#despite this being presented without comment:

[2000sangel]

Reader who usually tries to be bubbly and friendly with everyone snapping and going attack dog on an audience member that won’t stop heckling Tenna. I’m talking reader needing to be held back by security as to not throw hands.

They eventually find Tenna later to apologize about it, worried they made the situation worse and wanting to check in on him after the fact.

They are not sorry for standing up for him despite security chewing them out for trying to jump someone.

I hope this scratches the itch! (If it isn’t hurt/comforty enough you can ignore this :p)

Hellow!! I accidentally made this less hurt/comforty than I intended but I hope you enjoy nonetheless...!! It was fun to write for me and I liked the prompt, so I'm deciding not to rewrite it but maybe I could write something similar...? IM RAMBLING.

ENJOY!!

OH YEAH I also made Reader less intense for the story's sake...!!

Tenna x Protective Reader !! - Short One Shot.

Your eye twitches as you bite back a snarky remark directed towards tonight’s audience nuisance; you’re currently attending one of Tenna’s TV Time episodes on-air, and you don’t even understand why this guy even showed up if they don’t like Tenna and his show. 

Your partner is visibly displeased by the comments they make, purposefully while everyone else is silent, you notice, and so are you. Usually you’d ask to drop it politely, but they’re seated a bit far from you and they’re far from deserving of your nice treatment at this point.

Tenna is about to announce the challenges of the second round when the irritating Darkner comments very loudly on how the show should just end already, making one of your boyfriend’s antennas get a bit droopy, and the combination of things finally brings you to your absolute limit;

���Are you even real?” you hiss under your breath, but loud enough so they can still hear you from their seat.

The Darkner raises an eyebrow dumbly at you;

“Like honestly? I thought people as annoying as you only existed as like. Characters, in TV shows.” 

“Don’t know what to tell you, this guy’s so bad he brought one of those to life-”

They don’t even get to finish their sentence before you get on your feet and walk in front of them so fast that you could say you’ve teleported; unfortunately before you can say anything security is at your sides, holding you back so you can’t get closer to them.

You weren’t planning to straight up beat the guy up, just to give them an earful without further disturbing the program, but you suppose you can do that even as they physically drag you away from the seats; at least someone has the decency to ask them to leave as well as you argue with each other:

“Why even come here if you can’t even shut up about how bad you think this is? What’s the actual point?!”

“Oh, because you’re so much better, wanting to raise your hands on me!”

“That was not the plan, instead you look like someone who would throw tomatoes on the stage!” 

You get one last look at Tenna, whose mouth is agape and general expression otherwise unreadable; you know he’s going to make sure you’re allowed in the audience again, but you still make it a point to find him to apologize once the show comes to an end.

–

“...Tenna?” 

The embarrassment that fills your being is palpable through the way your voice slightly trembles, as you stand outside your partner’s private changing room. Tenna turns around, startled as he’s mid-changing into a more comfortable button up, but his shoulders relax once he notices it’s just you.

“Goodness! You scared me!” he admits, quickly adjusting his clothes to look more presentable, “What was all that? I-I assured security that you wouldn’t do it again but- what? Wh-”

He doesn’t sound mad thankfully, just concerned, as he steps closer to you and his hands hover above your figure, inspecting you for any kind of…wound? You’re not totally sure what he’s so worried for, so you chuckle at his behaviour.

“I’m fine! I’m fine, it’s just- that guy was so annoying, I had to do something about it…I mean not to be rude but it was painfully obvious that they were making you uncomfortable-”

Tenna makes a sound like he’s incredulous of what you’re saying, and shakes his head frantically;

“NonononoNO! I mean, okay, maybe, but I’m okay, I could’ve gone on, I always do alright? NO need to worry about one bad apple!”

You’ve heard numerous times about how much any kind of negative comment has an impact on Tenna, so it’s clear to you that he’s just reassuring you right now, and you do let him finish, but sigh a little also.

“One bad apple spoils the whole bunch, though, right?” His antennas twitch, and he frowns, “Look. I know what I did was strange, and I'm sorry, but I just…can’t see anyone be like that towards you, it makes me mad. So maybe at least this one guy won’t show up just to be annoying anymore…” 

It’s Tenna’s turn to sigh, and he laughs, not at you but at the situation. 

“Well I’m leaving it to you to create some scoop-worthy scenarios next time, too!” His playful grin is contagious, “But uhm, it means…a lot that you care. Really! And I hope you- you keep watching- I mean, you’re already ‘watching’...” he whispers to an imaginary audience now; “He effed up and meant it in a romantic way!”

“I know! I know you.” you gently pull his tie to prompt him to bend down a little; when he does, you simply kiss his forehead, a little action that makes him flush nonetheless; “Your show was amazing, by the way.”

“You really think so?” he asks, his smile so wide you’re not sure how his cheeks aren’t hurting, “What was the best part…?”

As you and Tenna finish preparing to go back home, you enthusiastically answer his usual question, encouraging him to pick more daring contestants as he did tonight and promising to be a little more level headed from now on…! 

[mariacallous]

One hallmark of our current moment is that when an event happens, there is little collective agreement on even basic facts. This, despite there being more documentary evidence than ever before in history: Information is abundant, yet consensus is elusive.

The ICE protests in Los Angeles over the past week offer an especially relevant example of this phenomenon. What has transpired is fairly clear: A series of ICE raids and arrests late last week prompted protests in select areas of the city, namely downtown, near a federal building where ICE has offices, and around City Hall and the Metropolitan Detention Center. There have been other protests south of there, around a Home Depot in Paramount, where Border Patrol agents gathered last week. The majority of these protests have been civil (“I mostly saw clergy sit-ins and Tejano bands,” The American Prospect’s David Dayen wrote). There has been some looting and property destruction. “One group of vandals summoned several Waymo self-driving cars to the street next to the plaza where the city was founded and set them ablaze,” my colleague Nick Miroff, who has been present at the demonstrations, wrote.

As is common in modern protests, there has also been ample viral footage from news organizations showing militarized police responding aggressively in encounters, sometimes without provocation. In one well-circulated clip, an officer in riot gear fires a nonlethal round directly at an Australian television correspondent carrying a microphone while on air; another piece of footage shot from above shows a police officer on horseback trampling a protester on the ground.

All of these dynamics are familiar in the post-Ferguson era of protest. What you are witnessing is a news event distributed and consumed through a constellation of different still images and video clips, all filmed from different perspectives and presented by individuals and organizations with different agendas. It is a buffet of violence, celebration, confusion, and sensationalism. Consumed in aggregate, it might provide an accurate representation of the proceedings: a tense, potentially dangerous, but still contained response by a community to a brutal federal immigration crackdown.

Unfortunately, very few people consume media this way. And so the protests follow the choose-your-own-adventure quality of a fractured media ecosystem, where, depending on the prism one chooses, what’s happening in L.A. varies considerably.

Anyone is capable of cherry-picking media to suit their arguments, of course, and social media has always narrowed the aperture of news events to fit particular viewpoints. Regardless of ideology, dramatic perspectives succeed on platforms. It is possible that one’s impression of the protests would be incorrectly skewed if informed only by Bluesky commentators, MSNBC guests, or self-proclaimed rational centrists. The right, for example, has mocked the idea of “mostly peaceful protests” as ludicrous when juxtaposed with video of what they see as evidence to the contrary. It’s likely that my grasp of the events and their politics is shaped by decades of algorithmic social-media consumption.

Yet the situation in L.A. only further clarifies the asymmetries among media ecosystems. This is not an even playing field. The right-wing media complex has a disproportionate presence and is populated by extreme personalities who have no problem embracing nonsense AI imagery and flagrantly untrue reporting that fits their agenda. Here you will find a loosely affiliated network of streamers, influencers, alternative social networks, extremely online vice presidents, and Fox News personalities who appear invested in portraying the L.A. protests as a full-blown insurrection. To follow these reports is to believe that people are not protesting but rioting throughout the city. In this alternate reality, the whole of Los Angeles is a bona fide war zone. (It is not, despite President Donald Trump’s wildly disproportionate response, which includes deploying hundreds of U.S. Marines to the area and federalizing thousands of National Guard members.)

I spent the better part of the week drinking from this particular firehose, reading X and Truth Social posts and watching videos from Rumble. On these platforms, the protests are less a news event than a justification for the authoritarian use of force. Nearly every image or video contains selectively chosen visuals of burning cars or Mexican flags unfurling in a smog of tear gas, and they’re cycled on repeat to create a sense of overwhelming chaos. They have titles such as “CIVIL WAR ALERT” and “DEMOCRATS STOKE WW3!” All of this incendiary messaging is assisted by generative-AI images of postapocalyptic, smoldering city streets—pure propaganda to fill the gap between reality and the world as the MAGA faithful wish to see it.

I’ve written before about how the internet has obliterated the monoculture, empowering individuals to cocoon themselves in alternate realities despite confounding evidence—it is a machine that justifies any belief. This is not a new phenomenon, but the problem is getting worse as media ecosystems mature and adjust to new technologies. On Tuesday, one of the top results for one user’s TikTok search for Los Angeles curfew was an AI-generated video rotating through slop images of a looted city under lockdown. Even to the untrained eye, the images were easily identifiable as AI-rendered (the word curfew came out looking like ciuftew). Still, it’s not clear that this matters to the people consuming and sharing the bogus footage. Even though such reality-fracturing has become a load-bearing feature of our information environment, the result is disturbing: Some percentage of Americans believes that one of the country’s largest cities is now a hellscape, when, in fact, almost all residents of Los Angeles are going about their normal lives.

On platforms such as Bluesky and Instagram, I’ve seen L.A. residents sharing pictures of themselves going about their day-to-day lives—taking out the trash, going to the farmers’ market—and lots of pictures of the city’s unmistakable skyline against the backdrop of a beautiful summer day. These are earnest efforts to show the city as it is (fine)—an attempt to wrest control of a narrative, albeit one that is actually based in truth. Yet it’s hard to imagine any of this reaching the eyes of the people who participate in the opposing ecosystem, and even if it did, it’s unclear whether it would matter. As I documented in October, after Hurricanes Helene and Milton destroyed parts of the United States, AI-generated images were used by Trump supporters “to convey whatever partisan message suits the moment, regardless of truth.”

In the cinematic universe of right-wing media, the L.A. ICE protests are a sequel of sorts to the Black Lives Matter protests of the summer of 2020. It doesn’t matter that the size and scope have been different in Los Angeles (at present, the L.A. protests do not, for instance, resemble the 100-plus nights of demonstrations and clashes between protesters and police that took place in Portland, Oregon, in 2020): Influencers and broadcasters on the right have seized on the association with those previous protests, insinuating that this next installment, like all sequels, will be a bigger and bolder spectacle. Politicians are running the sequel playbook—Senator Tom Cotton, who wrote a rightly criticized New York Times op-ed in 2020 urging Trump to “Send in the Troops” to quash BLM demonstrations, wrote another op-ed, this time for The Wall Street Journal, with the headline “Send in the Troops, for Real.” (For transparency’s sake, I should note that I worked for the Times opinion desk when the Cotton op-ed was published and publicly objected to it at the time.)

There is a sequel vibe to so much of the Trump administration’s second term. The administration’s policies are more extreme, and there’s a brazenness to the whole affair—nobody’s even trying to justify the plot (or, in this case, cover up the corruption and dubious legality of the government’s deportation regime). All of us, Trump supporters very much included, are treated as a captive audience, forced to watch whether we like it or not.

This feeling has naturally trickled down to much of the discourse and news around Trump’s second presidency, which feels (and generally is) direr, angrier, more intractable. The distortions are everywhere: People mainlining fascistic AI slop are occupying an alternate reality. But even those of us who understand the complexity of the protests are forced to live in our own bifurcated reality, one where, even as the internet shows us fresh horrors every hour, life outside these feeds may be continuing in ways that feel familiar and boring. We are living through the regime of a budding authoritarian—the emergency is here, now—yet our cities are not yet on fire in the way that many shock jocks say they are.

The only way out of this mess begins with resisting the distortions. In many cases, the first step is to state things plainly. Los Angeles is not a lawless, postapocalyptic war zone. The right to protest is constitutionally protected, and protests have the potential to become violent—consider how Trump is attempting to use the force of the state to silence dissent against his administration. There are thousands more peaceful demonstrations scheduled nationally this weekend. The tools that promised to empower us, connect us, and bring us closer to the truth are instead doing the opposite. A meaningful percentage of American citizens appears to have dissociated from reality. In fact, many of them seem to like it that way.

[annmaximoff18]

Kyojuro Rengoku X Reader

Warning: Adult content, sexual content, fighting, screaming, penis in vagina, innuendo, 18+

Imagine being discovered having sex with your husband Kyojuro

Kyojuro and you had been separated for almost three months, both on different missions, so when you saw each other after each of you arrived from your assigned mission, your husband immediately led you to a deserted hallway.

He had pinned you against The wall, your legs pressed tightly against him, your skirt riding up exposing your thighs, which Rengoku held tightly to, your underwear in his pocket, his pants open and slightly pulled down.

