips.

"Purpose and discipline…?” she drawled. "I bet you take pride in your ability to follow routines like a well-trained dog, too."

“Excuse me?” Crowe frowned, his voice sharp as he watched you lean closer, sensing the shift in the air.

You didn’t back down. “Jericho,” you said, using his real name with a seriousness that seemed to catch him off guard. “I’ve been your assistant for the past two weeks now, and I’m starting to notice something. You let the student council—and even the president—treat you like a dog, and I see the expression on your face every time. Pure irritation.” 

You shifted and hopped onto his desk, sitting beside him, your legs casually swinging back and forth as you watched him try to suppress his usual annoyance. 

Crowe’s frown deepened, his hand tightening on the paperwork as he visibly tried to keep his composure. You could almost see the gears grinding behind his eyes, a mix of irritation and something else, something less guarded. 

"I’m aware of the circumstances," he said, voice tight but still trying to assert some control, "and I can handle the student council just fine. I… I’m fine with it. Really." He trailed off, and his words faltered. You could tell he was trying to convince himself more than you. The bravado was fading as his frustration bled into something more vulnerable, something he didn’t want to admit out loud.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning in just a little closer. “Oh, I don’t doubt that you can handle things, Jericho. But here’s the thing—you’ve been avoiding something for a while. And it’s not just the paperwork.”

He didn’t meet your gaze, his eyes flicking away as he shifted uneasily in his chair. He didn’t like where this conversation was going, that much was obvious.

“Look, I get it. You’re used to doing everything by yourself, keeping things together, and letting everyone walk all over you if it means getting things done. But that doesn’t mean you have to take it. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re okay with it,” you said, leaning forward, voice low but firm. You saw the way he struggled to keep his walls up, the cracks widening. 

“I appreciate your concern,” he muttered, barely audible, “but I can handle everything. I really don’t mind being treated like a dog.”

Your smirk faltered just a bit, and a hint of seriousness crept into your tone. “Hm, now I know you’re not the buzzed type…” you murmured, thoughtfully. “You say you don’t mind… but I can sense there’s more to it than just handling things. You’re avoiding my gaze for a reason, after all.”

Crowe didn’t respond right away, his eyes avoiding yours, but the tension in the air was palpable. You could feel his discomfort growing, but there was something else, too—a sense of reluctance mixed with a desire for something else, something you both knew he wasn’t willing to admit yet.

You sighed heavily, making sure to add some extra dramatic flair before stepping closer. His desk, though structured, had a certain worn-in look, the wood slightly dulled from constant use, with scattered notes and open folders sprawled across its surface. The lamp at the corner cast long, soft shadows, adding a golden warmth to the otherwise sterile, paper-filled workspace.  

You crouched beside his chair and gestured toward his feet. “Move.” 

Crowe blinked down at you, finally breaking his focus. His brows furrowed. “What—?”  

You didn’t give him a chance to retreat into his shell. Instead, you were now kneeling down in front of him, slipping under the desk with the kind of confidence that said ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ “I’m going to see if you’ll actually let me help,” you said, your voice light but insistent, “because right now? You think you don’t need anything from anyone. But I’m betting you’ll let me assist you. And I’m going to find out just how much you really don’t mind.”  

The air between you shifted, thick with unspoken tension, as Crowe’s jaw tightened. You could almost see the internal battle raging within him—the need to keep control, to not rely on anyone, fighting against the small, desperate part of him that did need help, that did want something different. Something softer, something less exhausting.

“Stop acting like you can do everything by yourself, Jericho," you said gently, yet firmly. “Let me help. Please.”

His eyes flicked down to where you were kneeling in front of him, his throat working as if he were trying to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. You didn’t move, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to feel the weight of your presence. You were here, offering, and this time, you weren’t going to back off.

“I’m not going to bite, I promise.” You smiled, though it was a soft, knowing grin—one that suggested you could see right through the mask he wore.

For a moment, he said nothing, just staring at you like you’d asked him to do the impossible. He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, His deep blue eyes flickered with something unreadable—something between exasperation and tiredness.  

Then, finally, his shoulders and arms sagged, just a little, and he let out a quiet, resigned sigh. “Fine. Okay. You win. Help me, then.”

Still kneeling on the floor, you tilted your head slightly, your eyes locked onto his with a mischievous glint that told him you weren’t backing down anytime soon. You let your gaze linger a little longer than necessary, unwavering and unblinking, before slowly shifting closer, inching just enough to make your presence impossible to ignore.

You could feel the tension building between you two, a palpable electricity in the air, and you were loving every second of it.

“Y’know, as your assistant,” you began, your voice dripping with playful sarcasm, “all I’ve done is watch you mistreat me, running errands, picking up the slack... I mean, I barely get a ‘thank you’ for anything.” You leaned in just a little more, making sure he could feel the weight of your words.

It was a total lie, of course. He doesn’t actually mistreat you, but you loved getting under his skin, watching the way he reacted to your teasing. The slight furrow of his brow, the tension that flickered in his jaw—he was trying so hard not to take the bait.

Before he could respond, you lightly placed a hand on his thigh, just above the knee, your fingers barely grazing his skin. You could practically feel the sharp intake of breath he took, his body going rigid under your touch.

“You really should show your assistant some gratitude,” you added, your voice low, almost a whisper. “Or... maybe I’ll start taking advantage of the fact that I know exactly how much you don’t want help.”  

His eyes flickered to your hand, then back up to your face, but he didn’t move. His lips pressed into a thin line, clearly debating whether to stay stoic or snap at you. But you could tell that you were getting to him—just a little. 

You were testing him. And so far? You were winning.

You felt it instantly—the way his muscles tensed beneath the fabric of his pants, his entire body going rigid for just a fraction of a second. His smirk, always so confident, faltered—just barely. Instead, he regarded you with something sharper now, something closer to curiosity than irritation. “Oh?” he mused, his voice dipping into a lower register, sending a slow ripple of heat down your spine.  

"I don't treat you badly," he protested, though his voice had an edge to it—strained, like he was trying very hard not to focus on the placement of your hand. “I always make sure to take care of you, even when I’m busy…”  

You chuckled slyly, inching closer so that you were practically hovering over him now. Your fingers traced absentmindedly along his thigh, feather-light but deliberate, as you tilted your head and gave him a teasing, knowing look.  

"Oh, Crowe," you crooned, drawing out his name, savoring the way his jaw clenched in response. “That’s not enough. And you don’t reward me ‘nearly’ enough."  

His breath hitched for the smallest moment, but he recovered quickly, exhaling sharply through his nose. Almost a laugh—almost. His eyes flickered with something unreadable, something restrained, but the corners of his lips twitched upward in spite of himself.  

"Rewards, huh?" he murmured, the words slow, measured. He leaned back slightly in his chair, though his gaze never left yours, locked in a silent battle of wills.

You could feel the weight of his stare, the way his fingers tightened slightly around the papers he had been holding—forgotten now, unimportant. 

You had his attention. Completely.

"And what exactly do you think you deserve as a reward, huh?" Crowe asked, tilting his head slightly, his tone deceptively casual, but his body language betraying him. You paused, considering his question, letting the moment between you.

What could you ask for?

What did you want from him?

Your fingers, still resting on his thigh, tapped once—thoughtful, teasing. "Well," you mused, lips curling at the edges as you leaned in just a fraction closer. "That depends. Are you finally done with work?"

Crowe exhaled sharply, the sound unmistakable as he shook his head—a familiar gesture that meant he was about to endure something he definitely wasn’t looking forward to. You could see the frustration in the way his shoulders slumped slightly as if bracing for the inevitable storm that was coming his way. But before he could even open his mouth to express his exasperation—

His phone rang.

Shit maybe you don’t have his attention like you thought 

You didn’t need to check the screen to know who was calling. The ringtone had become so ingrained in your memory, it was practically a soundtrack to your time spent in the student council room. You could’ve recognized it in the dead of night, half-asleep and groggy.

But you still raised an eyebrow, curious despite yourself. “Who is it?”

“The student President…” Crowe muttered, barely a glance at the phone before he visibly grimaced.

Without skipping a beat, you leaned over his thigh and nudged him, giving him that determined look that meant ‘this was happening whether he liked it or not.’ “Pick it up.”

He shot you a look of disbelief. “What now?”

“Yes. Pick it up.”

Crowe hesitated for just a second, clearly torn between his usual aversion to the student council President’s calls and the sense of duty that always seemed to take over.

You could practically feel the battle within him: to pick up and face whatever nonsense was about to unfold or to pretend he hadn’t heard it ringing and hoped it went away. But, of course, he didn’t choose the latter. 

With an exaggerated sigh, Crowe picked up the phone, his fingers brushing over the screen like it was a ticking bomb. 

Above you, Crowe cleared his throat, the sound sharp and professional—the tone he always used when he was in full ‘I-have-to-do-this’ mode. It was crisp and controlled, but there was a thin thread of tension that clung to the edges of his voice, betraying the fact that he was anything but relaxed.

“President,” Crowe greeted, his voice polite but tight, like he was holding back the urge to snap. "Didn’t realize you were gonna call so late."

You could practically feel the irritation dripping off him, but he kept it buried under that forced professional tone. If the student council president had any clue how much Crowe was dreading this call, they sure weren’t showing it. Crowe shifted in his seat, like he was bracing for whatever nonsense the student council president was about to throw his way.

You almost felt bad for him—almost—but let’s be real, he was the one who willingly signed up for this madness.

Still, you had a feeling this call was gonna drag on a lot longer than either of you wanted. Your heart was hammering as you pressed your head flat against Crowe’s lap, barely breathing, just waiting—again for this stupid call to be over.

Every inch of you was aware of how close you were, and it was making it hard to focus on anything else. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but it was way too hard when Crowe’s leg was right there, brushing against you. 

On the other end, the student president’s voice—sharp and already full of annoyance—came through loud and clear. "It’s about the upcoming budget meeting. You didn’t submit the finalized report yet."

Crowe let out an exaggerated sigh from above, and you could feel the shift in his chair like it was trying to rattle your very bones. You clenched your jaw, trying not to squirm as you felt the brush of his knee against your shoulder. It definitely felt deliberate, like he was trying to mess with you, making it impossible for you to get comfortable. 

You swallowed down the discomfort and forced yourself to stay still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you react. 

"It’s almost done," Crowe said, smooth as butter, his voice way too casual for how much of a lie it was. "I was just in the middle of… reviewing it."

Such a liar. You rolled your eyes internally. 

"Good," the student president replied, clearly distracted by whatever papers they were rifling through. “I need it by tonight. No excuses.”

Your stomach dropped. You held your breath, teetering on the edge of panic as Crowe leaned forward, his lower body inching closer to yours. He reached for something on his desk, and suddenly, the space between you felt way too small. 

Like, way too small. It was suffocating, but you didn’t move. 

You couldn’t. 

…Right?

“Noted,” Crowe said, his voice only slightly strained. You could hear the tension in it, though, and it made your pulse spike. 

The student president sighed on the other end of the phone call, oblivious to the chaos unfolding in Crowe’s office. “I don’t know how you manage all this paperwork, Ichabod. You’d think with your assistant, things would be more efficient.”

You nearly choked. Excuse me?

Crowe let out an amused huff, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Yeah, well. Sometimes, they can be a handful.” 

Your eye twitched. Oh, he did not just say that. That smug little—oh, he was so not getting away with this. 

From under the desk, you moved quickly, your fingers darting to his pants. You undid the buttons with practiced ease, then unzipped them, pulling them down to his thighs. And then—oh. 

Oh~

The first thing you saw was the massive tent in his briefs, and you almost choked on your own saliva. How was he even walking like that?

“Hey—what are you—what are you doing—?” Crowe hissed, his voice low and frantic. You glanced up at him, and the look on his face was priceless. His jaw was tight, his dark blue eyes wide, and there was this desperate, pleading expression that screamed, ‘Don’t you dare.’ 

But oh, you dared. 

You brought a hand to him hesitantly, your fingers brushing over the fabric of his briefs. The second you started palming him, Crowe let out this low, shaky sigh that he barely managed to stifle. How the hell was he already this hard? And why did that make your stomach flip in the best way possible?

You could feel him twitch under your touch, and you bit your lip to keep from grinning. This was payback, plain and simple. He wanted to call you a ‘handful’? 

Fine. You’d show him exactly what that meant.

Crowe’s voice was strained as he tried to keep his composure on the phone. “Yes. I’ll—uh—make sure to follow up on that.” 

You smirked, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his briefs. Crowe’s breath hitched, and he shot you a look that was equal parts warning and begging. But you weren’t about to stop now. Not when he was squirming like this, not when you had him right where you wanted him.

“Crowe?” the student president’s voice crackled through the phone. “Are you still there?”

“Y-yes,” Crowe stammered, his voice tight. “Just—uh—just dealing with something. Urgently.”

You stifled a laugh, your hand wrapping around him fully now. Crowe’s head tipped back slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He was trying so hard to keep it together, but you could see the cracks forming. His free hand gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, and you could feel the way his body tensed under your touch.

Crowe was trying to focus. 

Keyword: trying. 

But you were making it impossible.

You had one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, your fingers teasing the sensitive skin there, while your other hand cupped his balls, gently massaging them in a way that made his leg twitch under the desk. You kissed the tip of him, soft and teasing, and when you glanced up at him, his jaw was clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

“Yes, President,” Crowe said, his voice strained but impressively steady. “I’ll make sure the budget report is finalized by—” He cut off with a sharp inhale as you dragged your tongue along the length of him, slow and deliberate. His free hand slammed down on the desk, and you could see his fingers trembling.

You smirked, your lips curling around him as you took him deeper, your tongue flicking against the underside of his cock. Crowe’s breath hitched, and he quickly cleared his throat, trying to cover the sound. “Apologies,” he said, his voice tight. “Just—uh—just a bit of a cough.”

You almost laughed at that, but you were too busy enjoying the way his thighs tensed under your hands. You pulled back, letting him slip from your mouth with a soft pop, and then—because you were feeling extra mean—you slapped his cock against your cheek a couple of times, the sound muffled but still way too loud in the quiet space.

Crowe’s eyes snapped down to you, wide and panicked, and you gave him your best innocent look before leaning in to lick a slow stripe up his length. His hand shot out, tangling in your hair, but he didn’t push you away. No, he just held on, his grip tightening as you took him into your mouth again, deeper this time.

“Ichabod?” the student president’s voice came through the phone, sharp and impatient. “Are you even listening?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Crowe managed, though his voice was definitely higher-pitched than usual. “Just—uh—just reviewing the numbers.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making his hips jerk involuntarily. He bit down on his lip to stifle a groan, but you could still hear it, low and desperate. You pulled back again, your lips brushing against the tip of his cock as you looked up at him, your eyes wide and innocent.

“You’re doing so good,” you mouthed, your voice silent but your meaning crystal clear. Crowe’s face flushed a deep red, and he quickly looked away, his jaw tightening as he tried—and failed—to focus on the phone call. His free hand, the one not clutching the phone, gripped the edge of his desk so hard you thought the wood might splinter.

You didn’t let up.

Instead, you ducked your head again, taking him deeper this time, your throat relaxing around him as you swallowed him down. Crowe’s hand tangled in your hair, his fingers tightening almost reflexively, and you could feel the way his body tensed, the way he fought to keep his hips still. 

He was a losing battle, and you knew it. 

You could feel the subtle shift in his muscles, the way his control was slipping with every flick of your tongue, every slow, deliberate movement of your lips.

“President,” Crowe said, his voice strained, “I think we might need to—ah—to reschedule this call.”

You smirked around him, your tongue flicking against that sensitive spot just under the head of his cock. Crowe’s breath hitched, and he let out a shaky exhale that he barely managed to stifle. You could feel the way his thighs trembled under your hands, the way his entire body was teetering on the edge.

“Reschedule?” the president snapped, his tone incredulous. “Ichabod, this is important. We don’t have time for—”

But Crowe wasn’t listening anymore.

His hips bucked forward involuntarily, his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you could feel the way his body shuddered, the way he lost control for just a second. 

It was all you needed. 

You hummed softly, the vibration making him twitch in your mouth, and you could feel the way his resolve was crumbling. His hand in your hair tightened, pulling just enough to make your scalp tingle, and you could hear the way his breathing grew ragged, uneven.

“I—uh—apologize, sir,” Crowe managed to choke out, his voice tight and unsteady. “Something… urgent has come up.”

You didn’t let him finish. 

Instead, you pulled back slightly, just enough to swirl your tongue around the tip of his cock before taking him deep again, your throat working around him. Crowe’s head tipped back, a low groan escaping his lips before he could stop it, and you could feel the way his body was trembling, the way he was barely holding it together.

The student president was still talking, his voice sharp and impatient, but Crowe wasn’t hearing a word of it. His focus was entirely on you, on the way your mouth felt around him, on the way you were driving him absolutely insane. His hips bucked again, this time more deliberately, and you could feel the way his control was slipping, the way he was losing himself in the sensation.