Enough to pull out his penis to be able to penetrate you, he thrust into you hard, his face was in your neck, which he bit and sucked at will.

Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly, your breasts on display, one advantage of your husband being bigger than you and wearing a cloak was that he could easily hide you if someone saw them.

Rengoku wouldn't let anyone see his little wife, you were about to come and you knew Kyojuro was too since his grip on your waist and thighs tightened, a sign that he was close to finishing inside you.

You felt that familiar knot in your stomach, they were about to finish and it would have been the best orgasm if a cough interrupted them.

You opened your eyes scared and saw Sanemi who had an annoyed look and Obanai looked disgusted, you hit your husband getting his attention.

-What's wrong, love?- he whispered, kissing your lips, but frowned when you tried to pull away.

-Sanemi and Obanai- You whispered looking at him with fear, Kyojuro frowned, he was about to finish because you said the names of pillars, you pointed behind him and he understood, there were both pillars

He put you down and quickly fixed his clothes and helped you look presentable, always keeping in mind to cover you with his large body.

When he saw that you were okay and that none of your skin was exposed, he turned to his companions.

-Are you done or are we leaving?- Sanemi asked angrily. Your husband tilted his head.

-You're a disgusting Rengoku-sinseo Obanai annoying, what a lack of respect from both of you

-Come on Obanai, if I had your wife I wouldn't be able to keep my pants up either- Sanemi told you looking at you mischievously, you looked at the ground in disgust, Kyojuro put you behind him, everyone knew that the wind pillar was in love with you and had tried to win you over many times but in the end you chose the flame pillar.

Despite being engaged to Kyojuro, Sanemi continued to interfere in their relationship, making inappropriate comments, but never like this.

-What did you say Shinazugawa?- your husband asked angrily, but he calmed down when he felt your hand on his arm.

-I said I would be between your wife's legs all day if she were mine- the wind pillar spoke. Your husband broke free from your grip and drew his sword, ready to kill Sanemi. You shouted Kyojuro's name and Obanai stepped aside.

The two pillars began to fight in the courtyard. The only sounds you could hear were the swords clashing loudly and angrily. Kyojuro was tired of Sanemi's comments, but he'd never done anything for you.

These comments had never been as horrible as the ones he was making now. They always insinuated that you'd be better off by his side, but it was never anything sexual.

Kyojuro had struck Sanemi hard. He had him on the ground, brandishing his sword upright, ready to strike him.

Obanai had taken you by the waist. He was tired of the two pillars constantly fighting over a mere woman, not even a pillar, until Tengen's scream interrupted them all.

The sound pillar stood between the two men, preventing certain death for the wind pillar.

-Uzui- your husband whispered in annoyance.

"I know you're upset, but this isn't the solution," Tengen spoke without being affected by the flame pillar. Kyojuro glared at Tengen furiously.

-He spoke ill of my wife, he disrespected her, Uzui- Kyojuro yelled at him, his cheeks red with fury, his eyes glowing like fire. Tengen sighed.

-I know you'd do anything for your beloved. Believe me, I'd also decapitate any bastard who harmed one of my wives, but right now we need the pillars so much. We can't kill them even if they deserve it- Tengen spoke, looking at Sanemi angrily.

Tengen knew perfectly well the rage the flame pillar felt, since it would kill anyone who hurt one of its beautiful wives. But they were fighting against Muzan and needed all the demon slayers.

Rengoku sighed and lowered his sword, shelving it with a graceful motion and walking toward you. Obanai released you and stepped away from you. Kyojuro gently cupped your cheek.

-Are you okay?- he asked affectionately. You nodded. Your husband smiled, but his smile disappeared as he turned to see Sanemi, who had stood up, but Tengen forbade him from continuing his outburst.

-If you come near my wife again or say a word to her, I don't care that we're fighting Muzan, I'll kill you with my own hands- Kyojuro said angrily. Sanemi gulped at such a threat, but glared at him. Tengen smiled.

Kyojuro turned to see you and, with a smile, led you to their shared room, Away from the commotion, from Sanemi's screams and from Tengen's scoldings

-Don't ever leave my side again- Kyojuro whispered firmly. You moved closer to his side, clinging to his arm, which caused him to smile.

-We have to finish what we started- he whispered mischievously. You smiled and pushed him into your shared room, both of you laughing and quickly undressing.

The topic of Sanemi was forgotten, although Kyojuro made sure that you only thought about him and that you screamed his name. Rengoku hoped that Shinazugawa would hear your screams and know that you were his.

[takaska]

[fisheito]

welcome to elysium part 2: trial time...

Kuya asks question 1: I'm. I'm stressed for olivine. I can feel my chest tighte ning. I ma sweat.ib

Kuya asks question 2: YIKES😬. AND a HaLf i. I have to leave

(minimises the app and lies on the floor for a solid minute)

ok. Ok let's keept his goin. It's ok It's ok olivine confronting his truths is ok he will be better after airing it all out IT WILL BE FINE deepbreathsdeepbreaths

*coughschokes and falls flat back onto the floor*

(....)

(Regains consciousness a few moments later)

Phew, ok,,, we're safe, olivine is facing it head-on and kuya is-

What THE EVERLIVING FR$* ISTHA*passes out again*

[aparticularbandit]

So let's talk about Snow White!

Particularly about the controversies first because this thing started those as soon as it cast its lead.

Now, please understand - I was not up-to-date on all of these and had a refresher on some of them when I read the section on Wikipedia. But some of them I very strongly remember because Mom and I talked about them.

So!

Rachel Zegler is not white. You would think this is not important! You'd be right! But this controversy is focused completely on Snow White being described as having "skin as white as snow" - which. Zegler does not have. The movie went a different route with how Snow White got her name, which is fine! But people were still mad about this and looked at it as Disney being needlessly PC.

Dwarfs. (Yes, dwarfs because in SWatSD that is how it is spelled.) Peter Dinklage himself called them out as a bad idea. Other actors with dwarfism didn't like him calling Disney out over this because yo, this could cost them roles. Disney said they were going to do something else and tried to mix and match different mythical characters from German folklore so that they weren't all dwarfs. (Which actually fit well with the magical forest idea that they used in the movie. Not the point.) People proceeded to get mad about this because, yo, it's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. (Fun Fact: That is not what this movie is titled. Again, not the point.) Disney gave up and decided to make them all CGI. I'm not sure there was any winning here.

Story Changes. Particularly Zegler's comments that made it seem like she didn't like the original movie. (More hey, that was a story for its time, and this is a story for this time, and also Prince Charming basically stalked Snow White in the original movie, and that's weird, but you know.) People got upset that the story was going to be different! They hadn't seen the movie! (It is different, and it's better for it, imo.) But, you know, accusations of feminism and girl bossifying Snow White, and etc. There's some similarities between this one and the first one in terms of hey, you changed the thing to be more PC, and that's dumb, give us the original, which. I'm so tired, y'all.

POLITICS! Gal Gadot has been controversial to hire since Wonder Woman because of her time in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF). There were people even then who did not want to see that movie solely because of that. Our political climate re: Israel-Palestine is notably worse now, imo. (And by worse, I mean more hostile to either sides of the divide.) Gadot is still pro-Israel. So you have people on one side who boycott because -gestures to all of the above-. However. Zegler is pro-Palestine and also spouted off anti-Trump and anti-Trump voter comments after the last election, which. pissed off the other side and made them want to boycott the movie.

So like.

This movie has been pissing people off since casting Zegler and Gadot, and it hasn't gotten better at not pissing people off since then, which.

I'm so tired, y'all.

[genderkoolaid]

Grizzly Pines, in Navasota, Texas, reiterated its policy on banning transgender men from the campground, in an online post on Monday (31 March), which was Trans Day of Visibility. “This campground was created as a haven specifically for men who historically lacked spaces where they could express themselves openly without outside judgment, even from within the broader LGBTQ+ community,” the since-deleted post read, according to The Advocate. “We’re not anti-trans, we’re just focused on preserving this unique sub-cultural dynamic.” The clothing-optional campground’s mission was to “provide a safe, affirming and liberating space exclusively for cisgender men”, and it was “vital for guests to feel completely at ease physically and emotionally,” which included comfort with the “types of bodies, interactions and dynamics present”. Following a backlash, reviews on the campsite’s Facebook page have been removed and a limit imposed on who can comment. [...] A spokesman for The Houston Bears, a not-for-profit organisation for the Texan gay bear community, said they had severed ties with Grizzly Pines calling the ban “incompatible with our values”. A sold-out event scheduled at the campground, scheduled for next month, had been cancelled. Being “forced to tell some of our members, ‘not you’,” was not something organisers were prepared to do. “We know it is very late in the process but we believe that it is never too late to do the right thing,” the spokesman said. The RGV Bears also cancelled a summer camp event in solidarity with “our RGV Teddy Bear trans members”. Gay Camping Friends founder John Anderson told The Advocate he was dismayed by the campground’s tone and timing. “Their statement was passive-aggressive,” he claimed. “It had a lot of read-between-the-lines messaging.“ They said The Houston Bears had a ‘newfound support’ for trans people, and that sounded like mockery to me. There’s irony in saying you’re preserving a male experience while excluding trans men, who are men.”

[drchucktingle]

how are you human?

so many interesting comments and thoughts on my post saying buds should consider not coming up to strangers in marginalized groups and saying 'how are you a real person that actually exists?'. i will point out this: despite my VERY gentle tone a few buds said i was having a 'meltdown' for even mentioning it

others said i was being too serious for someone who is ‘not a real person’. so if you would any more evidence of what it is like to be a buckaroo like myself there it is. every day, autistic folks who may seem ‘weird’ are bombarded with messages and comments and implications that they are fundamentally not human beings

sometimes it is outright and blatant like the comments on last post saying ‘well why are you getting mad? you are not even real’ and sometimes it is in the very subtle ways that folks use language when they talk to us. there is huge difference between ‘how do you exist?’ and ‘i am glad you exist.’

anyway, something that i think many people who have not lived this experience dont seem to understand is i KNOW the poster who said ‘how are you a real person that actually exists’ probably meant it as a compliment. that is THE POINT of why i am taking a moment out of my trot to gently and anonymously let them know how it might feel to be on other end of something like this as a queer or autistic or otherwise marginalized buckaroo. it is obviously not their intent to actually hurt someone, so i am letting them know

maybe because queerness and autism are not physically apparent it is hard to explain, but imagine going up to very tall or very short person and saying ‘cant BELIEVE you are real’ as a compliment. not a great way to treat others. on my original post, an indigenous author chimed in with their own experience and feelings similar to my own. a woman who said she was very tall told her story. point is, while i do not have their experience, what i am saying has a universal thread for 'othered' folks

point is: i UNDERSTAND there is this sort of exaggerated or ironic (or maybe even sometimes very literal) language around fandom to say things like ‘how are you a human?’ to creators, but since it is not your intent to hurt, i think you might want to know how that feels to marginalized buckaroos sometimes.

obviously you can say anything you want. i do not hold it against you. also, if you think ‘oh no, did i say something like this to chuck at a convention? i am so embarrassed' then DO NOT WORRY i promise you buckaroo you are just fine. i present myself in a way that is unusual by definition, so i have pretty thick skin about this type of thing and a lot of patience. MANY buds start off thinking i am ‘a joke’ and then become fans over time and i am glad to trot beside them and prove love is real.

however there are other autistic or queer or marginalized buckaroos with smaller platforms who hear this just as much as me, so i think it is important to say it loudly and maybe together we can work on making a very slight shift in the way we speak to the ‘others’ in our lives

we do not NEED to let subtle dehumanization slip into our language. in some cases it has been called ‘micro aggressions’ but i think buds dont often consider what that means for COMPLIMENTS. ultimately, telling marginalized people YOU ARE SO AMAZING YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY EXIST may seem very fun and silly on the surface and for some folks it probably feels that way, but for others it can feel like a reminder of the broader doubt about their humanity. you can just say ‘YOU ARE AMAZING’ without the reminder of the many times autistic or queer or marginalized folks are told in a very serious and pointed way (like comments on the last post) ‘YOU ARE SO WEIRD THAT I HAVE DECIDED YOU ARE NOT REAL’

buckaroos can take this information and apply it to their interactions, or they can ignore it, that is totally fine. we are all trotting our own trots and proving love in our own way and thats okay bud, HOWEVER i feel like it is important to at least let folks know, even if that means getting told i am having a ‘meltdown’. i think it is important to have complex or difficult conversations if it will prove a little more love in the long run. THANK YOU FOR READING BUCKAROOS. i am honored to trot forward with you can tackle this kind of thing with you, and honored you buckaroos have created such an amazing space with me to pull apart these kind of feelings. THIS IS PROOF THAT LOVE IS REAL LETS TROT

[youthguk]

Terms & Conditions | Act 1 of 2 | jjk (m)

pairing: CEO’s son!Jungkook x assistant!Reader

genre: corporate lust, forbidden tension, and a shattering lie in silk and crystal.

summary: You swore you came here to build a career — not fall apart in the hands of the CEO’s son.

warnings:power imbalance, office tension, fingering, oral (f receiving), dry humping, unprotected sex, infidelity themes, toxic dynamics, emotional manipulation, angst, heartbreak, smut, dom!jungkook, heartbreak kink, chain kink, slight dumbification, broken glass

w.c: 15k

author's note: this is a story idea i’ve been dying to try for a while — something about the tension, the imbalance, the unraveling… it just begged to be written. i’d love to hear your thoughts — reblogs, comments, messages — anything. your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

You don’t remember the last time your palms weren’t sweating before walking through those glass doors.