“I’ll—ah—call you back,” Crowe said abruptly, his voice rough and strained. He didn’t even wait for a response before he ended the call, tossing the phone onto his desk with a clatter.

The second the call was over, his hand in your hair tightened, and he pulled you off him just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and blazing with need. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he growled, his voice low and rough.

You just smirked up at him, your lips still wrapped around him, and then you took him deep again, your throat relaxing as you swallowed him down. Crowe’s breath came out in a harsh exhale, and his hips jerked forward, his control completely gone now.

“Fuck,” Crowe muttered, his voice rough and strained, his hand tightening in your hair as he thrust into your mouth. His movements were desperate, almost frantic, like he was losing control and couldn’t stop himself.

You could feel the way his body trembled, the way his thighs tensed under your hands, and you knew he was teetering on the edge. 

You kept your pace steady, your lips wrapped tight around him, your tongue working against him in ways that made his breath hitch and his grip on your hair tighten almost painfully.

"Here I—"

Crowe didn’t get to finish his words.

His hips stuttered, his cock pulsing in your mouth as he came with a low, guttural groan. You swallowed half of it, the taste warm and salty, before pulling back just enough to let the rest spill across your lower face. A few streaks of white painted your chin and the corner of your mouth, and you looked up at him, your eyes never leaving his.

“I’m so sorry,” Crowe said, his voice hoarse, his chest still heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His hand loosened in your hair, his fingers brushing gently against your scalp as if to soothe the sting. But you just smirked, your tongue darting out to catch the cum at the edge of your face.

“It’s all good,” you said, your voice low and teasing, as you licked the last traces of him away. The way his eyes darkened at the sight, the way his jaw tightened like he was fighting the urge to pull you back in, only made your smirk widen.

When he finally stilled, his body limp and spent, you pulled back slowly, a satisfied smirk on your lips. Crowe slumped back in his chair, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his breathing. He looked completely wrecked—his hair disheveled, his shirt rumpled and half-unbuttoned, his face still flushed with the aftermath of his release. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint tremble in his forearms.

“You’re lucky we didn’t get caught,” Crowe muttered, his voice low and gruff as he leaned back in his chair. He was trying to sound stern, but the way his eyes lingered on you—dark and hungry—gave him away. “Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if the student president had figured out what you were doing under my desk?”

You just shrugged, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, a sly grin spreading across your face. “At least I had your back, so he didn’t really hear anything. Besides, he sounded more pissed that you hung up on him than anything else.”

Crowe groaned, running a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe away the memory of the entire ordeal. But you could see the corner of his mouth twitch like he was fighting a smile. “You’re such a menace,” he said, though there was no real heat behind his words. His voice was soft, almost fond, and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the room that mattered—made your stomach flip.

You stood, leaning against his desk, your grin widening. “You love it,” you shot back, your voice dripping with playful defiance. 

Crowe let out a low laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. “I really do,” he admitted, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. 

You couldn’t help but notice how flushed Crowe’s face was, the deep red hue spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.

Was it from the way you’d just had him unraveling under your touch?

Or maybe it was the spiked cheesecake that you convinced him to indulge in earlier, the alcohol warming his veins and loosening his usual tight control. Honestly, it could’ve been both, and the thought made a smug little smile tug at your lips. 

Either way, you wanted him to relax, to let go of whatever tension was still coiled in his body.

“Do you need the hangover pills from your bathroom?” you asked, your voice soft but teasing as you tilted your head, studying him. You were half-turned toward the door, ready to fetch them if he said yes, but Crowe shook his head almost immediately.

“No,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “I don’t need pills. I just need you.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and loaded, and before you could respond—before you could even process what he’d said—he reached for you. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a firmness that sent a shiver up your spine.

In one swift motion, he was on his feet, pulling you toward him with a force that made you stumble. You let out a surprised laugh, but it was cut short as you collided with his chest, his other arm snaking around your waist to steady you.

And then his lips were on yours, crashing into you with a hunger that left you breathless. The kiss was deep, demanding, almost possessive, and you melted into it without hesitation. His tongue slid against yours, and you could still taste him on your lips—a faint, lingering reminder of what you’d just done to him. It seemed to drive him wilder, his grip on you tightening as if he was afraid you’d pull away.

His hands roamed over your body like he needed to touch every inch of you, to remind himself that you were real, that you were his. One hand slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he cradled your head, holding you in place like he never wanted to let you go. The other hand stayed firmly on your hip, his fingers digging into your skin through the fabric of your clothes, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you.

You could feel the heat of him through his clothes, the way his body thrummed with restless energy like he was still riding the high of what had just happened. His chest rose and fell against yours, his breathing ragged, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart where your hand rested against him. 

It was intoxicating, the way he wanted you, the way he needed you, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands sliding into his long, soft brown hair. His hair was silky between your fingers, and you tugged gently, earning a low groan from him that vibrated against your lips. 

The sound sent a thrill through you, and you deepened the kiss, your tongue sliding against his as you poured every ounce of your own desire into it. Crowe’s grip on you tightened, his body pressing into yours like he was trying to fuse the two of you together, and you could feel the evidence of his want pressing against your hip, hard and insistent.

The kiss was everything—hot, desperate, and full of unspoken promises. 

It was a collision of need and longing, a silent conversation that neither of you could put into words. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you breathless, his hands gripping you like you might disappear if he let go.

And when he finally broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath came in short, uneven gasps. You could see it in his eyes—the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, like you were his entire world.

Crowe laughed, the sound low and warm, and then he was kissing you again, softer this time but no less hungry. You let yourself get lost in him, your body leaning back until the edge of his desk stopped you from moving any further. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, his body pressing you firmly against the desk.

One hand braced on the surface beside you, trapping you in place, while the other stayed on your waist, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

When he finally released you, you could see the redness of his face, the flush spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. It was almost enough to make you laugh, and you couldn’t resist tapping your finger lightly on his nose. He blinked, taken aback by the playful gesture, and then a slow, mischievous smile spread across his face.

“It’s time to reward beloved assistant,” he said, his voice low and rough, before kissing you again. This time, it was fiercer, more demanding, and you barely had time to react before he was roughly pushing all the papers off his desk with one sweeping motion.

The sound of them scattering to the floor barely registered as he lifted you effortlessly, setting you down on the now-clear desk. His hands stayed on your thighs, his grip firm as he leaned over you, trapping you once again.

Crowe’s breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling as he hovered over you, his eyes dark with want. He was about to kiss you again, but you stopped him, placing a hand on his chest to hold him back.

“Crowe, you’re still drunk,” you said, your voice soft but firm. You cupped his face in your hands, your fingertips brushing over the soft skin of his cheeks. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were now clouded with a mix of desire and something deeper, something raw and vulnerable. “One slice of spiked cheesecake is all it takes for you to be someone else?” you teased, your fingertips grazing over his soft, parted lips.

As much as you adored Crowe, you didn’t want to take advantage of him in this state. He was always so composed, so in control, and seeing him like this—unraveled and needy—was both intoxicating and a little unsettling. 

Crowe’s breath hitched as he leaned into your touch, his lips pressing a kiss to your palm. “I wonder if you fed me that cake on purpose, you to take a break.” he murmured, his voice rough and low. “Did you want to see me like this?”

You almost laughed. 

Yeah, maybe you did. 

But you wouldn’t tell him that to his face.

“Who could’ve guessed a small amount of alcohol would get you this drunk?” you said instead, looking down as his hands traveled up your thighs, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His touch was electric, and you had to bite your lip to keep from gasping.

“I never allowed myself touch alcohol,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands stopped at your waist, his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin. “But for you, I broke that rule.”

“Crowe…” you mumbled, your arms wrapping around his neck as you tried to steady yourself. His proximity, his touch, the way he looked at you—it was all too much, and yet not enough.

“You said you wanted a reward,” he said, his eyes pleading as he leaned his head down into the crook of your shoulder. “Fuck, you’re so warm. You smell like you, and I can’t imagine anything more beautiful than the stars in the sky.”

Confident, may you add, needy drunk definitely.

You felt your breath catch as his lips brushed against your neck, his kisses soft and lingering. His hands moved back to your thighs, sliding up to your waist, and then under your shirt again, his fingers exploring the plush curve of your hips. Everywhere he touched, it felt like he was leaving a mark, branding you as his.

“You’ve been such a wonderful assistant,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “As your so-called boss, let me reward you, starlight.” His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help the windchime laugh that escaped you, muffled against his chest. It made his heart flip-flop like a fish in the cavern of his ribs. 

“Crowe, please…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“If you want me, you can have me,” he said, his lips brushing against your shoulder. “In whichever way you want.”

In whichever way you want?

That was a dangerous offer, especially from someone like him. And you knew you’d take him up on it, again and again and again. But not like this. Not when he was drunk, his inhibitions lowered, his control slipping. 

You sighed, gently pushing against his chest to create some distance.“Jericho, you’re really drunk,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “I’ll get the hangover pills.”

But before you could slide off the desk, Crowe grabbed your arms, pulling you back onto the surface with a force that surprised you. “Are you trying to escape?” he asked, his voice tinged with frustration. “You keep saying I’m drunk. So, must I always stay sober?” He rested his head on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. “Because of you, everything is spiraling out of control. How can you pretend you’re not affected?”

Your eyes flickered away for a moment, your hand resting on his chest as you thought about his words. It was hard to say no to him, especially when he looked at you like that, when his touch set your skin on fire. But you didn’t want to push him into something he might regret later.

“Jericho…” you mumbled, your voice barely audible. You were torn, your resolve wavering under the weight of his need and your own desire. 

Fuck it. 

You were a little tipsy too.

Just a bit better at hiding it than him.

You kiss him with a softness that he thinks must come naturally to you, a tenderness that makes his chest ache in the best way. Crowe adores it, even as he feels a twinge of guilt for the way he wants to devour it, to take that softness and turn it into something wild and untamed. 

But for now, he lets himself sink into it, his lips moving against yours with a slow, deliberate rhythm that quickly deepens. Lips give way to tongue, and then to teeth, his mouth nipping at your lower lip in a way that makes you gasp softly, your fingers tightening in his hair.

His hands know your skin like they’ve mapped it a thousand times before, and yet every touch feels new, electric. They’re everywhere at once, hot and aching as they slide under your clothes, exploring the curves of your body with a reverence that makes your breath hitch.

One hand slips up to your breast, cupping it gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple through the fabric of your top. The sensation is enough to make you arch into him, a gasp escaping your lips that he swallows down with another kiss.

Crowe takes his time with your layered tops—first the crop top, then the tank top—peeling them off you carefully, like he’s unveiling something sacred. His gaze never leaves you, his eyes dark and hungry as he drinks in the sight of you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he’s leaning in, his mouth finding the spot right above your sternum, where he can feel the rapid flutter of your heartbeat beneath his lip as he removes your bra.

“So beautiful,” he mumbles into your skin, his voice low and rough with desire. His hands cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles.

“The brightest star in my life,” he adds, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s confessing something he’s held onto for too long. He tilts his head, capturing one nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling around it as his hand slides under your back, fingers pressing into the dip of your spine. 

You arch into him instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips as he takes his time, lavishing attention on your body despite the way his cock throbs painfully in his boxers—once again a bulge as pants were still unbutton. “Such a pretty star,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. “So hot to the touch.”

His hands move to your hips, gripping you firmly as he lifts you by your ass, pulling your flared yoga pants down and off in one smooth motion. His eyes follow every movement, every inch of exposed skin, and you’re grateful for the dim lighting of the standing lamp near his desk.

It casts a warm glow over you, highlighting the curves of your body as you sit on top of his desk, completely at his mercy. His gaze is intense, almost reverent, as he takes you in, his hands sliding up your thighs with a touch that’s both possessive and tender. 

“Stay still, dearest,” he murmurs, his voice a low command that sends a shiver down your spine. His hands continue their exploration, fingers lacing through yours as they move over your hips, down to the waistband of your panties. He hooks his fingers into the fabric, pulling them down slowly, leaving you completely bare in front of him. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his breath coming a little faster now.

But of course, you can’t let him have all the fun.

“No,” you say suddenly, your voice firm but playful, pushing Crowe away with your foot on his lower chest, slowly rubbing.

Crowe freezes, his head snapping up to look at you, his cheeks still flushed with desire. “No?” he asks, his voice tinged with surprise and a hint of amusement.

“Isn’t this my reward for being your assistant?” you ask, tilting your head as you give him a sly smile. “Shouldn’t I have a say in how this goes?”

His eyes widen for a moment, and then a smirk plays on his lips, his expression shifting from surprise to ‘of course, whatever you say.’

“My apologies, dearest,” he says, his voice soft but laced with teasing. “How selfish of me. Of course, it’s only fair that you have a say in this.” He steps closer, his hands resting on either side of you on the desk as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. “So, what is it that you desire, my sweet star? You have my full attention. Just tell me what you want.”

There was one or maybe two things.

You were sprawled back on Crowe’s desk, the cool surface pressing into your skin as your legs fell open for him. 

The edge of the desk dug into your lower back, but the discomfort was a distant thought—completely overshadowed by the way Crowe was looking at you. His deep blue eyes were dark with hunger, his gaze raking over your body like he wanted to memorize every inch of you. His long brown hair was undone,messy, falling into his face as he leaned over you, and you couldn’t help but reach up to brush a strand away. He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm before letting it go, his lips curving into a smirk that made your stomach flip.

His hands slid up your thighs, his grip firm but not rough, like he was savoring the feel of you. He pushed your legs wider, settling himself between them, and you shivered as his fingers traced patterns on your skin, teasing and deliberate. His touch was electric, sending little shocks of pleasure through you, and you bit your lip to keep from begging him to hurry up.

But Crowe wasn’t one to rush. He took his time, leaning down to press a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips soft and warm against your sensitive skin. You gasped, your hands flying to his hair as he kissed his way up, his breath hot and uneven. Each kiss was slow, and deliberate, like he was mapping out every inch of you, and by the time he reached where you needed him most, you were already trembling.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, the words sending a thrill through you. And then his tongue flicked against clit, and you let out a strangled cry, your fingers tightening in his hair. He didn’t hold back, his mouth working you over with a skill that had you seeing stars, your hips lifting off the desk as you tried to get closer, to feel more.

But just as you were about to tip over the edge, he pulled back, leaving you gasping and desperate. You whined, your hands tugging at his hair, but he only chuckled, the sound dark and full of promise. “Not yet,” he said, his voice dripping with mischief. “You missed the best part.”

You groaned, your head falling back against the desk as you tried to catch your breath. Crowe straightened, you can heard him unbuttoning his shirt, then pulled down his boxers along with his pants.

Soon you felt his hands sliding up to grip your hips, and you could feel the heat of him as he positioned his cock at your entrance—which he slap his cock against your pussy, enough to make you jump little bit as you tried to mentally prepare yourself.

Crowe laugh softly, holding you, "Don’t worry," He started before opening your pussy with two fingers, "Just relax, right?"

That little cheeky asshole

Suddenly, he pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, and you bit your lip to keep from crying out. He felt so good, stretching you, filling you completely, and when he finally bottomed out, you both let out a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” Crowe muttered, his head dropping forward as he tried to steady himself. His hands tightened on your hips, his thumbs brushing against your skin in a way that was almost soothing. “You feel so fucking incredible.”

You could only nod, your hands sliding up his arms to grip his shoulders as he started to move. His pace was slow at first, almost torturous, each thrust deep and deliberate. But then he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Just you.”

Crowe groaned, his pace quickening as he gave you exactly what you asked for—a rhythm that had you seeing stars. His hands moved to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he kissed you, deep and hungry.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting your legs higher as he thrust into you, each movement deep and deliberate. You could feel the tension building in your body, your nails digging into his back—enough to almost leave marks as you tried to hold on.

And then, just as you were about to lose yourself completely, his phone rang.

The sound was jarring, pulling you both out of the moment, and Crowe let out a frustrated groan, stop completely. “Shit,” he muttered, glancing at the phone where it sat on the desk beside your head. He reached for it, his movements jerky and impatient, but when he saw the name on the screen—Student Council President—he hesitated.

“Answer it,” you moaned, your voice breathless and teasing. Your eyes met his, and you could see the conflict in his gaze—the way he wanted to ignore the call but knew he probably shouldn’t. “You know I can’t,” he said, his voice strained as he tried to keep his composure. 

But you didn’t care. 

You reached for the phone, your fingers brushing against his as you answered the call and handed it to him. “You’re just going to hang up? What if it’s something important?” you teased, your voice dripping with playful innocence.

Crowe shot you a look that was equal parts ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me’ and ‘I’m so into you it’s ridiculous.’ He sighed, running a hand through his hair before reluctantly bringing the phone to his ear, standing up straight. “What?” he snapped, his voice sharp and impatient, like he was already done with this conversation before it even started.

The student council president’s voice crackled through the phone, loud and unmistakably pissed. “Ichabod! What the hell was that earlier? You can’t just hang up on me like that! Do you have any idea how unprofessional—” 

Then, out of nowhere. With a playful annoyed sigh, your body to move, slamming yourself hard against Crowe.