It’s only your second week at Jeon & Co., a name that sounds more like a private gallery or old-money auction house than one of South Korea’s most dominant conglomerates. They own everything — from high-end beauty brands to media networks, and you’re in their marketing sector, nestled under the glittering branch that manages global creative campaigns. The best of the best. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You graduated with honors, survived three interviews, and beat out hundreds of equally desperate graduates. You have a boyfriend, a freshly ironed blazer, and a bulletproof five-year plan that includes zero scandals, zero distractions, and certainly zero involvement with anyone who wears cufflinks before noon.

Every morning in the elevator, you repeat these words like a mantra: no distractions, no mistakes. Not here.

When the doors nearly close, someone slides in - tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a watch worth several months of your rent. You keep your gaze fixed ahead despite your racing heart, trying to ignore the immediate presence beside you and the expensive leather-and-spice cologne that fills the small space.

“Which floor?” he asks, voice dipped in amusement, like he already knows the answer.

“Twenty-three,” you say, and you don’t flinch when he presses it for you. When he shifts to face you, you keep your gaze fixed ahead, pretending not to notice when he murmurs, almost contemplatively, "New."

The elevator dings and you slip out without a word, waiting until you're safely at your desk to finally exhale.

Your coworker Lisa leans in with concern. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No," you reply softly. "Just... didn't sleep much."

Which isn’t a lie. You’ve been working late every night. Perfecting campaign research. Double-checking every deliverable. Your manager — cold and precise — has made it clear: your probation will not be extended. You either make it in three months, or you’re out. So you keep your head down. Say yes to everything. Go home with a sore back and swollen ankles, whispering apologies to your boyfriend when you miss your dinner dates, your calls, your chances to be soft.

You’ve made sacrifices. You can’t afford to make more. Which is why when he walks into the strategy meeting an hour later, that same man from the elevator — no tie, blazer sharp, the kind of presence that makes everyone shift in their chairs — you feel your spine stiffen like he just walked straight into your safe little plan and lit a match.

He doesn’t introduce himself. Just takes a seat at the end of the table, right where your line of sight lands if you dare look up from your screen.

Your gaze remains fixed on your laptop screen, scanning through notes and slides for the competitor branding strategy presentation you're about to deliver.

The meeting begins, and you make it halfway through your analysis before being interrupted by a voice.

“Why them?” he asks, casually, fingers tapping once on the table.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Why that competitor for your benchmark?” he repeats. “Seems like a safe choice. Predictable. I want to hear what you’d do if you weren’t trying to be perfect.”

It’s not rude. It’s not even harsh. It’s just direct — like he’s daring you to drop the mask. You glance up. He’s already watching you. That same hint of amusement behind his eyes, dark and unreadable.

“I…” you begin, lips dry. “Chose them because their campaign’s ROI was comparable. It makes the analysis clean.”

“Clean’s not always compelling,” he says, leaning back.

Silence fills the room.

Your manager clears her throat. "Let's move on."

You nod stiffly and return to your notes, but as everyone filters out later, you sense him pause behind your chair. Without looking at you, he murmurs just loudly enough for you to hear:

Tighten your formatting. You're being watched.

He continues walking as you remain frozen in place, suddenly aware of an invisible thread wrapping itself, silk-tight, around your ankles.

You don’t turn around until the room is nearly empty, the low hum of conversation fading into silence as the last team lead tucks her chair in and leaves. Your fingers still hover over your trackpad. Half a thought. Half a breath. Half a girl, now that he’s walked out of the room with your composure in his pocket. You finally look up — and Lisa’s still there, scribbling something in her notebook, lips pursed.

“Who was that?” you ask, too casual, like you’re asking about the weather and not the man whose voice is still caught in the collar of your blouse.

She doesn’t look up. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. I mean, I saw him in the elevator this morning, but—”

Lisa blinks. “You really don’t know?”

You straighten slightly. “Should I?”

She laughs — not unkindly, just a little stunned. “That was Jeon Jungkook.”

The name hits you with sudden recognition - you've seen it before on press releases, company initiatives, and most notably in The Korea Economic Daily's headline: "Jeon Group Appoints Founder's Son as Executive Creative Director."

Lisa studies your face as she adds, "He's the CEO's son."

You manage a quiet "Oh," while the implications sink in.

"And technically your boss's boss's boss," she continues, lowering her voice. "Well, not officially. But you know how it works."

Indeed you do. Corporate hierarchy isn't merely about titles - it's about influence, power, and legacy. And in this world, legacy means having your name pre-engraved on the boardroom door.

As you stare at your laptop screen, watching the cursor pulse at the end of your abandoned slide, the gravity of the situation settles in. You'd just challenged Jeon Jungkook, treated him like any other consultant, even called your work "clean" while looking him straight in the eye.

He hadn't corrected you - he hadn't needed to. Men like him never announce their presence; the room does that for them. Instead, he watches, waits, and wears that knowing smirk, perfectly aware you'll eventually understand your place. And now you have, though the realization comes a moment too late.

✓

The week after the strategy meeting arrives with an avalanche of emails, a last-minute pitch request, and an ominous calendar update titled “Campaign Direction Realignment — Strategic Oversight Pending”. You don’t question it. You barely have time to breathe.

The department is shifting — again. A new cross-departmental campaign was approved at the executive level, and leadership wants it expedited. You’re still on probation, which means you’re volunteered for everything and credited for nothing. And this time, the stakes are even higher.

On Monday morning, Jungkook returns with an official title printed in the internal memo: Executive Creative Advisor, Special Campaign Division. Like a storm warning, his name stands alone without photo or introduction.

When he joins your team's kickoff meeting, he carries himself with practiced ease - sleeves rolled up, Montblanc pen spinning between his fingers, wearing an expression that suggests he's already seen how this presentation will unfold. The atmosphere shifts immediately; everyone grows jittery and over-earnest while your manager's smile betrays just how much rides on this moment.

Unlike last time, Jungkook remains silent throughout the meeting. He simply observes, his unblinking gaze lingering on you mid-presentation until your voice falters briefly under its weight.

That evening, your boyfriend's voice echoes through your apartment with a mixture of concern and exhaustion as he hands you takeout: "You're not even here when you're here."

You respond with a smile, a thank you, and a kiss on his cheek, but keep to yourself how Jungkook had passed your desk earlier without a glance - and how profoundly his indifference had affected you anyway.

—

Thursday evening, 7:19 PM. The office stands nearly empty, with the sky outside a pressed charcoal bleeding into the windows. You sit hunched in front of your laptop at one of the standing desks near the breakroom's vending machines, headphones on and blazer discarded, forehead cradled in your palm.

The proposal for tomorrow's executive review isn't wrong, but something feels off. You've revised the design layout six times and adjusted the forecast numbers three times, searching for that perfect balance between innovation and risk management.

Lost in your lo-fi playlist, you don't notice his approach until his shadow falls across your screen and his voice, low and amused, breaks through the music: "Wrong forecast."

Your heart snaps against your ribs as Jungkook appears behind you, one hand braced beside your arm, the other pointing to your spreadsheet's 2nd quarter projection. "You're calculating based on hope," he continues, "not market behavior."

"I—sorry. I didn't realize anyone was—"

"Still here?" he finishes. "I know."

You should move away, minimize your screen, say something professional and leave. Instead, you remain frozen as his presence looms behind you—not touching, not inappropriate, just... inevitable. When he leans forward, his voice warm near your ear, the proximity sends shivers down your spine.

"Competitor C pulled a similar stunt last fiscal year. Overestimated customer conversion by 8%. Stock dropped in three days. You really want to make the same mistake?"

Words fail you as his breath ghosts against your ear, his voice like silk against nerves you hadn't known existed. Then he withdraws, leaving you with parting advice over his shoulder, "I'd recalculate based on conservative churn. And switch your color palette. Executives hate muted tones. Makes them feel old."

The hallway door hisses closed behind him, but you remain still, staring at the numbers he'd identified. He was right, of course. You feel exposed, laid bare, and worse—seen. Yet instead of fleeing, you steady yourself with a deep breath and begin to revise the forecast.

✓

The apartment smells like steamed rice and detergent when you step inside, your heels clicking softly against the laminate as you drop your bag by the door. You’re late — again. Not dramatically, not enough for a fight, but just late enough that the soup is warm instead of hot, and the conversation thinner than it should be.

Seojin doesn’t look up from his tablet when you enter the kitchen.

“I reheated the jjigae,” he says, flipping a page on the screen. “Thought you’d be home by eight.”

“I was going to be. But there was—” You pause, trying to choose a word that doesn’t feel like a lie. “—a revision.”

He nods, still not looking at you. “You’ve been doing a lot of those lately.”

You open the fridge. Take the soup. Sit across from him at the small table you picked out together from a secondhand shop last fall. It wobbles at the corner. You’ve never fixed it.

The silence between you stretches thin, held together by the scrape of your spoon and the muted buzz of city traffic outside your balcony door. You glance at him. He’s still reading. Still in his hoodie from earlier. Still here. You should feel lucky. You do feel lucky. He’s patient. Steady. You’ve been together for nearly three years, since university — when everything felt simple and the future was just a hazy shape you planned for together over cheap beer and shared textbooks.

But tonight, with Jungkook’s voice still warm in your memory, Seojin’s steadiness feels more like stillness. The kind that doesn’t move forward.

“Did your boss like your slides?” he asks finally, voice mild.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you were redoing your slides for that new campaign. The branding one?”

“Oh.” You nod, taking a sip. “Yeah. She... didn’t say much. But I think it landed okay.”

“Good.” He says it like you just told him it was sunny tomorrow.

His response carries no curiosity, no pride - just a perfunctory acknowledgment, as if checking off another item on a list.

You consider telling him about your day - about discovering your numerical error, about someone noticing before it became embarrassing, about how it left you unsettled. But the words stay trapped behind your lips.

Instead, you ask, "How was your day?"

He shrugs. "The usual. My manager's still an ass."

The conversation dies there, withering in the space between you.

Later, while brushing your teeth as he watches reruns on the couch, you study your reflection and contemplate the person emerging in the mirror - someone whose voice might grow sharper, who might stop explaining herself, whose thoughts are slowly being reshaped by another's influence. You rinse, meet your own gaze in the mirror, and keep these musings to yourself.

✓

The day after the breakroom encounter begins like every other — a sterile loop of dark suits, blinking badge sensors, and recycled air — but something about the silence feels off-kilter.

Not loud. Not jarring. Just slightly out of place, the way a tilted painting disturbs a perfectly arranged wall. You notice it halfway through the morning meeting. He’s not there.

It takes you a few minutes to realize this fact matters. That somewhere between the late nights and campaign decks, you’ve come to anticipate Jeon Jungkook’s presence. Not because he speaks — he rarely does in team meetings — but because when he is in the room, everything seems to orbit differently. Like the temperature shifts. Like someone’s watching, even when no one is. But today, nothing moves. The room stays flat.

Your manager announces the new campaign direction — a fast-track initiative with a major overseas brand partner. It’s ambitious, high-pressure, the kind of opportunity the permanent employees elbow each other for in the halls. You try to focus on the details — target markets, deliverables, budget constraints — but you keep glancing at the empty chair near the window.

He doesn’t show up for the debrief either. Or the partner call in the afternoon.

When you pass the executive floor later, the door to his glass-walled office is shut, lights off. No coat slung over the leather chair. No Cartier pen abandoned on the table. No trace at all.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That one man’s absence has no bearing on your workload, your goals, your worth. And yet — when you sit down to update the forecasting model he corrected the night before, your fingers hesitate.

It was arrogance, probably. A performance. Someone too rich to speak gently, too powerful to worry about boundaries. You don’t need to think about it again.

Still, your hands hover over the spreadsheet longer than they should. Still, you find yourself replaying the way his voice slipped behind you, that cool, calm certainty, as if your miscalculation had always been obvious — and he’d simply waited for the right moment to remind you who was watching.

That night, at home, you try to let it go.

The lights are low. The TV is on. The apartment smells like basil and something warming on the stove. Seojin leans against the kitchen counter in grey sweats, scrolling through his phone as he stirs the pot with one hand, his movements absentminded.

He doesn’t look up when you come in, only says, “You’re late again.”

You check the clock. It’s 8:14. Barely different from last night. “Sorry. There was another meeting.”

“Is there ever a day you leave before seven?”

You smile. Or try to. “Not during probation, no.”

He says nothing to that. Just turns down the burner and sets out two bowls. The usual rhythm. Familiar. Safe. You sit across from him at the table, fingers brushing the edge of your spoon, and listen to the quiet clink of ceramic and the muted voices from the drama playing behind him.