He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning into the phone, however, your warm pussy clenching around cock—deep inside you, so warm, so fucking wet and bare— he wonders if he stretching you out in all of the right places.

You could feel the way his body tensed, the way he was trying to keep his voice steady while you were doing your absolute best to ruin him. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Unprofessional. Got it. Can we move on?”

“Move on?!” the student president screeched, his voice so loud you were pretty sure the neighbors could hear it. “You hung up on me in the middle of a very important discussion! Do you know how much paperwork I have to deal with because of you?!”

You couldn’t help it—you smirked, your fingers digging into Crowe’s arms as you rocked against him. He shot you a glare, but it was half-hearted at best, and you could see the way his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Look,” he said, his voice strained as he tried to keep his composure, “I’ll… uh… I’ll get you the forms tomorrow, okay? Can we just—ah—drop this for now?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and you could practically hear the president’s brain short-circuiting. “Are you… are you breathing weirdly? What’s wrong with you?”

Crowe’s eyes widened, and for a split second, he looked genuinely panicked—like a deer caught in headlights. His grip on your hips tightened, his body freezing as the president’s voice blared through the phone, sharp and accusatory.

But then, just as quickly as the panic had set in, it was gone. His expression shifted, an unfamiliar mask of cool composure sliding back into place. 

His voice dropped into that low, dangerous tone he used when he was about to shut someone down, the one that sent shivers down your spine even when it wasn’t directed at you.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said, his voice smooth and steady, though you could feel the way his body tensed beneath you. “I’m just… busy. Very busy. So if you’ll excuse me—”

“Busy doing what?!” the president yelled, their voice reaching a pitch that could probably shatter glass. “You’re supposed to be working, not—what are you even doing right now?!”

Crowe’s lips twitched, and you could see the exact moment the mischief sparked in his eyes. He looked down at you, his gaze dark and heated, and then he smirked. 

Uh oh. 

“Jericho—” you started, your voice a warning, but he cut you off with a deep, hungry kiss. His lips crashed against yours, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your head spin. The kiss was demanding, almost possessive, and you couldn’t help but melt into it, your hands tangling in his hair as he muffled your sounds. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire, his breathing ragged, and he gave you a wicked grin that made your stomach flip.

“Trust me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “I need you to be loud for this.”

Before you could respond, he turned his attention back to the phone, his smirk widening as he brought it to his ear. “What am I doing?” he repeated, his tone dripping with faux innocence. “Oh, you know. Just… multitasking.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line, and then the president’s voice came through, louder and more incredulous than before. “Multitasking?! What does that even mean?!”

Crowe’s grin turned downright devilish, and you could feel the way his body vibrated with suppressed laughter. “This,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, and then he thrust deep inside you, hitting that spot that made your vision blur and your breath catch. 

You couldn’t help it—you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure shot through you like a lightning bolt.

“Jericho!” you cried out, your voice breaking on his name, and he smirked, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he turned his attention back to the phone.

“You hear that?” he said, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm. “I’m busy fucking at the moment. Raw and deep. Something you’ll never get with those ugly-ass clothes of yours.”

Your eyes widened in shock, your mouth falling open as you stared at him. 

Did he really just say that? 

To the student council president? 

Your Crowe??

But before you could say anything, Crowe hung up and tossed the phone onto the desk, the device skidding across the surface before coming to a stop near the edge. “Jericho!” you hissed, your voice a mix of disbelief and amusement. “You did not just say that!” 

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and then he was kissing you again, his hands roaming over your body like he couldn’t get enough of you. “What?” he said, pulling back just enough to grin at you. 

“It’s true, plus you wanted this,” Crowe murmured, his voice low and rough, his breath hot against your skin as he leaned down to capture your nipple between his teeth. He bit down gently, just enough to make you gasp, before soothing the sting with his tongue, sucking and teasing until you were squirming beneath him.

His deep blue eyes locked onto yours, “There’s something undeniably addictive about stepping out of line,” he admitted, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “Maybe getting drunk was worth it. Especially fucking you at the end.”

You laughed breathlessly, the sound catching in your throat as he thrust into you again, his cock hitting that deep, sensitive spot that made your toes curl. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he fucked you with a relentless intensity that left you breathless. 

Every movement was deliberate, every stroke designed to drive you closer to the edge. You could feel the tension building in your body, your legs wrapping around his waist as you pulled him closer, desperate for more. “Crowe,” you gasped, your nails digging into his back as you tried to hold on. “I’m close—”

“Come for me,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, and it was all you needed to tip over the edge. Your body trembled as pleasure washed over you in waves, your walls clenching around his cock as you fell apart. Crowe didn’t let up, continuing ramming his hips into yours as he chased his own release, his breath hot against your neck as he let out a low, guttural groan.

When he finally came, it was with a force that left you both shaking. His hips stuttered, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled himself deep, his body collapsing against yours as he rode out the waves of pleasure. His breath was ragged, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath, and you could feel the way his heart raced against your chest.

For a moment, neither of you moved. 

The room was quiet, save for the soft, uneven rhythm of your breathing, the sound of your hearts still racing in sync. Crowe’s body was warm and heavy against yours, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. You could feel the way his fingers absently traced patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and lingering like he was memorizing every inch of you.

And then he lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours, and the look he gave you—God, it made your chest ache. His gaze was dark, full of something raw and unguarded, a mix of affection and possessiveness that made your stomach flip. It was the kind of look that made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered, like you were his entire world.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, his voice rough but tender, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“But what a way to go, right?” you teased, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, feeling the way his muscles shifted under your touch.

Crowe laughed, the sound low and warm, and then he was kissing you again, his lips soft and lingering. It wasn’t the hungry, desperate kiss from before—this was something slower, sweeter, like he was savoring the taste of you. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Besides, my assistant wanted attention, and as the boss, I’m happy to provide.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. “You’re such an idiot,” you said, your voice fond.

“Maybe,” he said, his lips brushing against yours in a way that made your breath hitch. “But I’m your idiot.”

And then he was kissing you again, his hands roaming over your body like he couldn’t get enough of you. His touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine as he traced every curve, every dip like he was trying to commit you to memory. “Forever yours,” he murmured against your lips, the words so soft they were almost lost in the space between you.

You laughed as you kissed him back, your hands wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. “So, what are you going to do now that you’ve probably been fired from the student council?” you asked, your tone light and teasing.

Crowe shrugged, a smirk spreading across his face. 

“Whatever my new boss tells me to do,” he said, his lips brushing against your palm as he kissed it. His eyes met yours, and the look he gave you was pure mischief. “And right now, you’re telling me to stay right here.” You grinned, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him in for another kiss. 

Good answer, assistant.

[suntails]

I am facing ~$15k in costs due this month

I've started a gofundme, linked in the title. I'm so sorry to ask this of anyone but I'm at a loss for how to deal with this. My immediate upcoming expenses:

a water bill for almost $3500 dollars, with another one I estimate to be almost $1000 on the way (water leak of 240k+ gallons). I have tried to plead to lower it, but it is controlled through an HOA who refuses to budge. It must be paid on time and in-full. I no longer own this house and lost money in selling it

My car will not start, current unknown cause but likely to be the starter. The car has 200k miles on it and is nearing the end of its life

I have just moved cross-country for a job that may let me go soon (reference the news for context). I am paying to break an old lease, put a deposit on a new lease, and hire movers (saving money by only hiring labor and driving a truck ourselves). Breaking the old lease costs ~$2000, the deposit and first month’s rent on a new place costs $3300; I have not booked any moving help yet but my estimates from research is ~$3500-4000

All relevant proof is included on the gofundme site, and I truly mean it when I say I never wanted to turn to this; I do my best to take care of myself for when times are tough, but this is way too many things at once to have prepared for.

If anyone donates $30 or more, send me the receipt and i can do a small single-colored chibi as a thank you. I'm too daunted by bills to even open regular comms right now, and I'm working overtime to try to compensate, so my hours are quite limited ;;; Thank you all for any and all support, ANYTHING makes a difference whether it be sharing or donating. Love you all forever <3

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

So what exactly happened? That's a good question because I have no idea what Zelensky was thinking. This was not a situation where President Donald Trump was beating him over the head or demanding he submit to a specific narrative surrounding the war in Ukraine. On the contrary, the meeting was essentially over when Zelensky decided it'd be a great idea to try to publicly embarrass Trump and Vice President JD Vance in front of the press. The sticking point appeared to be Vance, who was wrapping up the press conference, mentioning diplomacy being a means to end the war. Zelensky, for whatever reason, took great offense at that suggestion and asked the vice president if he could ask him a question. The Ukrainian president then leaned forward and began to dismiss the idea of a ceasefire, citing deals that Russia has broken in the past. That's when things touched off, with Zelensky and Vance going back and forth. 

...

This was a colossal miscalculation by Zelensky. Trump has never accepted the idea that Ukraine is doing the United States a favor by fighting Russia as a way of justifying unlimited aid. Perhaps Joe Biden found that argument persuasive, but Joe Biden is not in office anymore. Russia is not going to invade the United States or any NATO country (if for no other reason than a lack of capability), and using that as a type of blackmail for support was never going to play.  Here's the deal. Fairness or being "right" doesn't factor into a situation like this. Zelensky is in a desperate spot, and Trump had largely acquiesced to a very Ukraine-friendly deal over the last few days (including lowering the repayment amount to just $90 billion). The negotiations were over. All the Ukrainian president had to do was show up, shake hands, smile for the cameras, and sign the deal. His attempt to lecture Trump and Vance for the cameras was an ego move that he didn't have the leverage to pull off.  Trump does not care about the press. You aren't going to bully him into a certain point of view by appealing to CNN or any other legacy news outlet. Whether that's fair or not is irrelevant. What's relevant is the reality of the moment, and Zelensky chose to pick a fight with Vance when it was completely unnecessary. Liz Cheney and David Frum may do performative outrage online, but they are not going to cut a check to Ukraine. Zelensky needed this deal and chose to blow it up for no good reason. What was the point of him even coming to the White House if he was going to publicly denounce any possible ceasefire?  What this really comes down to is how Zelensky handled this. If he has issues with Trump negotiating a deal with Putin, then he should express those behind closed doors, which is something Vance pointed out during the exchange. By trying to embarrass and undermine the U.S. president in public, he destroyed an already frayed relationship. In doing so, he might have cost his country its war. 

Zelensky is a fucking idiot. He doesn't realize he's not dealing with Biden's interns anymore. Trump and Vance aren't going to be awed by his faux-combat gear aesthetic and his tough guy posturing while he play acts as a war general. They don't see Russia as an invincible Sauron-esque boogeyman being held back from world domination by the brave stalwart forces of Gondor Ukraine. They understand that Putin is bankrupting his country failing to fully conquer Ukraine. They know that Russia is having to recommission museum tanks and send them to the frontlines because they're in dire need of armor. Russia is no threat to anyone outside of small, non-NATO countries like Ukraine, and even those countries can put up a good fight. War with Russia is never coming to US shores. The only way American soldiers and Russian soldiers exchange fire is if the US sends troops overseas to fight in another foreign war that has nothing to do with us. Zelensky is so used to western leaders falling over themselves to cozy up to him in the media that he stupidly thought calling Trump out in front of cameras would get him to play nice and take his scolding like a good little Eurotard weakling. But Trump has never played nice for the media. And he's never pulled his punches when it comes to European leaders and the bullshit games they play. If you want to temper Trump, you do it behind closed doors. That's where Trump negotiates. You call him out in public, he's going to Little Rocket Man your ass until you come crawling to him on hands and knees begging for him to stop.

Zelensky is a theater kid playing at being a wartime leader. He's squandered so many chances to end this war and save his people from continued death and he passes them all up because he wants to be the brave leader who beat Putin and conquered Russia. He's a comedian who has no idea what it means to actually be a leader. And when he comes crawling back to Trump, because he will come crawling back, he's going to be lucky if all he has to pay is the $500 billion in mineral rights Trump originally wanted.

[freyito]

hello hello!!! may i order an idia flavored curry rice plz?? blinks cutely) ty!!

✭ pairing(s): idia shroud x gn reader

★ in which: idia is WAY too confident that he can out miku you.

✩ curry rice black forest cake w/ idia shroud!

✦ entry for my 1k follower event, Freyito's Maid Cafe! check out the link to figure out how to send an order!!

✧ a/n: ykw anon. im so glad you changed your mind because this gave me SUCH a banger idea that i couldnt go to sleep cause i was writing it out in my head. teehee :)

🗒 cw: gn reader, ffxiv sneak, just embarrassed idia :3, not proofread

✎ wc: 2.7k

ᴘᴜʀᴇ ᴇᴠɪʟ | ꜰʀᴇʏɪᴛᴏ'ꜱ ᴍᴀɪᴅ ᴄᴀꜰᴇ !

It was late at night, and you had been on call with Idia. He was grinding out materials for some new transmog that had dropped in his game, and cursing the drop rates. You, on the other hand, were grinding out Project Diva Mega Mix for no particular reason. You had just made up your mind that you wanted to full combo some extra songs, and now you were hellbent on doing so. Plus, it provided some nice background music for Idia and his grind sesh.

By now, you had two songs finished and full cleared (albeit, with 97% accuracy), and you were working on your third, Sweet Devil. You already had four failed runs, your hands were starting to cramp a bit, and Idia’s smart remarks weren’t helping you. Not to mention, you always found the mvs distracting. Too much happening in the background while you were trying to focus on the notes.

You slump back in your chair with a huff as you watch the small word ‘safe’ pop up and interrupt your combo. You watch for just a moment as the symbols fly past on the screen, a barrage of ‘miss’es following shortly after. You finally exit the mv, balling your hands into a fist and then stretching out your fingers.

“I thought you were, like, a god at rhythm games,” Idia chides. You can hear the smile through his mic.

“Well sometimes it takes a couple tries,” You sigh, shaking your head. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure it does,” He chuckles. When you look at his stream, he’s finished up running maps and his character is now toiling away by the marketboard. “I bet I could do it.”

You raise your eyebrow, though he can’t see it. “Hm, what’s the stakes?”

“We need stakes?”

“You’re insulting my integrity as a rhythm game player. I want there to be a deal.”

A silence follows your voice, but you can hear him shift back in his chair. “Okay. What do you want to bet, then?”

Hm. You yourself don’t know exactly what you want if you win. Maybe you could get some gil off of him in game, but that didn’t feel like enough. You look around your room, before spotting something rather intriguing. It was a forgotten purchase, a pastel pink maid dress. It was rather cheap material, but still served its function. You were sure if you looked for them, you’d find the rest of the pieces…

“Loser wears a maid dress,” You declare triumphantly. “I got one in my closet.”

“... I, uh, don’t wanna ask why you have that,” He mumbles, “But I guess I accept. It’d be pretty nice to see you in a maid dress, heh…”

“Don’t act like you’ve already won. You haven’t even opened the game yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, just lemme put this up on the marketboard and I’ll get on the game…”

You lean back, content to wait and give your hands a bit of a break. You can’t help but smirk at not only making Idia eat his words, but seeing him in a maid dress would make you… quite happy, to say the least. The light pink would pair well with his hair and– you have to stop yourself there. You’d rather not distract yourself any further, nor allow yourself to get cocky. You can’t get ahead of yourself, or else you risk losing perhaps the most precious award you could ever have. 

“Okay. I’m on. Which song was it again?” Idia finally speaks up. When you look back at his stream, he’s ended it.

“Sweet Devil– Hey, you should stream your screen,” You point out, tabbing back into your game.

“I’m getting to itttt,” He drags the last letter, like it was too much work, as if he had not streamed his games every time you two called.

You watch as the ‘stream has ended’ switches to his screen, scrolling through the songs before landing on sweet devil. He changes difficulties to extreme, then waits for a moment, like he’s expecting you to say something. You decide to mess with him a little bit, staying silent a little longer.

“I’m waiting,” He groans, and you can almost hear his eyes roll. “I know you’re watching. I heard the little viewer noise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” You chuckle, “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Idia doesn’t even grace you with a ‘go’, or anything of the sort, simply starting the song, following your words. You scramble to tab back into the game, quickly selecting the song. 

The song and mv start up, and soon after the notes come in. You do your best to focus, to try and block out the MV, the bright pink lights of Miku’s room and Miku herself made it hard to follow the notes, especially with how fast they were. Still, you find your rhythm relatively easily, considering you knew the song and charting by heart. Normally, you’d be super conscious about the progress bar beneath the screen, checking to make sure you were well above the ‘excellent’, marker. However, you were too determined to focus. And unfortunately, that would be too much of a distraction. You don't even focus on if your hits are 'good' or 'excellent'.

The hold notes scare you the most, considering you always end up slipping up on them, somehow. Either that, or you don’t hold them for long enough and panic when you can just press the other buttons on your keyboard. You tell yourself, over and over again, in your mind, that you can just use the other set of keys. You have to. You can’t risk allowing Idia to have any sort of edge on you.