This is what you wanted. Stability. Someone who didn’t ask for much, who supported your work even if he didn’t understand it. You’ve been together for years. He knows your order at your favorite café. You’ve talked about moving in somewhere bigger if your contract gets extended. Getting a car. Maybe a cat.

He’s good to you. Always has been. And yet…

You eat in silence, nodding when he speaks, laughing softly at the right parts of his story about a difficult client. You tell him about the upcoming campaign, about the sleepless nights ahead, about how you think your manager might actually be warming up to you. You leave out the rest.

You don’t tell him about the way someone stood too close to you in a hallway and said your name like it was already his. You don’t mention the man who didn’t look at you at all today — and how somehow, that unsettled you more.

Later, as you move through your nightly routine - brushing teeth, folding laundry, setting alarms - your mind wanders not to spreadsheets or marketing formulas, but to that voice. Low and even, it lingers in your memory, closer than propriety should allow.

You drift off to sleep without putting a name to this feeling, but it stays with you nonetheless.

✓

The invitation doesn’t come with flowers or pleasantries. It arrives via calendar — cold, impersonal, and marked mandatory.

Event: Strategic Brand Dinner with LX International Partners Location: Le Méridien Seoul, 32nd Floor Executive Lounge Time: 6:30 PM, Formal Business Attire Attendees: C-Suite, Campaign Division Heads, External Brand Directors, Select Junior Staff

Your name appears at the bottom of the list - highlighted and confirmed. As you stare at the screen, uncertain if this could be a mistake, Lisa leans over from her desk to ask if you received the invitation too.

When you admit your confusion, she breaks into a knowing grin. "It means you're killing it. They only invite the golden children to those things - either you impressed someone high up, or you're being tested." The dual possibilities send an uneasy flutter through your stomach.

Your inbox offers no additional context - no encouraging message from your manager, no casual acknowledgment. Just that formal blue icon from HQ, like a seal of fate. You try to frame it as recognition, a sign that your late nights and careful work are finally translating into value.

That evening, you select your outfit with deliberate care - a black silk blouse paired with tailored slacks, threading the delicate balance between belonging and restraint. As you dress, you can't shake the feeling of stepping into a space where familiar rules begin to blur, where someone might be waiting.

The executive lounge greets you with pristine elegance - white orchids and floating candles adorning each table, the city skyline a perfect backdrop through floor-to-ceiling windows. You arrive early, armed with practiced introductions and campaign talking points. But nothing prepares you for him.

Jungkook makes his entrance alone, fashionably late and separate from the crowd of board members and brand partners. His black suit fits with devastating precision, his white shirt open just enough to feel intentional. No tie. His presence doesn't merely interrupt the room - it transforms it.

As conversations pause and heads turn, he bypasses the head table without acknowledgment, making his way directly to your corner. Without hesitation, he pulls out the empty chair beside you, where you sit with other junior staff and a mid-level manager, as if this spot had been his intention all along.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, but he’s already lowering himself into the seat.

You manage a nod. Maybe a whisper of agreement. He doesn’t speak again for the first twenty minutes. Just sits there — still, poised, his fingers toying idly with the edge of his crystal water glass. You feel him even when he’s not moving. You feel the space between you shrink every time someone leans forward and you have to lean slightly toward him to see.

When the appetizer arrives, he finally speaks.

“You didn’t change your slide formatting,” he murmurs without looking at you.

You blink. “What?”

He turns his head slightly. Eyes narrowed, amused.

“You changed your forecast. But not the design.”

You’re suddenly very aware of the neckline of your blouse. Of the pulse just below your collarbone.

“You weren’t tagged in the update,” you say carefully.

“I didn’t need to be.”

His gaze lingers a moment too long - a subtle gesture that walks the line between professional and personal. When you reach for your wine, it's more reflex than necessity.

The perfectly prepared sea bass sits before you, its saffron cream reduction drawing enthusiastic praise from nearby diners. The wine is impeccable, the conversation flows smoothly as talk of Dubai's regional expansion fills the air, and you participate with practiced grace. Yet your attention remains firmly elsewhere.

Every nerve ending in your body is attuned to his presence beside you - the brush of his arm against your chair, his untouched entrée, the weighted silence he's maintained since your return from the restroom. You should welcome this reprieve from his attention, but instead, your skin tingles with an electric awareness beneath your blouse.

And then it happens. Not a jolt. Not a brush. Nothing dramatic enough to earn the room’s attention. Just a shift — the deliberate slide of his hand onto your thigh beneath the white linen tablecloth. His palm settles against the fabric of your slacks like it belongs there, warm and sure and intentional. Your heart lurches in your chest.

Every cell in your body reacts at once — the stillness of your limbs, the tightening of your grip on the napkin in your lap, the breath that sticks in your throat. You don’t dare look at him. You don’t move. And yet, he does. While answering a question from the external marketing director — something smooth, intelligent, deceptively casual about multi-channel asset deployment — his fingers begin to glide upward, just slightly, along the inner curve of your thigh.

Your fork nearly slips from trembling fingers as conversation continues around the table, the other diners blissfully unaware of what transpires beneath the pristine tablecloth. Only you and him share this charged moment of transgression.

His fingers stop just shy of the seam of your trousers — not bold enough to be obscene, not soft enough to ignore. The pressure is maddening in its restraint, and somehow, that makes it worse. Far worse. Your body aches to react, to shift, to respond, but the weight of the room around you holds you hostage in your seat.

He leans slightly toward the table, voice low as he offers some quip about Gen Z loyalty indexes. His thumb strokes once — slow, deliberate — along the inside of your thigh. You inhale sharply, too sharp, and his head turns minutely in your direction, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, just enough to be a warning.

“Still pretending you’re unaffected?” he murmurs beneath his breath, eyes still fixed on the wineglass in his hand.

It takes every ounce of strength you have to rise from your chair — not too fast, not rushed, but fast enough that your manager glances up from her conversation with a curious brow. You offer something vague — a quiet apology, a mention of needing to freshen up — and slip away, your heels hushed against the thick carpeting as you walk toward the corridor outside. You don’t head for the restroom. You don’t need to. You just need air — space — a moment alone to wrestle your heartbeat back into something that doesn’t sound like surrender.

The hallway is dim and cool, washed in soft recessed lighting and the occasional glimmer of crystal from a decorative chandelier. You lean against the wall, eyes closed, pulse thundering in your ears. You’re not sure if you’re more humiliated or aroused.

Your breath catches at the sound of approaching footsteps - even, unhurried, deliberate. You remain still as he stops just behind you, his presence radiating heat against your back.

“You didn’t say no,” he says, voice low, quiet, but certain. “You stood up. You walked away. But you didn’t stop me.”

“That wasn’t consent,” you say, breath trembling, though you don’t move away. “You touched me at a business dinner.”

“I touched you,” he repeats, stepping forward until your shoulder blades meet the firm line of his chest, “and you didn’t even flinch.”

You should push him away. You should walk back into that room and sit beside someone else. You should report him, maybe. Instead, your voice softens. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is at your jaw, brushing your skin with infuriating care. “But you won’t.”

His hand moves to your waist. Steady. Confident. The other slides lower, down the line of your hip, and then dips beneath the waistband of your trousers — no fumbling, no hesitation. He’s done this before. He’s thought about it.

You gasp when his fingers slip beneath your underwear. Not in protest — in shock. In heat.

“You’re soaked,” he says, so quietly it sounds like praise.

Your hand flies to his arm — not to pull him away, not really, but to hold on. He curls two fingers inside you, and your breath breaks, head falling back against his shoulder as his other hand finds the edge of your coat and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with ease.

“You want to pretend this is about power?” he whispers, lips brushing your neck. “That you don’t want this as much as I do?”

Your body is trembling. You hate that he’s right.

“Don’t do this,” you manage. “We’re at a—”

“Dinner. Yes,” he cuts in. “And yet here you are, letting me finger you in a hallway while your manager eats crème brûlée with a glass of Château d'Yquem.”

His voice darkens. “So say it. Say you want to come.”

You shake your head — not in refusal, not anymore — just in helpless disbelief.

“Say it,” he demands again, his fingers pushing deeper, slower, his palm angling upward so every stroke hits exactly where you’re weakest. “Say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

You pant, words slipping through grit teeth.

“I want to come.”

“Louder.”

“I—fuck—Jungkook—please—” Your hands are on his chest now, gripping his lapels like a lifeline. “I want to come—please—”

“Good girl,” he breathes.

And then he breaks you. His thumb finds your clit at the exact rhythm your body was begging for, the heel of his palm rocking against you as he curls his fingers one last time — and your entire body unravels. Not gently. Not slowly. You fall hard, silent but shaking, a moan trapped in your throat as you come against his hand, forehead pressed to his shoulder, nails digging into his jacket. He doesn’t speak. He just holds you upright as you tremble.

And when your breath finally steadies — when the world begins to return in flickers of scent and sound — he eases his hand from your trousers, adjusts your blouse where it slipped, and smooths the lapel of your coat with a strange sort of gentleness.

“You have five minutes,” he says, stepping back like nothing happened. “Fix your lipstick.”

And then he’s gone.

✓

The apartment is dark when you enter. The hallway light flickers softly on, motion-sensor timed, casting the space in its usual glow — clean, quiet, uneventful.

Your coat slides from your shoulders with practiced ease, your shoes joining the pair already lined up neatly near the door. You close the door softly. Out of habit. Or guilt.

Seojin’s on the couch, already half-asleep, blanket draped loosely over his torso and his phone still glowing in his hand. He startles slightly when you step in, blinking blearily toward you.

“Hey,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion. “You’re back late.”

“There was a dinner,” you say as you cross the room, dropping your bag by the table like you always do. “Client-facing. All hands on deck.”

He rubs his eyes. “You eat?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He yawns. “I left the rice cooker on if you’re still hungry.”

You couldn't imagine eating anything else right now. When he shifts upright on the couch, you pause to take in his drowsy state - hair slightly mussed, eyes heavy with sleep.

Leaning down, you press a gentle kiss to his lips. When he doesn't resist, your fingers find their way beneath his shirt, seeking the familiar warmth of his skin. You deepen the kiss, moving slower, more deliberately, until he gently pulls away.

“Babe,” he says, voice still tender. “I’m so tired.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hover there, inches from his mouth, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name.

“I just missed you,” you say.

He softens, gives you a small smile. Brushes a hand over your cheek.

“I missed you too,” he says. “But I’ve been up since five. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

You nod. Step back. “Of course. Go to bed.”

“You coming?”

“In a bit.”

He shuffles toward the bedroom, feet dragging slightly on the hardwood, and you stand in the middle of the living room in silence, staring at the spot where your coat now hangs like a ghost on the wall. Eventually, you follow him.

You slip into bed beside him without turning on the light, careful not to shift the mattress too much, careful not to let the scent of your blouse — still faintly stained with something that isn’t him — drift into the space between you.

He's already asleep while you lie awake, arms folded and eyes fixed on the blank ceiling above. Your mind drifts to Jungkook's words, echoing with dangerous clarity: Say it, and I'll let you fall. The memory of how easily you surrendered haunts you - not just the act itself, but the person who drew it from you.

Jeon Jungkook, the CEO's son and your superior, holds more than just professional power over you. He saw through your carefully constructed facade of ambition and perfection, dismantling it with frightening ease. In just one dinner, you let desire cloud your judgment, allowing it to seep into your veins like sweet poison.

As you close your eyes and try to steady your breathing, shame washes over you. The weakness you feel stems not from his touch, but from your willing participation - from the pleasure you found in it, and the certainty that this memory will linger, refusing to fade no matter how much you wish it would.

✓

The first thing you notice is that nothing has changed.

Not the walk from the elevator to your desk. Not the scent of too-strong coffee wafting through the corridor before 9 a.m. Not the way your coworkers hover nervously around the printer like it might explode if handled improperly. Everything looks the same. Sounds the same. Functions the same. And yet, you are not the same.

You move slower now. Not visibly — not enough for anyone to raise an eyebrow or ask if something’s wrong — but with a stiffness in your limbs, like your body is still locked in that marble hallway, breath caught behind your ribs, the memory of his fingers inside you humming low and persistent between your thighs. You should feel ashamed. You do. But more than that, you feel… displaced. Unmoored.

And then he walks in.

Just before the Monday strategy meeting begins at 9:30, he enters with his usual precision - immaculate in charcoal, silver cufflinks catching the light beneath his tailored jacket sleeves. His composed expression and measured steps betray nothing as he takes his place at the head of the table.

Throughout the meeting, he maintains a studied indifference, reviewing materials on his tablet without once acknowledging your presence, his gaze never wavering even when your name appears in the campaign outline.

You tell yourself that’s good. It’s a relief. You don’t want attention. You don’t want questions. You don’t want the weight of something unspoken pressing down between you in a room full of people who would devour the scent of scandal if they thought it belonged to someone young and unprotected.

But when he turns his head slightly to correct a minor budgeting note — sharp, efficient, disinterested — and his eyes pass clean over you like you are air... you feel the first crack form.

By Wednesday, it’s no longer a question. He is avoiding you. Meticulously. Intentionally. With a precision that stings more than any confrontation would have. You’ve become a blank spot in his vision, a silence in his speech, a neutral space carved out in meetings and emails and shared corridors. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t pause when you speak. Doesn’t offer even a glance when you enter a room he’s in.

And for some reason, that’s the part that hurts the most — the erasure. Because when he touched you, he did it like he knew you. Like he saw you. And now, you could stand in front of him in nothing but your shame and your carefully pressed ID badge, and he still wouldn’t blink.

You bury yourself in tasks. Stay late under the fluorescent buzz of the 23rd floor. Redo the same slide deck twice, not because it needs it, but because working on something you can fix gives you the illusion of control. You don’t check your phone. You barely go home.

When you finally do, it’s Thursday night, and Seojin is waiting with reheated curry and a look in his eyes that isn’t quite concern, but is dangerously close to it. He asks if something happened at work. You say no. He asks why you’ve been quiet. You say it’s the new project — the pressure. The late hours. You offer him everything except the truth. But he doesn’t buy it. Not entirely.

“You’re different lately,” he says softly, not accusing, not angry — just observant. “You don’t look at me the same.”

And you know he’s right. Because when you look at him — when you kiss him goodnight or lean against him on the couch — your mind slips sideways. You remember a hand that didn’t hesitate. A voice that demanded. A mouth that praised you in filth. You remember how easily you surrendered to someone you barely knew. Someone you had no right to want. And no matter how many times you tell yourself you regret it… your body still remembers it as a gift.

That night, when Seojin reaches for your hand beneath the sheets, you lace your fingers through his and smile. You press your cheek against his shoulder and close your eyes. You whisper that you’re just tired. That you’ll be okay after the campaign wraps. That this is just a rough patch. He believes you, or wants to.

You fall asleep wishing you believed yourself. But when morning comes and Jungkook walks past you in the hallway without a word, you feel your insides twist again — not because he ignores you.

But because part of you needs him to stop.

And the other part is starting to need him to look.

✓

It begins again in the elevator with a glance. The doors are closing when you rush in, breathless, clutching a folder of campaign briefs. After catching the door with your heel and murmuring apologies to the senior assistants and intern, you see him.

He stands in the back corner in his black suit, one hand in his pocket, the other holding coffee as dark as his watch. Though he remains still at first, the moment the doors seal shut and the floor number illuminates above, his gaze finds you - slow and deliberate, like sunlight across a wall.

You try to ignore it, but the heat of his stare burns against your cheek. When you finally look back, his dark eyes meet yours without expression - no smirk, no recognition, just a weighted patience that makes you flee at the next ding of the elevator. He remains behind, unmoving.

—

Two hours later, you’re standing in the briefing room, pressed between two product managers and a wall of glossy mock-ups, trying to follow the flow of the meeting. It’s warm. Too warm. The AC hasn’t been working right all week, and everyone’s packed in too tightly for comfort.

The subtle shift of movement behind you brings an unexpected touch - fingers ghosting between your shoulder blades and along your spine. The contact is light, almost tentative, as if meant to steady rather than demand. Yet there's an intentional weight to it that makes your breath catch and your pulse quicken.

You don't need to look back to recognize who it is. When someone asks a question moments later, you manage to answer with remarkable composure, even as the phantom sensation of his touch lingers after he withdraws.

As the room gradually empties, you remain rooted in place. He stands by the table, methodically scrolling through his tablet with practiced indifference. Something compels you to pause as you walk past him - an inexplicable force that holds you there, suspended in the charged silence between you.

“Is this your new thing?” you ask quietly, arms crossed. “Ignoring me in public and touching me in private?”

He doesn’t look up. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He swipes once. “That’s what makes it fun.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You think this is a game?”

At that, he does look up. The slightest curve at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile — just enough to flash in his eyes.

“I think it’s amusing,” he says. “Watching you try to act like you don’t remember how good I made you feel. Like that hallway never happened.”

You bristle. “You ignored me for an entire week.”

“I was busy.”

“Bullshit.”

“Careful,” he says softly, stepping closer. “That kind of tone will make people think something happened.”

You hold your ground. “Something did.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you — like a painting, or a puzzle. “I never denied it.”

“No, you just pretended it didn’t matter.”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you, long and steady, until your pulse starts climbing again.

“Would you rather I made a scene? Talked about how good you sounded with my fingers inside you? In front of your manager, maybe? The intern?” Then, casually, as if he's discussing a spreadsheet instead of your last breathless confession:

“You’re the one who said it couldn’t happen again.”

You swallow hard. “And you agreed.”

“Did I?” He steps around you, his voice brushing your neck as he passes. “I don’t recall.”

You remain still, holding your breath, feeling the phantom trace of his touch. Later, as the afternoon stretches endlessly in the stifling heat, your body can't help but remember the lingering sensation of his hand at your spine, as if it belonged there all along. Deep down, you know what your mind refuses to admit: this game has only just begun.

✓

The invitation arrives on a Tuesday — formal, sleek, printed in high-contrast type with subtle gold edging. Vēra Lux × Jeon Group: a sponsored industry event hosted by a European cosmetics conglomerate eager to break into the Asian luxury market. There’s talk of a brand merge. Of cross-cultural campaigns. Of a future collaboration that could define the next fiscal year.

Everyone who’s anyone is going.

Your department is required to attend. Attendance is expected. Enthusiasm is optional, but professionalism is not.

And so, you dress accordingly — a sleek black dress that’s just conservative enough to be safe, but structured enough to be remembered. Long sleeves, high neckline, slit just above the knee. You wear your hair up, your lipstick muted. You apply your perfume in three sharp sprays — one for your neck, one for your wrist, and one for your pulse point that hides just beneath the fabric at your hip. You arrive exactly on time.

The venue is all polished floors and mirrored chandeliers, the kind of place where the light feels filtered through wealth. Waiters pass with champagne coupes and pale canapés no one really eats. The air smells faintly of rose water, expensive cologne, and subtle ambition.

Jungkook arrives fashionably late, commanding attention with his effortless presence. His midnight black suit fits immaculately, the absence of a tie and two undone buttons revealing a glimpse of silk beneath the lapels. Clean-shaven with a sharp jaw and cold eyes, he moves through the room without acknowledging you – though he doesn't need to. He's well aware of your gaze following his every move.

The event itself blurs together — polite introductions, branded speeches, the occasional laughter as executives flatter each other with measured ease. You float through the evening as you’ve been trained to: poised, efficient, collected. You speak only when spoken to, smile when appropriate, and accept a second glass of champagne when your manager insists it will “help your networking face.”

By your third glass of champagne, his presence materializes behind you like a shadow. As you stand near the tall window, barely registering a senior strategist's monologue about mascara demographics, his voice cuts through the ambient chatter with dangerous precision.

"You clean up well."

The momentary freeze in your shoulders betrays you before you can turn to face him. Jungkook has positioned himself deliberately close, his dark gaze trailing your profile with an intensity that walks the line between professional assessment and something far more intimate.

"You weren't even looking at me," you manage.

"I didn't need to."

His attention drifts to your exposed neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. "You always wear your hair up when you're trying to behave."

You create distance with a measured step. "I'm not doing this here."

The slow smile that crosses his face carries a promise. "Not yet."

You spend the next half-hour avoiding him — or trying to. You circle the room, swap meaningless phrases with visiting reps, let one of the Paris-based creatives compliment your accent while you sip something dry and French. You refuse to look toward the back corner where Jungkook now stands, deep in conversation with someone who owns three niche fragrance brands and is known for sleeping with all his interns.

His presence follows you like a shadow throughout the evening, a constant awareness prickling at the edges of your consciousness.

As the event draws to a close, you find yourself in the valet circle, the cool night air a relief against your flushed skin. He materializes beside you, quiet but commanding.

Without touching you, he simply says, "You don't need to Uber."

"I didn't ask."

"I know. I'm offering."

"I'm fine."

He tilts his head, studying you. "You've had three drinks. You didn't eat."

You exhale softly. "You've been counting?"

His mouth curves into a knowing smile. "Of course I have."

His car arrives - matte black, sleek, worth more than your college degree. "I'll take you home," he offers, moving toward the door. "No expectations."

You fold your arms. "That's a lie."

"No," he replies, his voice dropping lower. "That's a warning."

The weight of the moment settles between you. Getting into his car means surrendering something - not your safety or dignity, but the carefully constructed lies you've been telling yourself.

Exhaustion and wine have softened your resolve, and beneath it all lies a deeper truth: you want to be seen again. Touched. Cornered. Ruined.

"Just a ride," you murmur, moving past him.

His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you inside with gentlemanly precision, but his eyes betray darker intentions. The door closes behind you with a soft, definitive click.

✓

The car glides through the city with a soft hum, windows tinted against prying eyes. You maintain your distance, angled toward the window with arms and legs crossed - a carefully constructed barrier between you and the man beside you. Though your posture screams control, your quickening pulse betrays every pretense.

Jungkook remains silent, one arm draped across the center console as his fingers tap an idle rhythm against leather. His other hand rests on the wheel, steering with practiced ease through the amber-lit streets. The cabin envelops you both in notes of sandalwood and unspoken tension.

When he finally breaks the silence, his voice barely disturbs the air between you. "You're quiet."

"So are you."

Without taking his eyes from the road, he replies, "I thought you needed space."

"I do."

The smile that curves his lips is knowing, patient. "No, you don't."

You turn back to the window, but his low voice follows. "You didn't say no when I offered to drive you. Didn't say no during the briefing. And certainly not in the hallway."

Your breath catches as he continues, each word deliberate. "You want to be good, but you love being undone."

"You're wrong," you whisper.

"No," he says, voice darkening, "I'm not."

The car rolls to a stop, and you realize with a start that you've passed your apartment. Instead, you find yourself on a quiet side street, where towering trees and warm-lit windows create a pocket of perfect privacy. Before you can process this shift, he turns to face you fully, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the confined space.

“I won’t ask again,” he says softly, dangerously. “Do you want this or not?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Something inside you — reason, guilt, shame — tries to rise up, but it drowns under the way he’s looking at you, not like he owns you, but like he’s already memorized the way you taste.

“You won’t even have to move,” he says. “I’ll do everything.”

And somehow, your body leans before your mind agrees.

You shift toward him, breath shaky, thighs still clenched but no longer crossed. You whisper, “This is wrong.”

He answers by closing the space between you, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating kiss. It's consuming - his lips claiming yours with an ease that should be criminal as his hand curves around the back of your neck like muscle memory. You melt into him until your hands find his hair, until the leather seat catches your back and your knees part instinctively. When he finally breaks away, it's just enough to share your breath.

“You smell like guilt,” he says, voice low, rasping. “But you taste like surrender.”

And then he’s lowering himself — slowly, carefully — one knee pressing into the floorboard as he guides your hips forward, your thighs apart. His hand is steady beneath your skirt, and when he bunches the fabric around your waist, he does it without hesitation, revealing lace already damp against your skin.

You gasp as the air hits you. He watches the way you shift — the way your thighs tense, the way your chest rises. He doesn’t unzip his pants. Doesn’t undo a single button.

Instead, he places one hand on your stomach — not to hold you down, but to anchor you — and then leans in, breath warming the inside of your thigh until your hands fly to his hair like instinct.

The first brush of his mouth is featherlight — a ghost of a kiss against the lace, not even contact, not fully. But then he pushes your underwear aside, and when he finally tastes you — skin to skin — it’s with a moan so low and full you feel it vibrate through your spine.

You whimper. “Fuck—” you whisper, hips lifting.

But he’s already gone deeper — tongue parting you with devastating ease, licking slow, flat strokes up your slit like he’s savoring you, like he’s making art out of your undoing. Your back arches.

“Don’t—” you pant, hands fisting the leather. “We shouldn’t—this isn’t—”

But he only groans softly, tongue flicking hard over your clit until your words dissolve into sound.

“You taste better when you lie to yourself,” he says, lips grazing the tender skin between your folds.

And then he devours you. He eats you like a man who’s starving — mouth working you open, tongue dragging slow circles, then harder ones, then faster. You try to stay quiet. You fail. You try to close your legs. He pushes them apart with his shoulders.

Your lips part with his name despite your best efforts to stay silent.

“Jungkook—” it rips out of you, breathless, shattered, desperate.

He groans against you, tongue plunging deep, his fingers bruising your hips now as he holds you down, sucks your clit with the kind of focus that should come with a warning. Your hands claw at the seat, your heel digs into the floor, your stomach knots and unravels and knots again.

When you come, it’s not elegant.

It’s raw. Your entire body trembles. Your thighs shake. Your voice breaks in his mouth, and you ride his tongue like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world. And still — he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking you through it, soft now, gentle now, like a promise. You pant, dizzy. Boneless. Skirt still bunched at your waist, blouse damp from the heat of your own breath. He finally pulls back, chin wet, eyes half-lidded. You meet his gaze.