Three minutes feels like five, or even ten. Idia has been far too quiet during this, not even muttering something under his breath. You feel grateful for a moment, if you heard anything on his side, you’d probably mess up. Maybe you could mess him up. Yes. No. Ugh, if you did, you’d probably mess yourself up, too. And if you had messed him up, he’d complain and call for a redo. You would rather never play this song again, to be honest.

Just as your fingers start to tingle– a result of adrenaline, for some reason–, the word ‘success’ comes up. Behind the notes, Miku turns her little devil tail into a spear and throws it as a planet. You do your best not to celebrate too early, still having to go through with the last couple seconds of the song. You were just happy to have nailed the challenge time, more than happy. 

After the last couple of notes, you’re able to lean back and relax. For a moment. When the ‘clear’ screen comes up, you feel your heart jump at the percentage. 101.53%. You look over at Idia’s stream and can’t help but laugh. 99.07%.

“No,” He utters weakly, with an agony in his voice you have never heard before. He doesn’t say anything else.

“Yes,” You feel maniacal, an odd elation spreading through your chest. You don’t even exit the game, hopping out of your chair. “You stay right there.”

You pull the dress from your closet, listening to Idia frantically call for Ortho from your headphones. The rest of what he says is unintelligible, given the distance between you and your headphones as you rummage through drawers to find the rest of the costume. You find the cuffs, stockings, and even a headband with cat ears. It’s a little bent, but you’d fix it on the way.

Hurriedly, you stuffed the costume into a bag, grabbing your phone and turning on the flashlight. Slinging the bag over your shoulder and rushing out of your house. You keep your flashlight pointed at the ground so you don’t trip, running as fast as you can to the Hall of Mirrors. Like it is a high-stakes situation, time is precious. If you can’t make it to Ignihyde’s dorms soon, then you will never see Idia in a maid dress, even if you won the bet.

The minute you reach the Hall of Mirrors, you practically throw yourself through Ignihyde’s mirrors, scrambling through the halls with harsh breaths. Your heavy footsteps echo through the halls as you make your way up the steps and to Idia’s room, clutching the strap of your bag. Ortho is there, in front of Idia’s door, opening it just a crack.

Seeing you, the boy lights up, smiling at you from underneath his mask. “Oh, hey, Idia. They’re here!”

“Nooo!” Idia squeals, and you can what him scrambling from his chair to close the door.

You shove your foot into the crack of the door just as Idia tries to open it. He uses more force than he means to, squeeze your foot slightly. You don’t emote, despite how much it hurts. Which scares Idia. But you don’t care. You won the bet. And he needs to pay up. Ortho stares blankly, trying to figure out what has Idia acting this way, before scolding his brother.

“That’s mean! You shouldn’t try to shut your partner out, especially like that!” 

Idia shrinks back a little. It’s clear that Ortho doesn’t know what has you on such a warpath, and you are quite happy with that. Finally, you smile a little, opening the door with your other hand. 

“Ortho…” Idia murmurs, turning his gaze away from you and his brother. “We’re gonna, uhm, game all night. Just us two. So, uh, you should get some sleep.”

He sounds utterly defeated, and Ortho remains none the wiser as to what you were about to subject poor Idia too.

“Huh? But you called me here?” Ortho tilts his head, raising an eyebrow.

“I-I didn’t mean it– er, It was a mistake,” 

“... Okay! I’ll leave you two be. Have fun!”

And with that, Ortho hovers away, happy to leave his brother in your hands. By then, Idia knows he’s lost. You take a step in, handing him the bag with the dress and accessories in it. You don’t even speak to him, feeling a bit too giddy about your win, and prize.

“Uhm… can you at least stay out there, while I get changed?” His voice is shy, understandably so. 

“If you lock yourself in there, I’ll get Ortho to break it down,” You place your hands on your hips, in an attempt to seem confident.

“He wouldn’t do that.”

He’s right, you were well aware that your threat was kind of empty. But there’s no way you were going to let him get away.

“Then I’ll get those Heartslabyul first years to kick the door down.”

He lets out a small ‘eep’ at this, frowning. “Okay, okay, I won’t lock the door. Fine. You win.”

He doesn’t allow you any time to reply, taking the back and closing the door all too quickly. You can hear him shuffling about and the clothes rustling, and you feel your stomach flip-flop with nerves. You fidget with your hands and turn your back to the door, pretending like you actually didn’t care all that much so that Idia could get dressed faster, like that would work. You cross your arms, tapping your fingers against your biceps while you wait.

After a while, you hear the door crack behind you, and you turn around way too excitedly. He barely peeks through, giving you a look akin to a pleading puppy. He didn’t open the door all the way, insistent that you had to slip in through the crack, in case any one else would look out and see him. He’d rather save himself the embarrassment.

Finally squeezing through the door, he shuts it quickly. You, on the other hand, are greeted with a sight. His entire face is red, the tips of his hair flickering a bright pink as he looks away in embarrassment. The dress is a little short for him, so he clutches to the hem of the skirt and pulls it down a little. The pink worked well with his hair and his skin, just like you thought. It’s cliche, one of the dresses that was copy pasted from all those maid animes and what not. But still, you think it fit well.

“This is so cheap,” Idia complains, tilting his head up. “Okay. I dressed up. Can you go now so I can get back in my pajamas?”

You realize he’s missing something. The cat ears.

“No. No, I’m not leaving until you put the cat ears on.” You state simply, looking around for where they are.

He grimaces, deflating even more. “Please no. I think I might die. Actually, I’m going to die. Right now.”

“I won the bet fair and square, it’s not my fault. Where are they, Idia.” You speak with such a stern voice, it almost scares him. He finally, hesitantly, points to his chair, his grimace deepening as he looks back at you. “Put. Them. On.”

He groans, turning around and grabbing the cat ears. He gives you one last look, begging you to just let him go. Maybe you’re being a little too sadistic, but c’mon, Idia in a maid dress. That’s it. You plan to make the most of it. Slowly, he lifts the headband over his head, then lowers it down. Now you have your own Idia cat maid in front of you. You can’t help but smile, absolutely jubilant to see this poor man wearing such a cute dress.

“Okay. Can you go now, please,” He pleads once more, bringing a hand up to his face.

“Can I at least take a picture?” You hold up your phone.

“N-no! Please, no. I’m already at my lowest point, don’t have to kick me while I’m down…”

“Okay, okay,” You decide to finally allow him some mercy, “I won’t. But… I don’t think this image is ever leaving my head any time soon.”

He sighs and shakes his head, avoiding your gaze. But he doesn’t reply. Well, that won’t do. You decide to come up with a quick excuse to stay.

“Well, I ran all the way here, in the dark, it’d suck if you sent me back,” You try to play it cool, tilting your head a little and looking up through your lashes at him. This earns you a deeper blush.

“Stop it,” He huffs, turning his head. Met with his set up, he realizes you two are technically still on call. And he finds his way out. “Your pc is on, you know.”

“Huh.”

“It’s on. You’re still in call.” He points to his monitor.

Your blind blanks for a minute, before you panic a little. You would like to stay and see if you can get him to stay in the maid dress for a little longer, but at the same time, you’d rather not blow out the power supply of your pc. That thing is too damn expensive. And you love it too much.

“Okay. Bye.” You huff briskly, turning on your heels and waiting for the door open before running back down to the mirror that connected the Ignihyde dorms to the Hall of Mirrors.

Idia yelps as the door slides open fully, stepping back and pressing himself against the wall so no one would see. Like anyone else was up at this time. He listens to you rush down the hallway, before letting out a breath. Once the door is shut all the way, he’s quick to wriggle out of the dress, throwing the cat ears, cuffs, and stockings (which ended up ripping a bit) to the corner of his room.

Almost breaking the zipper, he yanks it down on the back of his dress and throws it alongside the scattered recipes, before staring intently at it. Why couldn’t you have just waited for him to undress and take it back? He didn’t want these god forsaken items here. In his room. That reminded him of you. That’s like the cheesiest romantic thing couples do! And in this fashion, perhaps even cringey! He wants to burn it, so bad. Or throw it out. But what if someone somehow finds it in the trash? And then they link it back to him? That’d be the worst scenario. The absolute worst.

He continues to stare at it for a minute, before reaching for his pajamas that were hanging off the back of his chair. Fine. He’ll leave the stupid costume alone for now. Perhaps it’d come in handy one day. Give you a taste of your own medicine… or something.

© freyito, 2025 | maid cafe event | maid cafe masterlist | masterlist | queue | kofi | discord server | strawpage | star header by roseschoices , dividers by cafekitsune , headers by yours truly

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[spiraling-stardust]

I have a habit of imagining ways that act 5 could have gone differently, and in doing that I ended up coming up with this AU. Basically, Siffrin is a ghost, and he and Mal du Pays are following the party and occasionally helping them out from behind the scenes as they deal with the aftermath.

During the fight against Mal du Pays in act 5, the rest of the party doesn’t make it in time, and Siffrin gives up on his wish and kind of just. Dies. For real this time. Mal du Pays takes form, and then it finishes off the King itself and runs off right before the party arrives to see what’s left. It ends up encountering Siffrin who is now a ghost, and starts following them around, so I guess they’ll be watching the rest of the party together now.

Mal du Pays is… More tame in this AU? Still a little shit, but not as much now that it actually took form. It’ll say some stuff that Siffrin would definitely not take well, but it’s not necessarily being intentionally malicious, it’s just in its nature as a Sadness. Like how a cat doesn’t shred furniture to be mean, it’s just a cat. Still sucks though. Since “homesickness” is the feeling at its core, it often becomes fixated on anything potentially related to “home”, and since family was also like “home” to Siffrin but still felt impossible to keep, this resulted in Mal’s interest in the rest of the party and its unwillingness to attack them and only them… and also its clinginess. The damned thing will not go away.

Siffrin is still very much coming down from the act 5 shitstorm at the start. They didn’t learn to talk about their problems, and they’re still under the impression that their family hates them. And on top of that, he’s actually genuinely dead now! He can see through himself, he always seems to glow a little, and he has to concentrate just to pick something up. Eventually some of these problems will improve, either through practice or by observing his family, but it’s definitely a lot to recover from and adjust to… And it’ll take awhile since he’s also gotta keep the Sadness he created from attacking strangers and deal with the stuff it pulls on him.

The rest of the party is still dealing with the aftermath, and have no clue they’re being watched (yet). Loop sort of joins the group in Siffrin’s place, and there’s a lot of 2hats-related issues from that (the whole situation is complicated, they didn’t even want to be there but stardust had to go and die and… oh. Maybe they still have a place among them as someone else? Cue the spiral of internal conflict). Lots of pain and suffering to go around, but I promise it’s not all just misery!! There’s some shenanigans, comfort, and even some fluff mixed in there! I swear! In fact there’s a pretty good amount of shenanigans. An actor joins the stage crew… Chaos may ensue hehehe

[biblical-chronicles]

Locked out

____________________________________________

where you lock yourself out of your hotel room and end up in Noel's.

[18+ !!!] [enemies to lovers]

____________________________________________

The job had its perks. Traveling the world, working with some of the biggest gigs, free booze—Oasis had money to burn, after all. But there was one massive, massive downside.

Noel fucking Gallagher.

It wasn’t just that he was a sarcastic, self-important, grumpy bastard (which he absolutely was). It wasn’t even that he always had some smart-arse comment locked and loaded, ready to wind you up. It was the fact that he seemed to enjoy it, like taking the piss out of you was a personal hobby.

The lads had clocked it ages ago.

"How old are you two, seriously?" Guigs had said just the other night, shaking his head as you and Noel argued over god knows what. "You’re worse than me Nan and Grandad, swear down."

"Yeah, the sexual tension’s killin’ me," Bonehead had added, smirking as he took a drag from his cigarette.

Noel had scoffed, shaking his head. "Fucking hell, mate. I’d sooner shag the local nitty than deal with this one."

You flipped him off, unfazed. "Oh, yeah? I bet the nitty would be the one having to get tested after that, dickhead."

It was constant, this back-and-forth, from the moment you woke up to the second you clocked out. Noel loved to threaten to fire you at least once a day, always with the same lazy reasoning.

"Should’ve sacked you ages ago," he’d mutter, watching you tune his guitar before a gig. "Only reason you’re still ‘ere is ‘cause I can’t be arsed teachin’ some other muppet how I like it."

"Yeah, yeah," you’d reply, never looking up. "Don’t do me any favors, Gallagher."

And so it went.

Now, though, none of that mattered. Not the bickering, not the jabs. Because right now? You were stood in the dimly lit hotel lobby, staring at a handwritten sign that might as well have been a death sentence.

"LOBBY CLOSED. OPERATING HOURS: 6 AM - 12 PM."

"Fucking great," you muttered, running a hand down your face.

It had been a long day, and all you wanted was a shower, a bed, and maybe a few hours of peace before having to deal with Noel’s bullshit all over again tomorrow. But no, instead, you had to stand here like a mug because somehow, in your exhaustion, you’d managed to lock yourself out of your room.

Just as you were debating whether you could break into your own room with sheer willpower alone, the sound of footsteps echoed through the lobby.

And just like fucking clockwork—

"Eh?"

You knew that voice.

"Did you get lost, or what?"

You shut your eyes for a brief moment, praying for strength, then turned to see Noel strolling in through the revolving door.

He was still dressed from wherever the fuck he’d been; jeans, adidas trainers, a zip-up jacket with the collar popped just enough to make him look like he was about to sell you dodgy gear in a car park.

You gritted your teeth. "Fuck off, Noel."

His smirk widened, slow and knowing. "Ohh, someone’s touchy."

You turned back to the desk, hoping he’d get bored and leave. No such luck. He sauntered up beside you, eyes flicking to the sign before back to you.

Realization dawned, and then he just laughed.

"No." He pointed at you, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck. "No fuckin’ way. You locked yourself out, didn’t you?"

You glared at him, crossing your arms. "No."

He raised an eyebrow, amused.

You exhaled sharply. "Okay, maybe, and no one is even here! How is a lobby not 24/7?"

"And you didn’t take your key, and you didn’t check the sign first," he said, as if reading from a list of your stupid decisions. "Jesus Christ, love. That’s incredible."

You scowled. "Piss off."

Noel, clearly enjoying himself, leaned against the counter, eyes twinkling with pure delight. "Me? Oh, nah. I think I’ll stick around, actually. This is too fuckin’ good."

You groaned. "Go to bed, Noel."

"Bed?" He feigned a yawn, stretching his arms dramatically. "Oh, yeah. That’s right. I can go to bed. Because I have access to me own fuckin’ room."

You clenched your fists. "I have a backstage pass. I’ll just sleep in the tour bus."

Noel snorted. "Yeah? Or on one of them couches over there?" He gestured vaguely to the dimly lit lobby seating area. "Might be comfy, if no one nicks your shite first."

You stilled.

He grinned. "Ohh, right. Didn’t think about that, did ya?"

You huffed. "Fuck."

Noel pressed a hand to his chest in mock sympathy. "Tragic, really." Then, after a beat, "... Guess you’re stuck here then."

You gave him a flat look. "Guess so."

He smirked, clearly waiting for you to crack.

Which is why it pained you—physically—when you exhaled and muttered, "Or… I could stay in yours. Just ‘til the desk opens."

Noel blinked. "Oh?"

You clenched your jaw. "So no one nicks me shite."

His smirk returned, slow and victorious. "Yeah, yeah. ‘Course. Wouldn’t want anyone robbin’ your precious little pass, would we?"

You resisted the urge to deck him.

"Alright then," he said, turning toward the lifts, his voice filled with pure satisfaction. "C’mon, roomie."

You glared at his back as you followed him down the corridors.

Noel shut the door behind him and turned to face you, arms crossed, an insufferable smirk plastered across his face.

"Well, well," he said, leaning back against the door. "Never thought I’d see the day you begged to stay in me room."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you dropped your bag by the chair. "Begged? Fuck off, Noel. I suggested it ‘cause I had no choice."

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Ahh, see, that’s where you’re wrong, love. You had a choice." He gestured vaguely toward the lobby. "Could’ve stayed down there, kept them couches company."

"And let some knobhead nick me pass? Yeah, right." You crossed your arms. "This is just survival, mate. Has nothing to do with you."

His smirk widened. "Yeah? Then why’re you lookin’ at me like that?"

You blinked. "Like what?"

Noel tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you, unreadable. "Like you wanna throttle me."

You huffed, exasperated. "That’s just me natural state when you’re around, Gallagher."

"Ahh." He grinned. "See, I knew you liked me."

You let out a sharp laugh. "Like you? Jesus, Noel, I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire."

His grin didn’t falter. In fact, it only grew.

"Yeah? Funny," he mused, stepping closer, voice low, lazy. "‘Cause you’re still ‘ere, ain’t ya?"

You swallowed but held your ground. "I don’t have a room, Noel."

He hummed, nodding slowly. "Right, yeah. That’s why you’re ‘ere. Not ‘cause you wanna get me alone, see what all the fuss is about."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "You are so full of yourself."

He gave you a slow once-over, something dark and knowing flickering in his gaze. "Yeah?"

You inhaled sharply, blood running hot. "Fuck you."