He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, slow and reverent. He climbs back into the seat beside you without a word.

For a moment, all you can do is stare straight ahead, dazed and pulsing, your body still fluttering with aftershocks that haven’t fully faded. Your breath is shaky, shallow, your thighs slick and your mind scattered in a thousand directions that all lead back to him. But then — slowly, impossibly — your gaze shifts. You turn your head. And you see it.

The tension in his jaw. The way his hand tightens around the gearshift. The bulge straining against the dark fabric of his tailored trousers, thick and pronounced, so hard it almost looks painful. You swallow. Hard. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes — slow and shallow — as if he’s holding himself back from tearing the steering wheel in half. And suddenly, your need returns like a second wave — sharp, molten, clawing up your spine. You thought coming would be enough, that it would hush the want. But it hasn’t. It’s only sharpened it.

Desire coils through you like smoke, a yearning that transcends mere physical want - you need him, completely and without reservation.

Without thinking, you shift in your seat, your bare thigh brushing his. His breath stutters — the smallest hitch — but he doesn’t stop you when you move closer. Doesn’t flinch when your fingers trail down, soft and tentative, to trace over the bulge in his pants.

His knuckles go white on the console.

“You didn’t even touch yourself,” you whisper, voice hoarse and trembling. “You just… took care of me.”

“I wasn’t thinking about myself,” he replies, jaw tight. “I was too busy tasting you.”

You groan — quiet, wrecked — and then you move. You climb onto his lap slowly, knees bracketing his thighs, one hand on his chest, the other sliding up the back of his neck to bury in his hair. His breath punches out of him the moment your weight settles fully over his crotch.

“Fuck—” he hisses, finally looking at you.

His eyes are feral now, glazed with heat and restraint, the control he’s always carried like a weapon now trembling at the edges. You start to move — slow, deep, rolling your hips in a long grind that presses your soaked core directly against his clothed cock, dragging your swollen clit over the rough fabric. He chokes on a sound — part growl, part moan.

“Don’t,” he bites out, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in. “You don’t know how sensitive I am—”

“I know,” you breathe, rocking against him again. “I can feel you.”

You lean forward, brushing your mouth along his jaw. “You’re so fucking hard it’s obscene.”

His hips jerk up into you, involuntary. You moan, louder now.

“I wish there wasn’t anything between us,” you whisper, grinding harder. “I want to feel you. All of you. No zipper. No excuses.”

He groans, low and guttural, one hand flying up to grip the back of your neck as he yanks you into a kiss — not soft, not even close. It’s messy, hungry, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing and parting and finding each other again like you’ve both already gone a little insane. You’re panting into his mouth, hips rolling with more pressure now, chasing friction, chasing heat. His cock strains between you, thick and leaking beneath the fabric, and your underwear is so soaked it feels like it isn’t even there anymore.

“You want me to fuck you in the back of my car,” he growls into your mouth, breath warm and filthy. “Tell me.”

You nod, moaning. “Yes. I want to ride you, skin to skin. Want to feel how deep you go.”

He snarls — honest to god snarls — and suddenly his hand is between you, yanking down your neckline so hard the fabric groans. He shoves your bra aside, mouth closing over your nipple in one desperate pull. You scream — high and broken — your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as he sucks hard, tongue rolling, teeth grazing just enough to make you shake.

“Jungkook—oh my god—”

“Say it again,” he demands, voice muffled against your chest. “Let them hear.”

You don't know who he means - the watching city, the endless night, some distant god - and in this moment of pure sensation, you couldn't care less.

You ride him harder now, pace faltering, movements jerky, breath shattering as your orgasm builds again, ten times sharper than the first. He thrusts up to meet you, every grind of his clothed cock against your pulsing heat dragging you closer to the edge. You’re incoherent now, whimpering, gasping.

“You’re going to make me—fuck—” he growls.

“I’m so close,” you sob. “Don’t stop. Don’t—please—”

He doesn’t. He pulls you tighter, faster, mouth still on your breast, his hips slamming up to meet yours again and again until—

Ecstasy shatters through you in waves, your body writhing as pleasure claims every nerve ending. A broken cry escapes your lips while your thighs clench and hips buck against him. He responds with one final, desperate grind - a guttural groan tearing from his throat as you feel him pulse and spill beneath the fabric of his slacks.

His face finds refuge in the crook of your neck, both of you frozen in the aftermath. The evidence of your shared release surrounds you - your ruined blouse, your soaked underwear, the fog-laden windows, and the heady scent of sex permeating the air. Through it all, his pants remain fastened, a final barrier neither of you dared to cross.

✓

The apartment is warm and dim and quiet, the kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket — soft, familiar, still.

Your boyfriend is in the shower. You can hear the water running through the wall, steady and casual, the same way it’s always sounded. The bathroom door is cracked slightly, steam curling through the gap in lazy coils. His phone buzzes once on the nightstand. Yours sits beside you, face down.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling. Your body is clean. Your skin smells like lavender and lotion. Your blouse is hanging in the laundry basket, still crumpled from where his mouth was on you. Your underwear is in the trash — soaked through, impossible to explain.

Silence fills the space between you since arriving home. The excuse of fatigue and a headache let you retreat to bed, lights off and facade intact, while turmoil churns beneath your composed exterior.

Through the cracked bathroom door, steam curls into the bedroom as the shower runs endlessly. You lie there listening to the water, using it to mark time until your phone suddenly vibrates.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You're not sleeping.

You stare at the screen, offering no response. Another message follows quickly.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You keep clenching your thighs when you're thinking about me. Do they ache now, baby?

Your breath catches as heat floods your throat. A slight shift confirms what you already know - the lingering ache, the persistent pressure, the way two orgasms somehow weren't enough.

[You]

Stop.

Behave properly.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I was behaving.

You're the one who climbed on top of me like you were going to cry if I didn't let you come again.

Your eyes fall shut as your fingers twist into the blanket, heart pounding an urgent rhythm against your ribs.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I haven't stopped thinking about how wet you were.

How hot you felt through those panties.

I almost came the second you started moving.

It hurt. It still does.

Your thighs press together instinctively as your breath wavers.

[You]

You're going to ruin me.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You're already ruined.

The shower continues its steady rhythm as your gaze darts to the bathroom door. Without thinking, your fingers move across the screen.

[You]

I can still taste you on my tongue.

I hate that I liked it.

I hate that I'm still horny.

The pause stretches before your screen illuminates once more.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I wish there were no clothes between us in that car.

I wish I could've felt how tight you are while you're dripping down my cock.

You were grinding so hard, baby. If I'd let you keep going, you would've soaked my pants.

Another futile squeeze of your thighs does nothing to ease the mounting tension.

[You]

We're not doing this.

[Jeon Jungkook]

We already did.

[Jeon Jungkook]

But next time… I'm not stopping at your underwear.

The phone slips from your grasp as you curl onto your side, pulse racing. When the shower finally stops, you lie there in the darkness - flushed and breathless - as water drips in the silence, your mind fixed on the inevitable question of when "next time" will arrive.

✓

The meeting is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. sharp.

You sit near the back of the executive briefing room, spine straight, notes prepared, smile polite — everything about you composed to the point of perfection. This is what you’ve been working toward for months. The pitch campaign of the quarter. An internal competition so sharp it’s been whispered through office floors for weeks. The chance to lead a brand identity presentation that might stretch far beyond the company’s own legacy — new reach, new budgets, and possibly, your name in lights under the quarterly report.

Pride wells inside you - or at least it should. The feeling evaporates the moment his name appears on the slide: CREATIVE LEAD — JEON JUNGKOOK.

Your throat constricts as you stare at those professional, innocuous words. They seem to mock you, belonging to the same man who had you desperate in his car three nights ago, who floods your phone with midnight messages that leave you aching, whose taste and voice haunt you while your boyfriend sleeps unaware beside you.

Drawing in a steadying breath, you straighten your posture and focus on maintaining composure. The division head moves through the presentation, outlining the brand refresh and campaign strategy before announcing your role as analytical lead with a warm smile. You acknowledge it with practiced politeness, though your lungs seem to have forgotten how to function.

When you finally dare to look across the room, Jungkook is already watching. He reclines at the far end, one elbow propped on the leather armrest, fingers thoughtfully pressed beneath his chin. His expression remains carefully neutral, but his gaze holds yours a beat too long before sliding away - as if this was all according to plan, as if he knew exactly how this would unfold.

✓

The building empties early on Thursdays. You don’t know why. You only know that by seven thirty, the only sounds echoing through the halls are the quiet hum of computers still running and the faint mechanical sweep of the cleaning crew on the lower floors. Most teams are gone. Most lights are off. But you’re still here — tucked in a corner conference room with your laptop open, slides half-polished, fingers stiff from typing, heart beating too loudly in your chest for someone just working on a pitch deck.

You could’ve done this from home. You should’ve. But ever since the assignment was announced — ever since you saw his name beside yours — you’ve started staying later. At first, you told yourself it was just strategy. Focus. Fewer distractions. A quiet space to think. But by now, you know better.

You know it’s because this is the only time he stops pretending. The glass door clicks open behind you. You don’t turn around. Not right away. You just lower your screen slightly, forcing your breath to steady. Forcing your expression into something composed.

“I figured you’d already gone,” you say, keeping your voice level.

“No,” comes the answer — smooth, steady, low. “I was waiting for you to stop pretending you could avoid me.”

You glance up. Jungkook stands in the doorway, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone in a way that should be casual — but nothing about him is casual anymore. Not the weight of his stare. Not the tension coiled in his arms. Not the way he looks at you like he knows exactly how wet you are under that professional pencil skirt and the excuse of your silence.

He steps inside. The door closes behind him with a muted sigh. You rise from your chair — not to run. You’re not sure why, really. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s that part of you that still thinks you can bluff your way out of the gravity you’ve both been circling. But he only watches you. And then, finally, you break the silence. Not with something soft. With something angry.

“Is this a game to you?”

His eyes narrow. “No.”

You cross your arms, trying to hold onto something. “Then what is it?”

He steps forward — not fast, not aggressive, just sure.

“You,” he says quietly, “make it hard to play fair.”

“I see the way you look at me,” he continues, voice smooth, deliberate, like every word has been sitting on his tongue for days. “The way your lips part when I walk into a room. The way you hold your breath when I pass behind your chair. You want to be good. But you’re not.”

You should walk away. You should push past him, leave the room, erase this moment with professionalism and pride.

But instead, you whisper, “You’re not either.”

His mouth twitches — not into a smile, not quite. “No,” he says. “I’m not.”

And then he moves. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt as he pushes you — not hard, but fast — until the back of your thighs meet the edge of the glass conference table. His mouth finds your throat before you can speak, tongue dragging up the line of your jaw as your hands fly to his chest, not to stop him, just to hold.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmurs against your skin. “To fuck you where anyone could see. To hear you moan when you know you shouldn’t.”

You gasp as he lifts you — easily, like you weigh nothing — and sets you onto the table, pushing your knees apart as he steps between them.

“I think about you when I’m on calls,” he growls. “I can’t look at you in meetings without imagining you under me, legs shaking, begging me to make you come.”

“Jungkook—”

He silences you with a kiss — deep, wet, devastating — and then his hand slides under your skirt, pulling your underwear aside with one sharp tug. You’re soaked already, and when he drags his fingers through your folds, he groans against your mouth.

“Still so fucking wet for me.”

He doesn’t wait. He unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other still buried between your thighs, thumb rolling over your clit until your hips lift off the glass in a broken, desperate rhythm. You don’t even hear the sound you make when he frees himself from his pants — thick, flushed, already leaking — because all you can feel is want.

And then he’s there and he doesn’t tease. He thrusts in one smooth stroke, hips snapping forward as your body takes him all at once — stretch and heat and fullness that makes you cry out, nails clawing into his shoulders, eyes wide and unseeing.

“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel—fuck, you’re so tight—”

Your head falls back, fingers trembling. “You’re big—too big—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, pulling out halfway only to slam back in. “You take it so fucking well.”

The table shakes beneath you. His rhythm builds — deep, unrelenting, hard enough to echo in the room. His hands grip your thighs, then your hips, then your ass, pulling you closer, holding you still as he ruins you one thrust at a time.

You cling to him like you’re drowning. And then — just when you think you can’t take more — his hand slides up, yanks the neckline of your blouse down, pulls your bra aside. He mouths at your nipple like he owns it, sucks hard, tongue flicking over the peak until your scream breaks the silence.

“Jungkook—oh my god—”

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being fucked like this? On a table? At work?”

You’re nodding, breathless, boneless, thighs quivering. “Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

And he doesn’t stop. Not when your nails scrape down his back, not when your head lolls back against the smooth glass with a sound that doesn’t sound like you at all. He finds the rhythm that undoes you — deep and measured, every thrust angled just right to drag across that spot inside you that makes your thighs jerk around his hips and your mouth fall open with a helpless cry. He grinds into you on every downstroke, not rushed, not frantic — just devastatingly precise, like he’s memorized the way your body coils before it breaks.

Your fingers tremble where they grip the edge of the table. You cling to the glass like it might anchor you, but it doesn't. Nothing can. Not when his hand slides up to your throat, not tightening, just holding — grounding you as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching harder with every slick, obscene snap of his hips.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growls into your neck, voice hot and ruined. “That’s it, baby—come on. Come for me.”

And you do — with a sound so high and strangled you don’t even recognize it as yours, thighs locking around his waist as you shudder through it, everything going white-hot and wet and wild, your body seizing on his cock as he fucks you through the tremors, relentless, groaning at the way you clench.

He kisses you hard — messy, teeth dragging your lower lip, tongue claiming your mouth like it’s a promise — and fucks you deeper, harder, until your second orgasm is building too fast, too sharp, making your legs shake and your moans rise into whimpers.

“Again,” he hisses, pulling back to look at you, flushed and panting. “You’re not done.”

Your head shakes, but your hips chase his anyway.

“Jungkook—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can,” he pants, sweat beading at his temple as he slams into you again, the slap of skin on skin echoing against the glass walls. “You’re gonna give it to me again. Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

And when his hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing fast over your swollen clit while he pounds into you, your body gives in again — your muscles locking, stomach contracting, lips parted in a silent cry as the second wave crashes down, louder, messier, wetter than the first.

Your body writhes against him, blouse hanging open, skirt pushed so high it’s barely on you anymore. Your legs shake around him, your vision blurs, your voice breaks.

You sob his name. Not once. Not softly. But over and over — “Jungkook, Jungkook—fuck—” — as he fucks you through it, until your body trembles so hard he has to grip your waist to keep you from sliding off the table.

You're completely undone — face flushed, chest rising in jagged gasps, breasts slick with sweat and spit, fingers twitching against the glass. Not a single part of you is untouched. Not a single part of you is safe. And still, he doesn’t stop until he’s spilling inside you with a low, strangled growl, hips jerking against yours, forehead pressed to your collarbone as he groans your name like a secret he shouldn’t have ever learned.

You stay like that — tangled, panting, broken open in every way that matters — before you finally move, legs still trembling as he slips out of you, your body flinching from the sudden emptiness.

You slide down from the table with shaking legs, adjusting your blouse, pushing your hair back, not meeting his eyes. You whisper, “We can’t do this again.”

You leave without a word, your heels clicking against marble in a steady rhythm that echoes through the empty corridor. Behind you, Jungkook remains motionless - shirt open, belt undone, lips parted - as he watches the door swing shut. Though he doesn't follow, a knowing smile plays at the corners of his mouth, he’s already planning how you will break that promise.

✓

You ghost him.

Not all at once, but methodically — first by refusing to look at him during meetings, then by ignoring the messages that come after dark, still arriving on schedule even when you pretend to be asleep, your phone lighting up on your nightstand like a warning you no longer feel brave enough to read.

You delete his number, but not before copying it somewhere hidden, buried in a place you hope you’ll forget, though you already know you won’t. You archive the message thread, stare at the space where his name used to sit between your alarms and your reminders, then delete it too — and for a second, you feel something close to power. But it doesn’t last.

You go to work like nothing’s changed. You sit in the same seat during team calls, speak in the same calm voice, wear the same pressed clothes and polished shoes. You keep your face neutral when his name appears in the group chat, when your inbox holds notes tagged “for approval” with his initials beneath, when he speaks during creative syncs like nothing has passed between you but timelines and metrics. And you match it.

You match his silence with silence, his professionalism with poise, until every moment that ever existed between you becomes something weightless and false — like a fever dream you were never sick enough to die from.

Except the truth is, it's already consumed you - a fever that never broke, still burning through your veins with every heartbeat.

Because your body doesn’t forget. Not when you cross the lobby and smell the cologne someone else wears that’s too close to his. Not when you sit through a meeting and feel a phantom pressure against the inside of your thigh, like your skin remembers where his hand once belonged. Not when you’re lying awake beside a man who doesn’t press against you anymore, who’s too polite to ask why your body flinches when he touches your hip in his sleep.

You try to be good. Again. The kind of good you used to believe in. You stop staying late. You make dinner even when you don’t feel like eating. You answer every text Seojin sends you with a smiley face or a photo of your desk, as if that can somehow make up for how far away you’ve already drifted.

But nothing changes. None of it is enough to fill the void he left behind.

That night in the kitchen, he stands there with damp hair and phone in hand, his words cutting through the silence: "I don't even know who you are anymore." The exhaustion in his voice makes it clear he's done waiting for answers you can't give. You keep your eyes down, unable to face him, knowing that if he asked you the same question, you'd be just as lost.

When he leaves, you remain frozen in place, wrapped in a sweater that carries his scent, wondering how you transformed into someone who could experience such intimacy with a stranger and dismiss it as a mistake.

The illusion of freedom you try to convince yourself of shatters the moment you lie down in your empty bed. Your first thought isn't of relief or independence - it's of Jungkook's number, still unblocked on your phone. You leave the device face-down, fingers twisted in your sheets, attempting to recall a time when desire didn't feel like destruction.

✓

You keep your head down for days — not because you’ve done something wrong, but because it feels like you have. Every morning you pass through security expecting your badge to blink red. Every unread email from HR makes your heart stutter. Every slack notification jolts like it’s about to summon you upstairs, into a boardroom where everything ends in glass and shame.

Your mind races with questions about his response - whether he reported it, covered it up, or simply remained silent. But nothing comes of it. Instead, on the following Monday — rain tapping soft against the windows, your hair still damp from walking too fast in a coat that never quite keeps you dry — your manager pulls you aside with a printed letter in hand and a smile that borders on triumphant.

“You’re being moved to permanent,” she says, tapping the corner of the offer letter against your desk like she already expects gratitude. “Full benefits. Salary bump. A higher bracket than standard for someone in your first year, but—” she smiles wider now, “you clearly impressed someone up high.”

The offer letter in your hands might as well be written in hieroglyphics. Your throat constricts as you accept it silently, maintaining a facade of composure. Your manager beams at you, clearly interpreting your silence as humble gratitude, but beneath your blouse, your skin prickles with an unspoken question you refuse to acknowledge.

Was it him?

You respond with nothing more than a professional nod before returning to your desk, though the data on your screen blurs as your thoughts drown out everything else. Days pass without a word from him - no messages, no meaningful glances, not even when your promotion appears in the company newsletter with its congratulatory star. No chance encounters by the coffee machine, no brushing of hands in hallways.

You try to convince yourself this is for the best, that your success stems purely from merit - not from heated moments against glass tables while the city witnessed your undoing. You repeat these assurances until they almost ring true.

But four days later, a knock echoes through your apartment. The hour is too late for anything innocent, and your heart already knows who stands on the other side. You don't bother with the peephole - your bare feet carry you to the door as your pulse slows to a heavy rhythm, your body preparing itself for what comes next.

When you open it, there he is. Jeon Jungkook, like an unfinished sentence waiting to be completed. His black coat hangs open, no tie, hair slightly disheveled as if he's been running his fingers through it. He brings no pretense - no phone, no flowers, no excuses. Just himself and a gaze that tells you he never learned how to stop wanting you.

Neither of you speaks. You stand frozen in this moment, uncertain whether you're about to fall again or finally find your footing.

✓

He remains in the doorway, rain-dampened shoulders and exposed collarbone forming a silhouette against the night. His gaze meets yours with quiet intention - not to begin something new, but to resolve what was left unfinished between you.

The hallway light flickers above, casting golden shadows across the deep navy darkness behind him. You wish you could dismiss this as another fevered fantasy born from lingering desire, but his presence is undeniably real.

When he finally speaks, his voice carries neither confession nor seduction. "You earned it," he says softly. "Everything in that offer. You did it." Your breath catches as he continues, his gaze unwavering. "I just made sure no one overlooked you."

There's no triumph in his words, no expectation - only raw honesty and the weight of knowing he sought your success even from the edges of your silence. But you can't accept this offering, even as his presence in your doorway - beautiful and controlled - makes every step you've taken feel like an inevitability leading back to him.

You press your palm against the door, forcing yourself to whisper, "You need to leave." The words emerge not as anger but as surrender, and when his gaze drops briefly to your mouth before meeting your eyes again - patient, undemanding - you already know what follows.

His kiss, when it comes, holds neither hunger nor heat, but something devastatingly gentle - as though he's committing every moment to memory. Your hand betrays you, curling into his coat as you return the kiss, falling back into the gravity between you.

Because maybe you’re tired of lying. Or maybe you're tired of pretending that anything in your life has felt this right and this wrong all at once.

Though you don't invite him in, the door remains open between you - a threshold neither of you crosses, yet he already knows what lies beyond words and walls.

The kiss deepens slowly — not because either of you is hesitant, but because it doesn’t feel like either of you has the heart to rush through it this time. He doesn’t push past your lips like he’s trying to win something, and you don’t open your mouth like surrender — it’s not about giving in anymore, not about being claimed or punished or ruined.

It’s about being felt. He presses closer. Not a step forward — just a lean, the weight of his chest brushing yours, his hands finding your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear again. And you don’t move. You just stand there, door still open behind him, arms curled into the fabric of his coat as the warmth of his mouth lingers against yours like a breath, a pulse, a truth.

You kiss him again — slower now, deeper — and when he follows, when his tongue slides softly past your lips and you moan, helpless, against the taste of him, that’s when you reach up and curl your fingers around the chain that rests against the hollow of his throat.

He groans and it’s quiet, low, barely audible, but it’s felt — like it comes from his spine, like the metal between your fingers is connected to something under his skin that was always meant to belong to you.

You pull him in gently by the chain, guiding him across the threshold as his coat falls open. When his mouth finds yours again, there's a new kind of hunger in his kiss - not dominance, but pure desperation. His touch isn't that of someone seeking conquest; instead, his hands move across your skin with the reverence of someone who's been aching for every inch he hasn't yet discovered.

His jacket drops to the floor with a soft thud, your fingers already working open the buttons of his shirt, slow and trembling, as he backs you toward the couch, hands slipping under your top like he needs to feel your skin now — all of it, warm and honest and bare beneath his palms.

Your shirt peels off. His pants drop low on his hips, exposing the trail of muscle that makes your breath catch. You step out of your underwear while never breaking eye contact, and when he pushes his boxers down, your eyes fall to his cock — thick and already leaking, not intimidating this time, just right, just him.

He lowers you onto the couch, his hands cradling your thighs as you lie back, and when he settles between them, you don’t gasp or beg — you exhale. Soft and full and steady. Because this time, you’re not falling. You’re choosing.

He slides into you slowly — achingly slow — and the stretch is so deep, so thick, so familiar that it burns in the most beautiful way. You moan, long and low, arching into him, your nails dragging lines across his back. And Jungkook groans — face buried in your neck, arms shaking slightly as he stills inside you, like he’s overwhelmed too.

“You feel like home,” he breathes.

You don’t answer. You just kiss his temple. And move.

The rhythm you find together is slow, grinding, intimate — a pace that isn't about how fast you can get off, but how long you can stay wrapped in each other. He kisses you between every thrust, forehead to yours, mouths brushing, your breath shared in tiny gasps and broken sighs.

And when he reaches down and strokes your clit — gentle, slow circles — your legs begin to tremble, the pleasure curling from your spine like a tide rising. You cling to him, closer, tighter, needing more of him, needing to anchor yourself somewhere inside this moment.

Your fingers wrap around his chain again, the cool metal a bridge between your bodies as you pull with gentle insistence - not to control or wound, but to forge a deeper connection in this moment.

His hips jerk at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you as he groans, mouth falling open at the feeling of you clenching tighter around him.

“You’re gonna make me—fuck,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Keep doing that.”

You tug again. The metal glints against his sweat-slicked chest. Your orgasm builds with every grind of your hips, every whisper of “don’t stop” falling from your lips, every stroke of his fingers between your thighs, until you’re gasping his name again — but softer now, like a secret.

When you come, it’s full-body — waves of heat rolling through you, your back arching, your eyes closing tight, the chain still twisted in your fingers like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And even as you pulse around him, wet and aching and overwhelmed, he doesn’t let go.

He’s trembling above you now, his jaw slack and his chest rising in ragged waves as your bodies move together — not with the frenzy of earlier, not with urgency or teeth or bruises, but with something far more dangerous: something honest. His thrusts have slowed, deeper now, less rhythmic, like he’s no longer chasing climax but trying to hold it off, trying to stay in the moment just a little longer, trying to memorize what it feels like to be this far inside you — surrounded, wrapped, welcomed.

But it’s slipping. You can feel it in the way his control starts to crack, in the way his hands slide down your back with too much pressure, in the way his mouth grazes your jaw like a man whose words are caught behind his teeth, trembling and unfinished. His hips begin to stutter, no longer smooth but erratic, messy, desperate.

And when your fingers tighten around the chain at his throat — silver glinting faintly between your sweat-damp chests, cool to the touch even now — his head drops, a moan clawing from his throat, so raw it nearly breaks you to hear it.

“I’m not gonna last,” he whispers, not pleading, not asking, just admitting it with a vulnerability that feels heavier than any of the filth he’s ever murmured into your skin. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold it.”