Noel’s smirk twitched—almost like he’d been waiting for you to say that.

"Ohh, wouldn’t you like that?"

The air shifted.

You were on him before you could think, hands grabbing at his shirt, pulling him down, crashing your mouth against his.

Noel barely had a second to react before he was pushing back, hands gripping your waist, shoving you up against the nearest wall. The impact sent a lamp wobbling on the bedside table, the dull thud of your back against the wall swallowed by the sound of both your ragged breaths.

His lips were warm, rough, demanding. His fingers dug into your waist, like he needed to anchor himself.

You bit his bottom lip, hard, just to be a dickhead.

Noel groaned against your mouth, grip tightening. "Oh, you wanna play it like that, do ya?"

Before you could smirk, he grabbed your wrists and pinned them against the wall, pressing in, chest flush against yours.

You yanked a hand free, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just to make him groan—and when he did, when his breath stuttered, you felt it everywhere.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered against your lips.

You smirked. "What’s wrong, Gallagher?" you breathed, voice teasing, drunk on the power shift. "Thought you could handle me?"

Noel laughed. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, lips grazing your jaw, "I could ruin you."

Your stomach dropped.

You clenched your jaw. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Your grip tightened in his hair again, yanking his head back just enough to make him hiss. His smirk didn’t falter, though—if anything, it widened, smug and infuriating.

"You arrogant twat," you breathed, dragging your nails down the back of his neck. "Think you’re some fuckin’ god, don’t ya?"

Noel chuckled—dark, low. "Please, love," he murmured, voice dripping with mockery. "You’ve been gaggin’ for this since the day we met. Don’t pretend otherwise."

Your teeth gritted. "You’re deluded."

"Yeah?" He stepped closer, the heat of him pressing against you, trapping you between his body and the wall. "Then why ain’t you pushin’ me away?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt before you even realized it, and that was all it took.

One second, you were glaring up at him, seething, and the next—you were airborne.

A breathless gasp tore from your throat as he threw you onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath the sudden force of your body. Before you could even scramble upright, he was on you—knees bracketing your hips, hands gripping your wrists, pressing them into the sheets.

"You bastard—"

A sharp smack landed on your thigh, jolting you, heat blooming where his palm connected.

You froze.

Noel grinned. "What was that, sweetheart?"

Your breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath him. You hated the way your body betrayed you—the way your back arched, the way your thighs instinctively clenched together at the sting of his hand.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His smirk deepened. "Ohhh, that’s what you like, is it?" Another sharp slap—same spot, same deliberate pressure, just enough to make you jolt. "That why you’ve been windin’ me up all this time? Hopin’ I’d do this?"

You bit back a gasp as his teeth grazed your jaw, lips teasing over the heated skin just below your ear, fingers tightening where he held you down.

"You gonna let me go, or you just gonna sit here runnin’ your gob all night?" you shot back, arching up slightly beneath him, trying to gain some kind of control back.

Noel laughed, a little breathless. "Oh, you love this, don’t ya?" His hands shifted, releasing your wrists just to drag down your arms, over your waist, gripping your hips hard. "All that fight, all that fuckin’ attitude—"

"You love it," you shot back, daring.

Something snapped behind his eyes.

Before you could say another word, his mouth crashed against yours again.

It was all teeth, all tension, years of resentment and frustration and something else entirely spilling out between you.

You clawed at him in return, nails dragging up his back, yanking at his hair, swallowing the groan that tore from his throat.

"Still wanna tell me to fuck off, love?" Noel rasped against your lips, breath uneven.

Your fingers fisted in his shirt, pulling him back down. "Shut up." you muttered, crashing your mouth against his again.

He barely hesitated before paying you back, fisting a hand into your hair and pulling your head back, exposing the curve of your throat. His mouth was on you in an instant, hot and open, biting down just enough to make you gasp.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he muttered, voice thick with something triumphant. "Knew you’d be like this—mouthy little thing until you’re under me."

"And yet again, shut it." you snapped, even as your back arched, chasing the feel of him.

He laughed, breathless and sharp, his free hand sliding down to your thigh, gripping hard. Without warning, he flipped you onto your stomach, pressing you down against the mattress with the weight of him. You let out a sound somewhere between frustration and something else entirely, but any protest died in your throat when his hand slapped against your arse, the sting shooting straight through you.

"That shut you up quick, didn’t it?" he murmured, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.

You tried to glare at him over your shoulder, but the effect was ruined by the way your breath hitched when he did it again, the sharp slap sending heat curling low in your stomach.

"Say it," he taunted, his grip tightening on your hip. "Say you want me."

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

But Noel was nothing if not persistent. His hand slid lower, teasing, just enough to make you squirm beneath him. His teeth grazed your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. "C’mon, sweetheart. We both know you do."

Your pride was a stubborn thing, but your body was a traitor.

You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze, eyes dark with something heady and reckless. "Go on, then," you breathed. "Do your worst."

His fingers dug into your hips as he dragged you back against him, his grip bruising, possessive. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before his teeth found your shoulder again, biting down just enough to make you jolt beneath him. He groaned at the way you twitched, how your body betrayed that last shred of resistance you were so desperately clinging to.

"That’s more like it," he muttered against your skin, his voice thick with amusement. "Knew you just needed someone to put you in your place."

You scoffed, even as your breath came quicker. "You think that’s you?"

He laughed. "Oh, love," he murmured, dragging his mouth up the side of your neck, "I know it is."

His hands slid lower, mapping the shape of you, fingers pressing into every curve like he wanted to commit it to memory. He moved with a slow, deliberate kind of cruelty, reveling in every shudder, every little sound you didn’t mean to make. You clenched your jaw, still stubborn, but it only made him smirk against your skin.

"Still holding out on me?" he whispered, lips brushing your ear. "Let’s see how long that lasts."

Then his hands gripped tighter, and he moved—a slow, devastating roll of his hips that had you sucking in a sharp breath. You felt the shape of him pressed firmly against you, the sheer heat of him burning through the layers between you both.

And then, just to be cruel, he stilled.

You let out an involuntary sound of frustration, which only made his grin widen. "Oh, what’s that?" he teased, rolling his hips just slightly, barely giving you anything. "Getting impatient, are we?"

You gritted your teeth, refusing to play into it.

His breath ghosted over your ear, smug and infuriating. "You wanna try that again, sweetheart?" His hand slid down, teasing at the edge of your waistband, making heat curl low in your stomach. "Or am I gonna have to make you say it?"

You swallowed hard, every nerve in your body alive, burning with the heat of him. Your pride screamed at you to hold out just a little longer, to refuse him one last time.

But then he rocked against you again, the friction sending sparks up your spine, and every ounce of stubbornness melted right out of you.

"Fuck," you muttered, barely more than a breath. "Please."

Noel chuckled, dragging his lips over your shoulder. "There she is."

The moment that single word fell from your lips, his control snapped. His fingers curled into the waistband of your clothes, yanking them down with a rough impatience that sent a shiver racing through you. His trousers quickly followed, ending up in a pile on the floor.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as he pressed against you again, now with nothing between you. The heat of him, how hard he already was, it made your stomach twist in anticipation. But instead of giving you what you were desperate for, he dragged the moment out, hands roaming over your bare skin, taking his time.

"You feel that?" he murmured, rolling his hips just enough for you to feel the full length of him pressing against you, the slow friction making your breath catch. "That’s what you’ve been fighting, sweetheart. Tell me—was it worth it?"

You barely had time to shudder before he reached back, guiding himself against you, teasing, just barely pressing in before retreating again.

You shifted, pushing back against him, but his grip tightened immediately, holding you in place. "Ah, ah," he taunted, fingers still digging into your hips. "You finally beg for it, and now you think you’re in charge?"

You opened your mouth to snap something back—maybe something sharp, maybe something desperate, you weren’t even sure—but before you could, he thrust inside you in one smooth, deep motion.

The air left your lungs in a sharp, broken gasp.

"There you go." he muttered, his voice a little rougher now.

He barely gave you a moment to adjust before he set a brutal pace, dragging out only to slam back in, the force of it driving you further into the mattress. The sounds of skin against skin, breathless, ragged gasps, and the creak of the bed quickly were the only things filling the space between you.

You fisted the sheets, struggling to hold onto even a shred of composure, but Noel was relentless. His fingers curled around your jaw, tilting your head back slightly. "Listen to yourself" he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "Tried so hard to act like you didn’t want this. And now you’re dripping for me."

The humiliation only made the heat in your belly coil tighter.

As if sensing it, Noel let out a low chuckle. "You like that, don’t you?" He drove into you harder, just to hear the little choked noise that escaped your throat. "Fuck, you’re taking me so well."

His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding that sensitive spot between your legs. The second he touched you, you clenched harder around him, and Noel groaned, sending a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you.

"Shit," Noel rasped, his pace stuttering for half a second before he caught himself. "Filthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you?"

His grip on your hips was bruising, each snap of his hips knocking you further into the mattress, dragging another broken sound from your throat. You couldn’t even think, couldn’t do anything but take it, your body molded to his will, wrecked under the sheer force of him.

And he knew it.

"Where’s all that attitude now, huh?" His voice was tinged with mockery, as his hand smoothed up the curve of your spine, just for a moment, just long enough to make you think he might show some mercy.

Then he fisted his hand into your hair and yanked.

A sharp gasp ripped from your lips as your head was wrenched back, the burn at your scalp sending a jolt straight through you. Your back arched instinctively, pressing you closer against him, the new angle making you whimper.

"That’s more like it," Noel murmured, his grip in your hair tightening as he used it to pull you back against him, making you feel every inch of him sinking even deeper.

His other hand slid up your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse hammer under his touch.

"You like when I handle you like this, don’t you?" he muttered, voice a low rasp against your ear.

He loosened his grip on your throat just enough for you to speak, but your words failed you. All you could do was let out a broken, pleading sound.

Noel groaned, his fingers flexing around your throat like he felt the way you clenched around him. "Fuck, you’re gonna make me come just with these sweet desperate moans love."

He wrenched your head back a bit further, forcing your spine into a deeper arch, forcing you to take him exactly how he wanted. Every thrust was rough, deliberate, his hips slamming against you hard enough to bruise. Your body had no choice but to follow, every nerve ending alight, a coil of unbearable tension winding tighter and tighter in your core.

"No more remarks? No more telling me to fuck off?" he taunted, breath hot against your cheek.

Your fingers scrambled for purchase against the sheets, your mind a haze of pleasure and frustration. You wanted to say something, wanted to bite back just to spite him, but he was wrecking you, and you could barely form a single coherent thought.

So instead, you just whimpered his name.

"Fuck, that’s it," he rasped, voice wrecked. "You gonna come for me, sweetheart? You gonna fall apart just like this, with my cock buried inside you?"

His fingers dipped lower again, rubbing against your clit in tight, unrelenting circles, the pace of his thrusts turning ragged, desperate. The coil inside you twisted tighter, pleasure crashing over you in waves until you could barely breathe.

"You close?" he taunted, yanking your head back again, making sure you felt every single inch of him. "I can feel it, sweetheart, feel you gripping me so fuckin’ tight. Just let go. Come for me."

Your body locked up, pleasure blinding, white-hot and overwhelming as it crashed over you in wave after wave. You were dimly aware of your own broken cries, of the way your walls clenched around him like a vice, but nothing existed beyond the pure bliss of it.

Noel groaned, voice strangled, as he fucked you through it, dragging out every last shudder, his pace turning frantic. His grip on your hair tightened, his hips slamming against yours one last time before he buried himself deep with a low, wrecked curse.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the sharp, uneven rhythm of your breathing.

Noel was still draped over you, his weight grounding, his skin hot where it pressed against yours. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. It was like neither of you wanted to be the first to break whatever fragile thing had settled between you.

Eventually, he exhaled, a deep, satisfied sound, before rolling onto his side, taking you with him. His arm hooked around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his chest rising and falling against your back.

"Well," he murmured, voice hoarse, teasing, but softer than before. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

You huffed a breath, still too dazed to formulate a proper response. He felt the way you relaxed against him, how you didn’t immediately shove him away.

A quiet beat passed before he spoke again, voice low but sincere.

"Didn’t think you’d actually let me touch you like that."

You hesitated, your fingers idly tracing over his forearm where it rested against your stomach. "Didn’t think I’d want you to," you admitted.

He made a sound—half amusement, half something thoughtful. "And now?"

You swallowed, feeling the weight of the question.

There was no point in denying it, not now.

"I do want you to now, but you’re still a mug." you muttered.

Noel chuckled, low and lazy, nuzzling his nose against the curve of your shoulder.

You turned slightly in his hold, just enough to meet his gaze. He was already watching you, eyes half-lidded.

"Maybe we should stop pretending we hate each other," you said, voice softer now, more thoughtful.

Noel’s lips twitched, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Oh, love," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering at your cheek. "I never hated you."

Your heart stumbled.

He let the words settle, his thumb grazing the curve of your jaw, before he smirked. "Just really, really wanted to shut you up."

You rolled your eyes, but the bite was gone, replaced by something warm. "And what do you want now?"

His expression turned serious—just for a second. Then, he tugged you closer, pressing his mouth against yours, slow and lingering.

"You," he murmured against your lips. "Think I always have."

____________________________________________

oh who doesn't love some slight enemies to lovers, thanks to whoever suggested this xx

[anachronismstellar]

AWWWWWWWW THIS IS SO CUUUTE wait wait I know another good one <3

3. Protecting each other

They weren't even supposed to be there, the mission so simple their disciples could have handled it. But of course the System had to meddle, and so in a blink the simple An Ding supply trip became a battle against demons.

"I told you that coming together would be a bad idea!" Airplane screamed from behind the carts along with his ducklings after giving a half-assed excuse of protecting the supply. Cucumber was the strong one!!! He could deal with a bunch of demons, no sweat!!

"Shut up, Qinghua!" Xiu Ya glinted under the sun, not even the dark demonic blood dripping from it diminishing the beauty of its blade. "When would I have the chance to see a creator of Black Copper Snails?!!? I had to see them-"

The moment in which everything went to hell happened in slow-motion. Shen Qingqiu’s face contorted in pain as Without-a-Cure flared up. The demon took advantage of his enemy's weakness to strike with his deformed axe. Airplane’s feet moved as he pulled his sword to parrie the axe's blade in a flurry of robes.

Then, the world went back to normal speed as Shang Qinghua barked orders to his disciples to take Shen Qingqiu and run, as the An Ding Peak Lord stripped the demons from their weapons and their lives.

The fight ended faster than expected, and no one could tell apart demon from Peak Lord, from how dirty and viciously Shang Qinghua fought. The last body dropped on the ground and Airplane rushed back to where his disciples had dragged Shen Qingqiu, only to be met by Shen Qingqiu himself halfway.

"Are you insane?! You could have died!"

"Well you almost did! The guy almost took your head off!"

Their bickering lasted throughout all the way back to the Sect, and that by itself would be fine. But it was the lingering touches from Shen Qingqiu as he treated Shang Qinghua’s shallow cuts, or Shang Qinghua’s keeping his hand on Shen Qingqiu's wrist to check his qi during it all (and Shen Qingqiu letting him) that made the gossip vine light up like fireworks, the news of their demon encounter reaching out the Sect before they did.

"So I heard you can fight," Liu Qingge approached the entourage as soon as they stepped on Cang Qiong Mountain, pointing Cheng Luan to Shang Qinghua’s chest.

"No I don't! I really don't, nonono-"

"Liu-shidi," Shen Qingqiu said as he touched the flat of Cheng Luan's blade, pushing it aside. "We just got back from a long trip. Don't bully Qinghua."

"Yes, yes, please let's not bully this one."

"Let's go, Qinghua, Mu-shidi has to take a look at you."

"But Shixioooong! You checked every inch of me, you even bandaged my wounds yourself! I'm fine-"

Shen Qingqiu didn't bother to hold back his eye rolling, and no one dared to open their mouth to comment on Shen Qingqiu, lord of Qing Jing peak, taking Shang Qinghua’s hand as he gently as he could to pull Shang Qinghua towards Cao Peak, whispers following them through all the way.

Someone should honestly write a "4 Times That Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu Accidentally Acted Like Partners (and 1 Time They Finally Realized It)" thing. That would be so fun.

Here's some of what I got so far, though they're a tad incomplete. Feel free to add on!!!

Sharing a Bed

Shen Qingqiu stumbled into the peak lord meeting right before the starting time, eyes barely even open. He was impeccably dressed, as always, but the slight puffiness of his eyes and the way he was fighting back a yawn signaled to the fact that he might have rolled out of bed barely 5 minutes before.

He ignored the stares that he received as he made his way over and slid into the seat next to Shang Qinghua, groaning. Shang Qinghua raised his eyebrow at him, mildly amused. For once, he was the slightly well-rested one and his friend was the sleep-deprived mess. Despite this, he started pouring a cup of tea for the other.

"Shen-shixiong, did you even sleep properly? You were the one who told me to go home and get more sleep." He finished pouring the tea and passed the cup to his friend, before pouring himself a cup.

Shen Qingqiu groaned even louder at his words but accepted the cup. "I know, I know. I just couldn't get to sleep, though." He took a small sip and sighed in delight. "It's just that your bed is so much more comfortable than mine, so--"

Shang Qinghua, midway through drinking his tea, choked.

Silence.

Absolute silence. Mu Qingfang slowly put down his brush while Qi Qingqi's eyes darted between Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu, a smile spreading on her face.

Shen Qingqiu's slowly turning cog wheels finally realizes what he just said and the people he just said it in front of. Shang Qinghua made a slight wheezing sound.

Yue Qingyuan set down his own teacup, smiling pleasantly. "Shang-shidi's bed?"

"His guest bed!" Shen Qingqiu nearly yells. "I meant to say his guest bed, obviously that's where I sleep when I stay over, where else would I sleep, of course! I sleep in the bed that is not his!"

Shang Qinghua begins to nod his head frantically. "Yes, yes, he sleeps in my guest bed." Noticing the still dangerous glint in Yue Qingyuan's eyes, he begins to wave his hands around as if trying to stave off his impending doom. "N-not that Shen Qingqiu sleeps over often, or anything, ahahaha! It's just a spare bed that I happen to have--"

"I see," Yue Qingyuan interrupts, still smiling. Never before has Shang Qinghua feared for his life like this. He continues cheerfully, "Thank you for the clarification. Why don't we get this meeting started."

2. Robe Mix-Up

Shit! Shen Qingqiu had completely forgotten that he had to teach a morning class and was running late. He might have had too much fun last night reading trashy novels and bitching about them with Shang Qinghua, only to forget his responsibilities to his students. Upon waking and realizing the sun was already up, he nearly shoved Shang Qinghua off the bed trying to get up.

In his hurry to look presentable and still arrive on time, Shen Qingqiu grabbed the nearest outer robe that he could find and slipped it on, while simultaneously trying to fix his hair. Shang Qinghua, the traitor, simply rolled over and muttered something in his sleep, despite the chaos. He rolled his eyes at his best friend, despite the other not being awake to see it.

Finally ready, Shen Qingqiu rushes out of his bamboo house and starts to speed-walk, doing his best to still look majestic and peak lord-like, and not like he was running late to his own class. In his hurry, he doesn't notice the wide-eyed looks he was garnering from the older disciples he passed.

It was only when he steps into the classroom, and the previously hushed whispers and laughter of the teens fall dead silent, that he notices that something is wrong. They all stare at him.

"Good morning, everyone," Shen Qingqiu says pleasantly. No response. What, did he have something on his face or something?? He discreetly wiped at his cheeks, wondering what they were looking at. "Did something happen?"

"Shizun... isn't that...?" Ming Fan hesitantly spoke up, eyeing the blue robes that his teacher was wearing.

Shen Qingqiu followed his disciple's line of sight and looked down.

Ah. An Ding Peak Lord Blue. He must have accidentally grabbed Shang Qinghua's robes when getting dressed this morning.

Wait.

Fuck.

Shen Qingqiu can feel his face freeze.

Another brave disciple spoke up. "A-are those Shang-shishu's--"

"No," Shen Qingqiu says. His eye began to switch.

"But--"

"I said no."

Unfortunately for him, word spread fast, and by midday meal, there were people whispering about the fact that Shen Qingqiu had left his residence wearing Shang Qinghua's robes.

Shang Qinghua tsk'd at him from over the tea table they were taking their lunch at on An Ding Peak. "You just had to take my robe, huh? If you wanted to wear my clothes so bad, you could have just asked." An Ding disciples gawked at them on their way to do errands. One walked into a wooden post.

Shen Qingqiu glared at him, ears still burning red from embarrassment. "Shut up, Qinghua."

[elodieunderglass]

Hi! I've been loving your Killie posts, somewhat obsessively. I've talked to my husband and housemate about them, and about all the jockey info you've shared. Killie brings me great joy, and I can't wait for your book!

I also, incidentally, have been trying to write a book myself for...most of my life??

The folly inherent in this endeavor is Very High (learning disorder from hell, three children under two, computer's been broken for like two years, etc., etc.), but I keep maniacally coming back to it. I have a notebook full of notes and, at long last, a new computer coming on Friday. In short, I know this is super weird and we don't know each other at all, but if there is any way to engage in parallel play long-distance, just say the word. 😅

(In reference to Killie and the fact that he needs a book, which, unfortunately, implies me writing it.

I meant what I said! We’re being brave and doing it together! This year, okay?

I completely understand and have so much sympathy for your circumstances…. I remember when I was writing Strange Pilgrims, which is “only” a fanfic, but it’s a pretty deep and heartfelt thing in its way, and I didn’t have a computer to write it on. Buying a refurbished laptop to finish that thing felt MONUMENTAL. Enjoy the moment of the new laptop and the new chapter it will bring. By buying it in the first place, you have committed yourself to saying “yes.”

If something lights up your brain like that, it’s a gift of splendid rarity. And that kind of gift catches in other people and they can enjoy it more because of its sincerity. I firmly believe that the gift you have been given is worth accepting and honouring, no matter what form it may take in the end. You’ve said yes! You’ve bought the laptop!

One thing I’m very good at it is accountability, so what I’m going to do is schedule a reblog of this ask for one month from now, tagging you in it. And I will chase you down - lovingly, like a greyhound chasing the… er….. moon. I am going to ask you how it is going. If you haven’t progressed at all, that’s fine - you’ll get a gold star. There’s no shame in not doing anything.

If you have started to build something, get words on paper or whatever your process looks like, I will give you (slaps roof of pockets) a present. Your very own Tumblr “phase of the moon” badge. I genuinely like having one, because it reminds me to think about the moon.

And also I will give Killie one (1) egg of his very own. With the yolk in.

If Killie does nothing else in his life he IS standing over your shoulder staring at you with big dark eyes like a drowned starving cat, hoping you’ll write, so he can have an egg.

It’s a deal

🤝

[zuzuelectricbugaloo]

I don’t get why some fans of Yugo get mad or annoyed at him for disliking his own Sans. He’s been dealing with nonstop fans for years who only focus on the memes surrounding Epic!Sans. Yugo has even expressed regret over making his Sans just a walking meme in the past, and of course, that would take a toll on his mental state and how he feels about the character. When people say he should stop talking about it, they don’t seem to understand that others constantly bring it up to him. It’s his character, and he has every right to vent about it however he wants.

You’re absolutely right, Epic is Yugo’s character, and he has every right to do as he pleases in how he uses said character and feels about it. I don’t condone harassment, and am firmly against attacking a creator simply because you passionately dislike or like a character of theirs.

One of my qualms with Yugo about Epic is how they blamed all of their mistakes and “cringe” of Epictale as a whole and projected it onto Epic and claimed the character’s death and celebration of his end meant that Yugo was absolved of any discomforting behaviors or jokes.

When he still continues to do so, even with characters from Epictale he likes.

Silly and goofy memes, might not be everyone’s preferred taste but there’s nothing inherently wrong with that. Memes are supposed to be silly and fun.

But then Yugo having to be convinced by their fans not to do NSFW commissions involving minors?

No no sorry, that’s not fair. Of course anyone who is broke would be desperate, and they’re just fictional characters, right? Whats the harm? No way does fiction impact reality in anyway.

Doesn’t that reasoning sound familiar?

And anyway, Yugo rejected it in the end. Of course that should be ignored then and any criticism of it is unwarranted.

My mistake. It’s still not fair. At least with Epic dead and gone, Epictale is free from anymore cringe and problematic anime tropes!

Again, I don't mean this as an attack on you or Yugo. It's a criticism, and one where my overall point is that my biggest gripe with Yugo isn't that I love his character and he doesn't. It's that Yugo seemed to absolve himself of all his shortcomings by projecting them onto Epic and therefore is free from error or criticism now.

Disliking that Red/Lara and Mettaton are in love with Papyrus who is seventeen makes you a hater. SEVENTEEN. They are literally centuries of years old, even in the remake. I know in reality, the age of consent varies per state in the USA and especially varies depending on country, with minors able to be married in some with their parents or guardians' consent, but still. It's uncomfortable. It's unnecessary. Papyrus could be shipped with Lara and Mettaton as an adult, as he is in Undertale by the fandom and in other AUs. But now with the context that Lara and Mettaton knew Papyrus since he was a child, it's disconcerting to imagine romance with any of them. Look, it's understandable for a creator to feel a certain way about their work and how it's interpreted. Especially in what they choose to do with their creations, in revamping or remaking things, and how they feel about it and choose to get rid of some things entirely.

For the most part, I enjoy Epictale and have read his brief Neutral!Frisk storyline. Yugo is a talented artist, and I adore Epictale and the characters and the great potential they all have and what can be expanded on it.

The old Epictale bore the same errs as many AUs within the UTMV fandom in its early years. Fantastic AUs with amazing concepts often had something problematic about them and this was sadly normalized. From the past Cream comics portraying SA as romantic or silly, to PJ's Daycare and the like also joking about minors/adults, SA and r*pe, SH, etc. Or it could be problematic with Frans or Fontcest, either in canon within the AU or played around with as concept. Epictale wasn't worst of them, nor was it the outlier in one of its characters joking about or portraying these problematic things.

Here's a big one: Underlust. It's not a masterpiece, and like many AUs, has so much potential. Unfortunately, there's so much that detracted from it that a remake or dismissal of most of its canon is needed if you want to find any enjoyment from it at all.

Same thing with the past Cream comics. At that point, the blog itself caused too much for its creators and they deleted it and made it non-canon entirely. I don't know what happened to the UL creator, but I assume something similar happened.

Sorry, back to Lust. I was not active in the fandom in its early years, I only witnessed glimpses of it and when I wanted to get into something, like Cream, it upset me too much and I left the fandom. In particular with Underlust, it makes me so sad because I was introduced to him through fanon first, where someone had an SA experience and used Lust as an expression of what it was like to go through something like that in his line of work. And it felt cathartic. Comforting. A character who could understand how I felt, who was was unconventional in their self-expression and yet happy and at peace with who they are, would be able to heal and find happiness regardless of what happened to them. But then I found the parts of his canon with Fontcest. And it turned out Lust had nothing like his fanon and it hurt. I could no longer enjoy the AU and ignored it entirely from then on. But Lust, today, is still so dear to me because of what he could be.

Yugo wants to move on from the past and be a better person. I think that's a noble endeavor. Anyone can be a better person and change. That doesn't make it easy, and it certainly doesn't mean that everyone will try.

And for the most part, Yugo seemed to make progress. Epictale in and out of its comics doesn't make any more jokes about sexual harassment as far as I'm aware. There are no harmful slurs used in a joking manner. For the most part, it seems Yugo made good on their word and is trying to move on from his past mistakes. Many creators of UTMV's past seem to do something similar, and I wish them all peace and commend them for trying to move on and be better. However, when Yugo crucifies Epic as the source of all his problems, and uses him as the symbol for burying the past and amending his mistakes, only to then make similar ones (far less severe than the ones he used to do, admittedly, but still concerning nonetheless) instead of using Epic's potential to make him be as Epic as his namesake, it doesn't piss me off, at Yugo or his fans. Fans won't always focus on what a creator originally wanted them to focus on. That's simply the nature of fandom. And memes are one of the most popular enjoyments of fans and is the most unifying act among them. But there would also be fans who love things besides the memes, who will work to enjoy and create what they can gleam from canon and expand on it, in art or fiction, with other characters in the story. So long as fans don't attack the creator, harass them, insult or demand they do more with their preferred character(s), I don't see anything wrong with this. It sounds like a regular community to me. No. It just makes me sad. But as you pointed out, it's Yugo's character and his right to do as he pleases. So, respectfully, Yugo wishes to have nothing to do with Epic anymore; I am all too happy to love him along with the fandom. Because to truly move on from the past, you need to accept accountability. I know Epic used to have problematic characteristics, be it in the noncanon comics or art, but it was a part of his character. I acknowledge that. And I want to move on. Remove the parts of the past that are bad, and instead of ignoring it, use it as a reference of what not to do, as a reference to be better and do better. I want to build on his potential and love him. Because Epic makes me happy, and I know he makes others happy too. Why not heal and work together to create something everyone can enjoy?

[skyward-floored]

Part two to the hdw fic where Link gets kidnapped and poisoned :) It got a lot longer than I was expecting though, so there’ll actually be another part after this (sorry). Please enjoy Volga doing a lot of panicking about his son.

(Warning for some blood, injury, and just a little vomit)

Part 1

————————————————————

Link stops responding, and Volga curses.

These blasted ruins are utterly confusing, his sense of direction getting all turned around in its twisting hallways and narrow passageways. Normally Volga thrives in such conditions, having lived in caves most of his life, but something about the collapsed stones and manmade walls throw him off.

Or maybe it’s just the panic beating inside his chest.

Link lets out a weak moan, and Volga tries to quicken his steps even further. He’d hoped never to have to deal with night safflina again; he’d made it a personal mission to burn any sprig of it he came across, destroyed any supplies he knew of. Yet despite his efforts, his son is fighting for his life against it in his arms.

Volga hisses to himself, cursing again. This is not something he can fight. He can’t tear it to pieces with his claws, burn it to a crisp, stab it with his spear. He is helpless in this situation, and the more Link fades in his arms, the more frantic he gets.

Link moans again, and for some reason Volga carefully adjusts him to a more comfortable position.

When did he get so attached to this boy? He didn’t even know that he existed up until a few months ago, and they haven’t spent much time together. Their relationship is a mess, and Volga can count on one hand the amount of remotely positive interactions they’ve had. Link had only just stopped regularly flinching when Volga made sudden movements towards him— which makes the fact that he’s currently curled into Volga’s hold and weakly clutching at him all the more unusual. Most of their interactions have involved them trying to kill each other.

Though... is this particular show of vulnerability so unusual? He still remembers how terrified Link had looked when he’d burst into the room, blood streaming down his cheek, knife held inches from his eye. Relief had quickly taken its place as Volga freed him, and though Volga may have been his enemy in the past, Link obviously trusts him to get them out of this.

...Or perhaps it’s merely the poison addling his senses.

Link’s head shifts minutely when Volga turns a corner, eyes half-lidded and in no way lucid. Volga knows shaking him didn’t help last time, but he tries it a little again anyway as he runs, calling for him to wake. Link doesn’t react.

Volga hisses and rips some vines out of his path, briefly wishing he had backup with him. If someone else were here then he would be able to drop Link off and go for the antidote, but that isn’t an option. And he can’t leave Link here alone with those men still around.

Perhaps it had been foolish to storm off the moment he’d heard Link had gone missing, scouring the land for any sign of him and rushing into the ruins by himself the moment he’d caught his scent. But Volga has never been one to hesitate.

And besides, if he’d come here any later, Link would be in much worse shape.

He looks down at the boy again. As it is, his current condition even apart from the poison is rather concerning, bruises beginning to show, blood in his hair, coating his cheek, and trickling slowly down his chin. Volga doesn’t have time to stop and clean or wrap it, but he wipes the blood off a little, cursing again the men who did this as he looks at the cuts still sluggishly bleeding. What did they even want with him?

...No, he knows the answer to that. They had safflina. This was always going to end in an attempt on his life.

As if as a reminder, he catches a faint whiff of the accursed plant on Link, a sweet, biting scent that burns his nostrils, and his stomach flips.

If Link were full dragon he would already be dead. Night safflina killed from the inside out, tearing through the blood and eventually constricting the heart. No matter what form a dragon was in, it was deadly within an hour.

Link’s Sheikah blood might be the only thing that will save him now.

Volga finally turns and finds himself in a hallway that’s familiar, and he breaks into a full sprint, leaping over broken stones and cracked walls, wishing he could slip into his other form. It’s too small in here for him to make much progress that way though, and he wouldn’t be able to comfortably hold Link anyway. He’ll have to figure that out once he escapes.

So far he hasn’t been stopped by any major obstacles, none of the men who’d captured Link daring to come stop him, only a few hazards for him to dodge. He’d had to fight his way in, but it seems as if there’s barely any opposition left to stop him from leaving, which is strange.

Another piece of this situation that doesn’t seem to quite add up.

Volga’s nearing the place where he entered now, more plants creeping in and less stone. A gagging noise comes from his arms, and he has to stop to let Link retch weakly onto the ground again, barely anything coming up this time except small strings of saliva and bile. Volga ignores the bit of blood at the corner of his mouth, Link pressing his face against his arm with a whine, and keeps running.

Only to come to a halt as he finds his path barred, a line of huge plants with teeth blocking his way to the exit.

Volga stares, certain the monsters hadn’t been here before. The plants spot him somehow, despite having no visible eyes, and send leering grins his direction, teeth bared, vines writhing. Poison drips from their leaves, a purple miasma rising off the floor, and Volga knows he doesn’t have time to fight them all.

Link doesn’t have time.

Fury boils in his gut. Volga doesn’t know how they got here, but they’re blocking his path, and every precious second counts right now.

Volga roars, rushing forward and blasting a huge plume of fire at the plant monsters blocking his path.

Leaves shrivel and he hears shrieking sounds, but Volga ignores them all, shielding Link as he darts through the flames and runs to the other side. Teeth gnash and something scrapes along his arm through his armor, but Volga ignores the flicker of pain, shoving his way through as he blasts more fire.

Something glints in his vision, and he looks down to see a small spray of scales trailing up Link’s arm that weren’t there before, revealed by the heat of the flames.

Volga shakes his head and keeps running, flames flying as he leaves the plants to burn. He’d nearly forgotten about that fight they’d had up on the sky island, where he’d seen Link’s scales for the first time. His memories of the war are sketchy at best, but he does remember Link’s halting explanation of being his son.

His son who he barely knows. His son whom he tried to kill multiple times.

His son who’s currently dying.

Volga roars again in fury and explodes out of the ruins, setting Link down and shifting back to his dragon form in the same movement. He’s careful to pick Link back up once he’s done, taking a moment to settle him in clawed talons, and then takes off for the army’s camp.

It’s not the most comfortable mode of transportation for Link, and Volga thinks his expression looks more pained than before, but there’s no time to figure out anything better. He holds Link closer, trying to shelter him from the cold wind, and flies as fast as he physically can without crashing.

Trying not to panic. Trying not to spiral into memories.

He focuses only on beating his wings.

(...)

The trip takes forever and yet passes in moments, and the Hylian army’s camp soon comes into view.

It’s late, but the area is a swarm of activity the same as it was when Volga left, Link’s disappearance sending the whole army into a frenzy. He only hopes Impa is still in camp and hasn’t left to join the search. He doesn’t trust any of the soldiers around to keep Link safe at the moment.

Volga folds his wings and makes a beeline for the first open area he finds, dropping into the middle of camp and transforming back in one swift movement. He startles the handful of soldiers around who look on with wide eyes at the bloody hero clutched to his chest, but he ignores them.

“General!” Volga roars into the night, and the moment he sees Impa appear across the clearing, he sprints for her.

Her eyes grow wide as she sees Link in his arms, and alarm crosses her face before switching to steely determination.

“What happened?” she demands, rushing to his side. Volga merely thrusts Link into her arms and only pauses long enough to make sure she has a firm grip on him before rushing away. “Volga!”

“He’s been poisoned, I need to get the cure,” Volga snaps back. “Keep him alive, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“No, wait,” Impa demands, grabbing his shoulder before he can turn into a dragon and leave. Volga twitches at the pain it sends up his arm. “Volga I need more information, he’s barely breathing. What did they poison him with?!”

“Safflina,” he growls in a low voice. “A rare strain of it. I know how to counteract it, but I need to leave now or he will die.”

Impa goes as pale as her hair. “Is there anything I can do to slow it?”

Volga swallows, and looks down at Link just once, his son ashen-faced and limp, then looks at Impa, her face stricken.

“...Not that I know of,” Volga says more quietly. “Keep him warm. Keep him alive.”

Then he leaps into the air and turns into a dragon, flying as hard and fast as he can.

Link will not die from this.

He won’t.

...

Impa watches Volga fly into the night, then looks down at her son again, terror crawling up her throat.

Link is freezing where he lies limp in her arms (he’s always so warm, he’s never cold—), barely perceptible gasps the only sign he’s alive. There’s blood coating his hair and the side of his face, bruises on his skin, and flecks of vomit on his tunic, mixed with stains of blood. His eyes are rolled so far back in his head she can only see white with how little they’re open, and he’s pure deadweight in her arms.

Impa takes only a moment to process all this, them shouts for someone to find a medic. A soldier runs off, and Zelda appears at Impa’s side as she begins to move, her face horrified as she takes in Link’s condition.

“Link! How did— what—”

“Volga found him,” Impa breathes as Zelda helps her support Link so won’t be as jostled. “He said he’s been poisoned, he left to get the antidote.”

“How did Volga even— never mind, that’s not important now,” Zelda says with a shake of her head. Link lets out another weak gasp, and she touches his shoulder, face fearful. “He’s been poisoned?”

“Badly,” Impa hisses. “And that’s not all that’s been done to him.”

She briefly meets Zelda’s gaze, and sees the question in her own eyes reflected there.

How could we let this happen?

Link’s disappearance had been discovered a few hours ago, signs of a fight leaving his tent in disarray. Volga had left the moment he’d seen the blood on the ground, face furious, but Impa had stayed, determined to figure this out in a manner more precise then simply flying around and hoping she happened across their missing son.

A part of her hoped the traitors (for what else could they be inside their own camp?) were still nearby— the blood was fresh, and there were bootprints in the dirt, so it was likely they hadn’t gotten far. Impa had immediately begun tracking them, Zelda joining her, and they’d gotten all the way outside of camp and into the middle of the woods, when the tracks just... stopped.

They’d scoured the area, checking every nook and cranny, bush and tree, but there’d been no sign of Link or his captors. They’d seemingly vanished into thin air.

“...Magic,” Zelda had said finally, anger in her voice. “They must have had a mage with them.”

That meant Link could be almost anywhere, and Impa and Zelda had been able to do nothing but head back to camp, fear twisting sharply in Impa’s gut for her son. She knew that going out and searching herself wouldn’t do any good, not without any clue where he’d been taken, but she dearly wanted to rush out of camp and do something, anything.

They’d taken her son. And she hadn’t even realized.

Lana had stated she might be able to track the spell when they’d shown the area to her, given some time, but she didn’t know how long it would take. And without any clue of what Link’s captors were planning to do with him, Impa knew it might be too late by the time Lana figured it out.

So despite the fact that the last thing she’d wanted to do was to stay still, Impa had sent out scouts and begun organizing bigger search parties, gathering likely locations for them to search, and ignoring the anxiety squeezing around her heart in a death grip.

She hadn’t gotten very far when she’d heard Volga’s roar.

Link makes a sound in her arms, somewhere between a rattle and a moan, and Impa bursts into her own tent, her and Zelda setting him down as gently as possible on her cot. Impa starts with cleaning the blood from his face while they wait for the medic, and the pit in her stomach grows at the lines gouged into his cheek.

How could he have been taken right under their noses? How had none of them noticed? The mess in his tent had been fresh, but not as much as it could have been. She’d put it at over an hour old by the time they’d stumbled upon it.

How could she have let this happen?

Link’s head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering briefly, but they close just as fast. Impa smooths bloody, sweaty bangs from his face as the medic arrives, and she thinks he might lean into the touch just a little as the medic examines him, face only growing more grim.

“You said the dragon is getting the cure?” he asks finally, and Impa nods. “Any idea how long he’ll be?”

“No. He just said he would be as quick as he could,” Impa replies, and the medic sighs.

“I’ll do what I can without it, but I’ll be frank General, it doesn’t look good. I’d be shocked if he makes it another hour, no less the night,” he says grimly, and Impa closes her eyes as Zelda sucks in a sharp breath, the words drilling into her with a chill colder than a redead’s scream.

Then she reopens them, steadying herself.

“Then let’s do what we can. We’ll give him as much of a fighting chance as possible until we have the antidote,” she says with a confidence she doesn’t feel. “Whatever you can do to help him, do it.”

The medic nods, and he opens the bag he’d brought with him and begins to rifle through the contents, his face still grim, but with a hint of determination. Impa barely realizes her hand is still resting on Link’s head until the medic asks her to move it, and she slowly withdraws her fingers, hating how cold his skin still is.

He feels like death. Feels like countless soldiers she’s watched die, like her best friend’s hand growing cold in hers, a grief that still lingers with her even years later. It’s only the slight rise and fall of Link’s chest, the weak gasps he lets out that stop her from fully sinking into despair.

There’s a cure. Volga knows where it is. He’s getting it right now.

Link will not die.

A new voice suddenly gasps, and Impa turns to see Lana rush in, her hands covering her mouth in horror as she looks at Link. A winged glow of blue is right behind her, and there’s a shrill, jingly shriek.

“Link! Link!” Proxi wails, speeding for him and fluttering frantically around his face. “Link, wake up, please!”

Link’s eyes flutter, but he doesn’t move otherwise, and Proxi lets out a distraught noise, settling herself at Link’s shoulder. Her wings are fluttering with anxiety, and Zelda smooths a hand over them, reassuring her quietly.

“I’m sorry! I went to visit a fountain while Link was sleeping, I— Lana said he’d been taken while I was— oh Link,” she hiccups in a wobbly chime.

“You didn’t know Proxi, it’s not your fault,” Impa says quietly, and the fairy doesn’t anything further, huddling close to Link.

“What happened?” Lana asks in an surprisingly level voice, and Zelda explains what they know, the medic still working, another arriving and joining him. Impa doesn’t listen much, her thoughts spiraling in several directions, though she hears when Lana offers to try and heal Link a bit. She watches as the sorceress’s hands light up and ease some of the cuts and bruises marring his skin, though nothing else about his condition improves. Apparently even half of the guardian of time can’t heal poison.

Impa sets her hand over Link’s freezing one as she finishes, listening to the rasp of his breathing as Lana and the medics draw back.

Link is cleaned up now, injuries bandaged and blood scrubbed away, tended to as much as they can. Somehow he looks worse than when Volga pressed him into her arms though, pale as death, dark veins spreading across his skin, especially thick in one place on his arm.

Impa swallows. They’re in a waiting game now. They’ll do what they can to keep Link alive before Volga returns, but there isn’t a lot they can do. She helps tilt his body when he weakly retches, adjusts blankets and even sits beside him to try and warm his freezing skin, but there’s nothing they can do to stop the poison’s creep through Link’s veins.

All they can do is what they’re already doing, and as time drags forward, Impa feels like she may explode.

Link is dying. There’s no getting around it.

His strength leaves him more by the minute, his skin turning almost grey. Impa watches him fade and fade and fade, unable to lift a finger to help him, and she glances repeatedly outside, scanning the dark strip of sky she can see while Link grows ever weaker and her desperation grows stronger.

Volga, where are you?

(...)

It’s the longest night of Volga’s life.

It takes him hours to find the berries he knows will counteract the poison’s effects— they only grow in cold locations, which slows him down, and even then it’s the wrong time of year for the berries to even be ripe. The mountain he flies to is rife with icy beasts, which fall quickly enough to his fire, but it’s yet more delays to his goal.

Volga only half believes in the goddesses, but he tosses a short plea their direction anyway.

His ancestors were their servants. Perhaps that counts for something.

The moonlight is blinding against the layer of snow on the ground, casting sharp shadows wherever rocks stick up from it. Volga’s stuck to his dragon form thus far, deeming it quicker and warmer, but now he shifts back, the snow-covered undergrowth looking promising. He digs around in the snow, uncovering all the bushes and plants he can get his hands on, blowing small puffs of flame to keep his fingers warm.

It feels like hours go by as he crawls around digging through snow-covered branches, dirt catching in his claws, breath puffing into steam.

You’re taking too long, it’s been too long—

Familiar leaves suddenly glint in the moonlight, and Volga pounces, clawing almost desperately at the snow covering the bush’s form. He takes care not to hurt the plant beneath the snow, and gently lifts up a branch.

And sure enough, pale, yellowish berries reveal themselves, glowing almost like stars in the light of Volga’s flame.

Volga lets out a harsh breath of relief, wondering briefly if the goddesses really did listen to his plea. That or they don’t want their chosen hero dying on them. Such things are beyond him though, so Volga doesn’t waste time thinking about it and quickly picks every fruit he sees, tying them in a secure pouch at his hip.

The sky is beginning to lighten by the time he’s in the air again, and every beat of his wings seems to mark the minutes trickling away, more poison slipping through Link’s veins.

You’ve taken too long, he’s already dead, his thoughts hiss, but Volga thrusts them aside. Link isn’t full dragon. The poison won’t kill him as quickly.

But despite his attempts to reassure himself, the thoughts don’t go away, only growing louder the longer he takes. Volga watches the moon set, stars fading, and his mind starts to figure how many hours it’s been, surely too many for Link to have survived.

He must be dead by now.

Volga swallows. He wonders if it was quick, Link’s fluttering heart merely going still, or if his lungs had filled with fluid, drowning him on land, choking him in blood. Perhaps his throat had closed up, slowly suffocating him.

Volga doesn’t slow his speed at all at the gruesome thoughts, but there’s dread weighing down his wings, and no small fear at what he’ll find when he arrives. Will Impa cry? He’s only ever seen her truly cry once, and that had been more out of anger than anything. Will the loss of her only child be enough to break her stoicism? Will he cry?

What will he even do if Link is dead?

He may be his son, but Volga barely knows him. They’ve been enemies longer than allies, and a few months ago Volga was so entrenched on Cia’s side that he wouldn’t even have cared to hear he’d met his demise.

But... somehow now he does.

He barely knows Link, but the little he’s seen is bright and fierce and courageous, loyal to a fault, determined and with a spirit that refuses to give up. He has his faults surely, but overall he’s quite the formidable warrior, hero, even. Volga had no hand in raising him, but somehow he’s... proud of him, proud of the man he became while Volga wasn’t looking.

But all that likely doesn’t matter now. If Link is alive it would be a miracle, and Volga isn’t feeling optimistic.

He dives past a cloud, his wings beginning to tire from the long night. He hates this uncertainty. This ache in his chest, a tightness in his throat. It’s half his fault all of this even happened— it’s obvious Link was targeted at least partially for his relation to Volga. And now it’ll be his fault he’s dead, too.

Does he even have the right to mourn?

...

He doesn’t know.

Volga tries to fly faster with his stinging wings, squeezing his eyes shut, hating how much his heart aches.

He doesn’t know.

[sylusonychinus]

Episode Six : A Storm Brewing

The quiet hum of the morning was shattered by the sharp ringing of a phone.

[Reader]’s mother frowned as she glanced at the caller ID, her ex-husband’s name flashing across the screen. With a sigh, she picked up.

"What do you want?" she asked, already exasperated.

"Why didn’t you tell me our daughter is working in aviation?!" he barked on the other end. "Do you have any idea how hard this is making things for Liana?"

Her grip on the phone tightened. "And why exactly is that my problem?"

"Because it’s embarrassing!" he spat. "People are comparing them! Liana worked hard to be where she is, and now they’re saying that she—"

"Oh, please," she cut him off, her voice cold. "You don’t get to act like a father now. You never cared about [Reader], so don’t pretend you suddenly have an opinion about her career."

"I am her father—"

"No, you’re Liana’s father," she snapped. "You made that clear when you walked away from us. You have no say in her life."*

The silence on the other end was deafening.

"Stay out of this," she warned. "And tell your precious daughter to deal with her own insecurities."*

With that, she hung up, anger simmering in her chest.

Across town, Liana Reyes sat in a trendy café, lazily stirring her iced coffee as she listened to Marissa rant about her latest grievances.

"—and then he had the audacity to say he wasn’t interested. Can you believe that?" Marissa huffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Liana, only half-listening, hummed in fake sympathy. "Men are idiots."*

Marissa rolled her eyes before scrolling through her phone. She stopped suddenly, her fingers tightening around the device. "Oh. My. God."*

"What?" Liana asked, taking a sip of her drink.

Marissa turned the screen towards her. "Tara went to a wedding last month. Look who got married."*

Liana’s brows knitted together as she leaned in—only for her expression to twist in fury when she saw the photos.

"You’re kidding," she seethed.

[Reader]. And Caleb Xia.

Married.

"That little—" Liana set her cup down with a loud clink, gripping her phone with enough force that her nails nearly dug into the case.

"And she didn’t even invite you?" Marissa added, feigning shock. "Wow. Your own sister."*

Liana’s jaw clenched. "She really thought she could keep this from me?"

Her fingers hovered over her phone before she dialed a familiar number.

The line rang twice before [Reader] picked up. "Liana?"

"Meet me at Belleview Café. Now," Liana ordered.

A pause. "Why?"

"Because we need to talk about why I wasn’t invited to your wedding, dear sister," she sneered.

[Reader] exhaled sharply. "I don’t have time for this, Liana."*

"Make time," Liana snapped. "Or I’ll make sure everyone knows that you’re the daughter of a mistress."*

Silence.

Liana smirked. "See you soon."*

She ended the call, sitting back in her seat with satisfaction.

"She’s on her way," she mused, crossing her arms. "Let’s see if our golden sister can handle this one."*

Marissa giggled. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

The café was cozy, filled with the quiet hum of conversation and the scent of roasted coffee beans. But despite its warm atmosphere, the tension at one particular table was thick enough to cut with a knife.

[Reader] sat across from Liana, her fingers clenched into fists beneath the table as she listened to her so-called sister drone on.

"I just can’t believe you would do something so selfish," Liana scoffed, taking a delicate sip of her overpriced latte. "Marrying Caleb Xia of all people?"*

"Selfish?" [Reader] repeated, raising a brow. "How is marrying my husband selfish?"

"Because," Liana leaned in, her voice dripping with condescension. "You don’t deserve him."*

Marissa, sitting beside her, smirked. "I mean, let’s be real. You’re not exactly his type, are you?"

"Right!" Liana sighed dramatically. "Caleb is successful, charming, handsome. He’s been my friend for years. Honestly, he and I would have been the perfect couple."*

[Reader]’s patience was wearing thin. "Then why aren’t you together?"

Liana’s expression faltered for a split second before she scoffed. "Because you sunk your claws into him first."*

Marissa nodded eagerly. "You’re a nobody, [Reader]. You really think Caleb married you because he loves you? He probably felt pity for you."*

Something inside [Reader] snapped.

She grabbed the glass of water in front of her and, without hesitation, threw it straight at Liana’s face.

A gasp rippled through the café as cold water splashed all over Liana’s perfectly styled hair and designer blouse.

Liana let out a shriek, her hands flying up to her face. "You—!"*

"Oops," [Reader] said flatly, setting the now-empty glass back on the table. "Must’ve slipped."*

Marissa gasped, eyes wide in shock. "You bitch!"

Liana slammed her palms onto the table, seething. "Marissa, hold her down."*

Marissa immediately reached for [Reader], grabbing her arms to restrain her.

"You think you can humiliate me like this?!" Liana spat, raising a hand to slap her. "You’re nothing, you hear me? Nothing!"

But before her palm could make contact—

[Reader] was suddenly ripped from Marissa’s grasp.

"Let. Her. Go."*

The voice was cold. Dangerous.

Liana froze, her raised hand trembling slightly as she turned to see Caleb Xia standing behind [Reader], his grip firm on her wrist.

"C-Caleb?" Liana stammered.

Marissa’s smug expression instantly vanished as she let go of [Reader] like she had been burned.

[Reader], still shaken, looked up at him in shock. "Caleb?"

He had followed her.

Earlier, when [Reader] had taken the call from Liana, Caleb had just stepped out of the bathroom. He had overheard everything. When he asked where she was going, she had brushed him off, saying she was just heading downstairs.

But he hadn’t believed her.

And now, standing here, hearing every vile thing Liana had just said—his patience was gone.

His gaze flickered to Liana, his jaw clenched. "You’re seriously still like this, huh?"

Liana swallowed hard. "I—Caleb, you don’t understand, she—"

"I understand just fine."* His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to it. "And for the record? I was never interested in you."*

Liana’s eyes widened, her breath hitching. "W-what?"

"Not in high school. Not in flight school. Never." His grip on [Reader] tightened protectively. "I don’t know what delusion you’ve been living in, but my life? My choices? They were never about you."*

Silence.

Liana stood there, humiliated, her lips slightly parted like she wanted to argue—but for the first time in her life, she had nothing to say.

"Come on," Caleb murmured, gently pulling [Reader] towards the exit. "We’re leaving."*

And with that, they walked out—leaving Liana Reyes and Marissa alone in their embarrassment.

The moment they stepped back into their apartment, [Reader] pulled her wrist free from Caleb’s grasp and bolted for her room.

But Caleb was faster.

Just as she reached for the doorknob, his hand landed on the wood, stopping her from going inside.

"Oh, no you don’t," he said firmly.

She clenched her jaw. "Move, Caleb."*

"Not until you answer me," he countered, his tone unusually serious. "What would’ve happened if I wasn’t there on time?"

She looked away, arms crossing over her chest. "I could’ve handled it."*

"Really?" Caleb raised a brow. "Because from what I saw, Liana and Marissa were seconds away from ganging up on you."*

"I threw a drink at her first," she mumbled, avoiding his gaze. "I started it. I can finish it."*

Caleb exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face before leaning down slightly, forcing her to meet his eyes. "[Reader], listen to me. You don’t have to deal with this alone."*

She swallowed. "It’s not like you’ll always be around."*

"That’s what I’m saying—" He sighed, pressing his palm flat against the door beside her head. "If something happens, call me. I don’t care where I am, what I’m doing—call me. Because I’m your husband."*

She blinked up at him, his words sinking in.

Husband.

The weight of it still felt unreal sometimes.

After a beat, she let out a small breath and nodded. "Okay… I promise."*

Caleb studied her expression before sighing and stepping back, giving her space. "Good."*

Then, his usual playful smirk returned. "Now, on a much lighter note—dinner."*

She raised a brow. "Dinner?"

"Yeah. A few of my friends from the airline are meeting up tonight. Come with me."*

"You mean a pilot gathering?"

"Something like that," he shrugged. "It’ll be fun. You should get to know them."*

She hesitated. "I don’t know…"

"C’mon, [Reader]." He gave her a knowing look. "You can’t just hide in your room after throwing water at your sister. Celebrate your victory."*

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hold back a small smile. "Fine, I’ll go. Just let me change."*

Caleb grinned. "That’s the spirit."*

A few minutes later, [Reader] emerged from her room wearing a short skirt and a simple white blouse.

Caleb, who had been waiting in the living room, looked up—and immediately raised a brow.

"Are you dressing like that for me or my friends?" he teased, his eyes flickering over her outfit.

She scoffed, placing a hand on her hip. "Neither. I just felt like wearing this."*

He smirked, stepping closer. "Right. Of course."*

She gave him a pointed look. "Do you have a problem with it?"

"Not at all," he said smoothly. "In fact, I fully support this choice."*

She rolled her eyes and grabbed her purse. "Let’s just go before I change my mind."*

Caleb chuckled, placing a hand on the small of her back as they headed out.

The dinner was held at a high-end steakhouse near the airport, where several of Caleb’s airline friends had already gathered.

The atmosphere was lively—full of laughter, teasing, and the occasional talk about flight routes and emergency landings.

But there was one person who didn’t seem thrilled about [Reader]’s presence.

Mark.

He had been close with Liana during training and was clearly on her side. Throughout the evening, he made little side comments, subtle digs aimed at [Reader].

"So," he mused after taking a sip of his drink. "Marrying into the aviation industry, huh? That’s one way to stay relevant."*

[Reader] tightened her grip on her fork, but before she could respond, Caleb shot Mark a sharp look. "Watch it."*

Mark raised his hands in mock surrender. "Relax, man. Just making conversation."*

[Reader] exhaled slowly and placed her napkin on the table. "Excuse me, I need to use the restroom."*

She needed to cool off before she actually threw something at him.

But the moment she stepped out of the restroom, she saw Mark standing near the entrance, scrolling through his phone.

Her eyes narrowed.

Perfect.

She walked up to him, voice cool and calm. "You have something to say to me, Mark?"

He looked up, smirking. "Just surprised, that’s all. Never thought Caleb would settle for—"

"For me?" she cut him off, tilting her head. "You mean someone who actually knows how to do her job? Or someone who doesn’t cling to him like a desperate high schooler?"

His smirk faltered. "Look, I didn’t mean—"

"No, go on," she crossed her arms. "Because I find it funny how you’re talking so much when Liana isn’t even here to defend herself."*

Mark cleared his throat. "I was just looking out for—"

"For what?" she raised a brow. "For your friend or your own misplaced bitterness?"

He looked away, jaw tightening.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "If you have an issue with me, be a man and say it to my face. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut."*

Mark let out a slow breath before finally muttering, "Fine. My bad."*

"Glad we understand each other."*

And with that, she walked back to the table, leaving him standing there in silence.

Taglist: @jinwoosbabyboo @kithyyy @mcdepressed290 @nezuswritingdesk @elegantdeerlady @yuuuumii @duhgurl @lumieresdreams @bidisasterforevermore @i-messed-up-big-time

@that-one-scoundrel @justpassingdontworry @ansbobcar @nagireos @auriuswolve

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

Headcanon - Niffty held to Ransom

-----------

Niffty is taken by the Vees, in a post extermination bid to extort the Radio Demon publicly. Every audio-capable item in all of hell is just about annihilated with the howling explosion of sound that comes in response.

Husk is the one to grab at Al’s arm before the demon storms out to wage war, and manages to pull him back. Get him to think for a minute… yes, this was a sneaky tactic to incite him into starting the conflict, but… he didn’t have to go 1 vs 3.

Alastor stills, frighteningly so. Something in the glare passing between the sinners seems to… say something. Suddenly Alastor flicks out his left hand, manifesting the chain and twining it about the wrist there. 

Angel shouts, lurching forwards, but Husk isn’t responding with anger or horror. He’s almost grinning. 

Alastor raises his other hand, claws extended, and slashes down through the mass of chains and flesh of his left arm. Blood sprays up over the chains, Husk’s face and the collar… which shatter. [Get more creatively descriptive here etc. Explosion of power, a deal broken by the dealer is rare and chaotic.]

Husk’s power siphons back, and he can easily conjure his staff as a golden glow imbues around the restored overlord. Etc.

“Hmmm, one might say it’s only fair…” Alastor adds, and a few wisps of power transfer over in a shrieking mess from the bloody gashes down his arm, sinking into Husk. “I did promise some of my own power in our original deal.”

“Yeah, you did… so how about you let me get that for you.” He grins back, brilliant yellow light washes over the injury, patching it easily. “Gonna need both hands functional if you wanna rip the Vees apart as violently as I do. That girl might be fucking terrifying, but she grows on ya… and I don’t like that she’s within a few inches of that moth fucker, let alone the others.” 

Husk twirls his cane, the action natural even after all these decades, as the intensity of the emotions begin to build again. He and Al striding towards the door and barely holding onto a form small enough for inside use… 

Charlie blocks the door.

“Look, I know that the Vees are doing this whole calling out thing through the television and it’s not good, but you can’t just go destroy the city to get Niffty back. We can find a new way, a better one!”

“Charlotte… move.”

“Princess, this is… this is overlord business. You can’t be seen getting involved… and they all out declared war with that little stunt. I can get away with intervening because I've been under Al’s banner for so long that they’d expect it… but if you turn up, they’ll pull a hissy fit about royalty favouring the radio demon over them and some bullshit like that. Its political all the way down. So just move aside and let us go get our weird little lady back…”

The pair explode outside, and expand in form, describe etc.

Wading through the city and enjoying the mindless destruction they cause, eyes pinned on the Vee Tower. Where three large forms then appear. Velvette having Niffty spun tightly into a web of sharp filaments, to dangle…

Epic battle, snarky back and forths, etc.

They do win, but barely. Husk is delighted to kill Valentino with his bare hands, and Alastor eats Vox’s heart before the overlord’s screen shuts off… but Velvette, well, there was something about her that just didn’t sit right with them about mindlessly devouring. She was still somewhat new to hell, and the Vees had gotten to her immediately… maybe she could be changed for the better?

Ugh, Charlie’s nonsense was working on them.

And then there’s Rosie. Always excellent at sensing an issue, in full Overlord form and cheerful as she squares up to the little Overlord, (epic fight scene, end with her solidly beating the Doll and tasting her blood). “Hmmm, she was right Alastor dear, I could very well eat her for breakfast. Hah!” she recalls their first meeting with the little fashionista so clearly.

Niffty freed, checked on, she’s okay but actually frightened. 

They’re so preoccupied in the whole mess that it takes a long moment before the new souls they acquired register. Husk’s eyes widen. “No fuckin’ way…”

A bloody, triumphant and somewhat battered mess, they shrink down to regular size and shadow travel to the Hotel porch. 

“Hmmm, on a scale of one to ten…”

“Fifty.”

“Well that’s not ideal, is it sugar?”

Charlie is horrified at the violence, happy they’re okay, angry at the whole thing, and squeezing niffty so hard the maid's head might just pop off. Vaggie is furious and pleased… she’d wanted to do in Val for licking Charlie that one time… (and also what he did to Angel, but you can't go letting people know you care or they start wanting to be friendly and ugh).

Husk takes Angel aside and hands him his contract, letting the sinner tear it to shreds himself. He admits not really having any idea what to do with Val’s whole… enterprise, but maybe Angel might be a far more compassionate captain at the wheel, if he wants a job.

If, and its a big if, the Vees do reform at some point… they were bound to their conquerors, and Husk would make damn sure Val never went near Angel or the others the fucker hurt, again.  Things would change.

Alastor was also revolted with his acquisitions… technologically based as they were. Disgusting.

Only Rosie was delighted, as she was a fashionista at heart and did quite the good trade in boutique attire on the regular… 

Still, they were dripping blood and gore on the rug, for which they were told off. Sternly.

Time to come to terms with it or whatevs.

Two overlords vouching for the hotel, the vees powered down and competent assistancts taking over the companies for their new bosses… etc.

Maybe something about finding out where the old overlords ended up, reintegrating by forcing them into the hotel or something.

Lucifer is horrified to find all of his ad searches and commercials are now parenting courses, and doesn’t find out why for weeks. “Are you a depressed monarch who couldn’t parent to save his daughter’s life? Well, give us a call today!” 

“Who the FUCK is making these ads?!”

“Hah, well Dad… funny story but-...”

the King loses. his. tiny. mind.

+fit in the post adam harm and broken cane somewhere.

Flesh out better.

[twisted-tales-of-all]

BEEP BOOP ITS ME

Can I request “It’s hard to sit here and be close to you and not kiss you.” And “ meet me in my dreams and stay for a while.” With Yunho please 👁️👁️

Hello Love <3 don't melt too much reading it mkay?

Pairing: Yunho x gender ambiguous reader Genre: fluff, boyfriend!Yunho, idol!Yunho Rating: G/PG, E for Everyone, whatever you want to call it Word Count: 591 Contains: an absolutely gut-wrenching amount of fluff, a proposal, and a kiss, that's about it

"I don't want you to leave. I miss you so much every time you have tours." You whine at your boyfriend as the day turns to night.

Sitting on the rooftop and watching the sun slip fully behind the horizon, you sigh. Although you've always preferred the night and its glistening stars, this night brings alongside its beauty the reminder that Yunho flies out as the sun rises in the morning.

"I know, bun. Believe me, if I had the choice to bring you without putting any risk on you, I would never leave you behind. Ever."

He turns towards you with an intensity in his eyes you haven't seen in years; one you only witnessed directed at you when he insisted that, if you agreed to brave a relationship with him six years ago, he'd keep you safe from over-attached fans no matter what. You cannot help as your heartbeat speeds up; you cannot move nor look away despite the goosebumps attacking your body and trying to make you shiver. Time halts in the beat of silence before his next statement.

"I would love to keep you by my side forever. In this life and the next. Awake, asleep, no matter the time."

He pauses, but your nerves built up under his gaze cannot handle even the smallest moment of silence, so words stumble out from your lips, "Then, meet me in my dreams and stay for a while. That way, it won't feel so lonely while you're gone in the waking world."

Your comment seems to loosen him up a bit. His eyes soften, and he cracks a smile as a chuckle breaks through his seriousness. Shaking his head at himself, seemingly dismissing thoughts he was holding to himself, he finds his words again.

"Gladly. I'll find you in your dreams and on any other plane of existence we end up in. No matter how long it takes, I will always find you. Whether it's in a sea of people or amongst the thousands of stars above, I am yours so I will find you. So, if you'll allow me, I'd like to leave you with more than just dreams of me."

He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a small jewelry box. Twisting his body completely in your direction, he ends upon one knee. Your breath catches in your throat and your senses still as he opens the box to reveal a ring even more gorgeous than you imagined. He implemented every little comment you've made about rings over the past years and added personalized touches that only Yunho could bring to life.

"Y/N, will you marry me?"

The tears clog your throat, and you already lost control of your body moments before his question, so you can't respond despite screaming 'yes' inside repeatedly.

"It is so hard to sit here and be this close to you and not kiss you right now. Even a small head movement will do if you can't speak."

The silly smile on his face gives you enough control to nod vigorously, so he leans over immediately and kisses you deeply before remembering the order he was supposed to go. Backing up slightly, he finds the proper hand and slips the ring on your finger.

"Y/N, you are perfect. I'm so far beyond happy that you're mine."

"I will be yours forever if you let me. As long as you can be mine forever, too."

"That sounds like a deal, and I will gladly shout it out to everyone, my love."

[transgenderer]

ok so obviously what's going on govt-wise rn is pretty bad. but i think it affect people more than it "should". its like...it's like having a bad king. like. if the old king dies, and the new king sucks, this is really bad! it may affect you quite badly! but it's bad in the same way as like...a bear, or a hurricane is bad. you can try your best to deal with it, it's materially relevant to you, but it's only relevant to you insofar as it touches, and insofar as you can influence it. like it's not...it shouldnt *emotionally* affect you, it should only *practically* affect you. i think nationalism encourages people to identify with their country's govt, and i think that's just. not true. we still, basically, have a king. he doesn't represent you, you have no social connection to him. he is a guy who has a lot of power, who might hurt you with that power.

now i think the defense of that position of govt-identifying is that it encourages you to do the stuff that's in our power to affect the govt. and certainly you have more power to affect the govt than you would if you had a king. but not like, a LOT more power. and also, that power nowadays is very much proportional to how much work you put in, to like, doing stuff. and if youre putting in that work yknow good on you. but 99% of people arent. and for those people, i dont think it helps to identify yourself with the govt this way

im not sure if im expressing this right. i'm not *happy* about what's going on. but i feel like a lot of people are unhappy about it in a much more emotionally involved way, to no particular end