He’s still inside you, so deep you can feel every twitch, every tremble of his body as he hovers at the edge, and when you press your lips to the corner of his mouth — soft and sure — and whisper, “Then don’t,” something inside him gives out.

His entire body seizes above you, his muscles tightening like drawn wires, his breath hitching hard in his chest as he buries himself in one last thrust so deep, so full, you swear you stop breathing altogether. His hands fly to your hips, gripping like anchors as he comes inside you — thick and hot and overwhelming — his groan curling out of his mouth in a low, strangled sound that vibrates against your collarbone.

It goes on longer than you expect — wave after wave pulsing from him, each twitch of his cock spilling more heat into your already-soaked core, every sound he makes a mixture of release and disbelief, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like the feeling of your body wrapped around him is too much to survive.

And through all of it, he doesn’t pull away. Not from your mouth. Not from your skin. Not from the chain still caught between your fingers, your knuckles pale from how tightly you’re holding it, as if the tension in that single piece of metal is the only thing keeping you from falling apart with him.

When he finally stills — his hips softening, breath stuttering out in a slow collapse — he doesn’t lift his head right away. He just breathes against your throat, his body trembling with the last aftershocks, arms tightening around your waist as if he’s trying to fuse your bodies together before the world can find a way to separate you again.

You lie there for a moment, in that impossible stillness, his cock still nestled deep inside you, both of you flushed and tangled and soaked in sweat, your limbs loose and aching and marked.

And when he finally lifts his head, eyes dark and glassy, mouth parted like he’s about to say something too fragile to hold, you can only stare up at him — chest to chest, heart to heart — with your breath caught halfway between exhaustion and wonder.

Without smiling, he leans in close, his voice a low and certain whisper meant only for your ears “This isn’t over.”

And the way he says it — not as a threat or warning, but as a simple truth — makes you realize he's speaking of something far deeper than this night. He's speaking of you, of this connection, of everything you've tried to escape but found yourself becoming within his embrace.

✓

The morning begins without rest.

You barely have time to blink yourself awake before the call comes in — not a question, not a suggestion, just a notification from your manager’s assistant letting you know that you’ve been assigned to assist with the company’s most significant investor gala of the season. No option to decline. No time to process. Just a simple line in bold: “Dress code: black tie. You’re on-site support.”

You move quickly, running on autopilot, still aching between your legs from the night before, every movement a silent echo of the way he held you, the way he moved inside you, the way his voice sounded when he promised — promised — that it wasn’t over. But now it’s morning, and there’s no message from him. No trace of last night but the marks on your hips and the silence in your phone.

By the time you arrive at the venue, your hair is slicked back into a low bun, your clipboard tucked tightly under your arm, your lips painted in a shade that says control and nothing else. The black dress they told you to wear is clean-lined and elegant, sleeveless, cinched at the waist, the hem brushing the floor just above your heels. It’s professional. Unassuming. Forgettable.

You are trying to fade into the background, and yet your body betrays you with every movement - haunted by memories of his touch, his gaze, the sound of his pleasure. Moving through the ballroom like a shadow in velvet, you focus on your tasks: aligning name cards, supervising wine service, centering elaborate floral arrangements on tables worth more than your monthly rent. You maintain strict professionalism - speaking only when necessary, avoiding eye contact, staying busy and useful while striving to remain unnoticed.

Just after seven, the atmosphere shifts. The lights dim imperceptibly, the music softens beneath murmured conversations, and a photographer raises their camera. The change ripples through the room like an invisible wave - not loud or obvious, but unmistakably present.

The entire room turns in unison as the CEO makes his entrance, commanding attention with the effortless confidence that comes from generational power. His presence fills the space - sleek, controlled, magnetic in his crisp suit. And beside him stands a woman whose name you don't yet know.

But there she stands - young and polished in an ivory silk gown that clings perfectly to her frame, one hand resting on Jeon Jungkook's arm. The CEO's son maintains perfect composure beside her, his expression carefully neutral, those same lips that traced your skin mere hours ago now curved into a practiced smile.

“That’s Jungkook’s fiancée,” says one of the senior managers beside you, a woman whose eyes haven’t left the couple at the entrance. Her tone isn’t cruel. Just matter-of-fact. “Her family owns half the company in London.”

When your eyes finally meet his across the crowded room, his gaze finds you with neither surprise nor alarm - just a steady, emotionless recognition. He remains motionless beside his companion, offering no gesture, no word, no explanation for this devastating revelation. His unbearable calm speaks volumes as he regards you with the detached interest one might show a stranger.

Your fingers close tighter around the stem of the wine glass in your hand — tighter, tighter — and before you can stop it, before you even feel it, the glass snaps in your palm, crystal shattering in your grip with a sound that doesn’t match the music, wine spilling in slow rivulets down your wrist and onto the floor. A soft gasp ripples through nearby guests, but you remain frozen - hand bleeding, vision blurring, heart constricting around a truth you should have anticipated.

And across the crowd, without a flicker of emotion, he simply turns away.

.

.

.

part 2 is here

[pittrabbit]

crush.

warning: mostly pwp, some angst but happy ending for pope, f2l, age gap implied, afab reader, p in v sex, comfort sex (??), havent watched the show but fucking hate baz, unprotected sex, reader is kind of depraved about pope but who isnt, breeding kink kind of, etc etc etc.

summary: the aftermath of overhearing that conversation between pope and baz

word count: 4.1k

note: i have never actually watched animal kingdom other than edits and clips on twitter here and there. aaand i also messed up the timeline of the show (cath's death, etc), but fortunately this is fanfiction and i can do whatever i want yay!!

➽──────────────────❥

you hadn't meant to be there at that moment. it was a chance thing, mostly a mistake. you hadn't even caught most of the conversation, just the brunt of it. but that had been enough to make you see red.

you had been aware of baz and pope's unspoken rivalry ever since you'd known them. it was a badly kept secret, knowing about baz's treatment of andrew, and of andrew's obvious infatuation with cath. the latter used to make you jealous. you had watched andrew from afar, watched him watch someone else. but that wasnt enough to make your interest in him fade away.

it was understandable at first. you were a little younger, just a little nuisance cath brought around sometimes. it made sense to you why he'd focus on someone else.

even when andrew's eyes were on someone else, you remained in his orbit somehow. this, unfortunately, meant remaining in all of the cody's orbits, but it proved worth it if it allowed you to be in his vicinity. you'd seen him be treated as the black sheep, be alienated and rejected in all walks of life. you'd had a front row seat to his infatuation with cath and julia, to his own mother's infatuation with him, to his hardships with his mental health, being seemingly the only person to realize that he'd always been a victim of his environment.

he never really took note of you. being a friend of cath's only really took you so far when it came to the cody's. your presence wasn't appreciated by smurf, nor was it ever really acknowledged by anyone other than baz and the occasional sleazy comment thrown your way after you'd grown past that awkward adolescent age — all comments made while cath wasn't around. the few times your favorite cody paid you any mind, you could never tell what was going through his head. maybe you were just the closest thing he could get to cath. maybe that's why you'd sometimes catch him looking your way, those intense eyes penetrating you without any hint of emotion towards you.

when andrew went to prison, you had been the only one who seemed to be affected by it. cath seemed relieved to have a breather from him — something which made you irrationally frustrated. the rest of his brothers, and even his mom, appeared indifferent to his absence. you stopped showing up as much while he was gone, though you still remained a present figure, wanting a chance to be there for andrew whenever he came back. you'd even resorted to writing letters to him in prison, wanting to provide him with the comfort and care he'd been unfamiliar with back home. despite his lack of responses, you'd made it a point to write him twice a month, a little more disheartened every passing month in which you didn't get a response.

but it all proved worth it when he came back.

it had been unexpected, his return. there was no warning, no announcement, he'd just shown up at your place.

he'd been awkward, that intense eye contact finding a place on your arm, your shoe, anywhere but your eyes as you opened the door for him.

you'd welcomed him with a sigh of relief and a hug, one which was not responded at first. but when you pulled away, a pair of muscular arms had wrapped around your waist, a gruff mumble of 'thank you' breathed against your shoulder. he didn't need to clarify what he meant. you knew.

the two of you stuck by each other a lot more after that. he was still closed off, still unable to stop his eyes from wandering to cath every once in a while. he was still breaking you little by little, but you'd take anything he gave you, even if this was as much as you'd get. at least his eyes were on you more often now.

he'd sleep over at your place any time coming back to smurf's felt like too much. would let you patch up his injuries after any job that left him too rambled up. he'd even leave you flowers by your door every so often, never saying they were from him, — a fact confirmed by cath, another recipient of said flowers — only ever looking away when he'd spot them in a vase inside your living room. he'd be insistent in driving you home, always opening and closing doors for you in a manner that'd have you blushing if you felt he meant it as anything other than platonic civility.

things were the same between the two of you. the same, but you could swear there was a little something more hidden in there.

you hadn't meant to be there when the tensions between andrew and baz came to a crescendo. you were only stopping by to check on andrew, a habit you'd never been able to kill.

what you caught had only been the end of the conversation. it was the usual screaming match that happened more and more every time those two were around each other. baz had always hated andrew's behavior towards his wife and daughter. andrew had always hated baz's treatment of catherine and lena. it was a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. it was just too bad you'd caught its peak.

"pope, no one will ever have a kid with you. ever"

those had been baz's words.

you could see how they stung. from the corner behind which you'd hidden behind upon hearing the screaming match, you could see any remaining hope or felicity leaving andrew's eyes.

andrew had put up with a lot throughout his life, death, pain, betrayal, but you could see that that realization had been the worst of it all — the realization that no one would ever love him in that way, that no one would ever be his, that no one would choose him first.

it was wrong. you knew better than anyone that baz's words had been wrong, and that andrew's belief of those words had been just as incorrect.

you left after that.

it wasn't your place to interrupt. you were too angry to. you knew that any rendition of coming for andrew's rescue at that moment would've just made things worse for him.

so you went home.

you paced around your living room for an hour, angry, chanting every insult you could imagine under your breath. baz had made you angry through the years, but never to this extent.

and predictably enough, your lonesome anger was interrupted by a knock on your door from the one person who had any more right than you to that anger.

you ushered him in, grabbing his hand and taking him to the living room without a word. obediently, he followed.

"why'd you leave?" was the first thing he asked when once you sat him down, interrupting your breathless offer for a drink or some food. hospitality first.

you'd been trying to stall, wanting to talk about it, offer him some comfort, but unknowing of how to breech the subject without cornering him. it seemed like he didn't hold the same reservations. you hadnt even realized he had seen you at his mother's house.

"you, uhm, you saw me?"

"yeah."

"sorry, i- i didn't want to interrupt. i didn't-"

andrew reached over to an open bottle of beer you'd been nursing before his arrival, sipping it without a second thought.

"you heard all of that?"

you took a place next to him on the couch. knelt on top of it as you faced him. he continued to face forward, paying way more attention to your beer than to yourself. he was embarrassed, probably even hurt and mortified. this wasnt a conversation he wanted to have, yet he was having it with you. he wanted to dig the knife deeper, to hear someone else confirm his suspicions — that no one would ever want him, much less a shared lifetime with him.

"andrew..."

"he's right, you know?" another sip. "cath isn't my wife. lena isn't my kid. no one would ever put themselves through that misery." now a full gulp of beer.

"andrew, that isn't true."

"the hell it's not."

he was making you angry, you couldn't pretend otherwise.

it was obvious to you why andrew would have such a low self-esteem. it wasn't a secret that he hated himself, that he was self-destructive due to a variety of reasons, but that the leading one was a complete absence of self-love.

and you? you took that shit personally. specially when other people fed into it, giving him even more reasons to hate himself.

"listen to me, andrew" you took the beer from him, setting it on the coffee table, your knees now pressed against his thigh, "no — look at me, andrew."

that got his attention.

"you're going to listen to baz? deadbeat, cheater, man-whore, baz?" you scoffed. "the guy whose kid you've been taking care of? god, andrew, you've been more of a father to lena these past few months than baz has been her whole life!" you rasped out.

andrew sat still beside you, semi-wide eyes looking up at you with a shocked expression you'd never quite seen on him before. but you kept going.

"he's wrong. you know that he is. he's projecting his stupid insecurities onto you. baz could never be half the man that you are, andrew." you continued. "lena is so lucky to have you in her life, someone who actually cares about her well-being, and looks out for her, and treats her with care and compassion. and even cath! baz has never once cared for her in the way you do. he doesn't deserve either of them."

your eyes were frantic by now, but you couldn't stop yourself from continuing.

"any woman would be lucky to have your kid, andrew. anyone would be lucky to have you in their life, to be your person, to be the one to give you a kid. i- i wish that i could make you understand that."

your big rant ended there. the momentum wore off when you realized you were giving yourself away way too much.

your feelings for andrew had been one of the many badly kept secrets among the cody's. except that andrew was the only one unaware of it, never once picking up on why you always showed extra interest in him.

he sat there, mouth slightly agape as he looked at you, hands fisted on his lap and eyebrows furrowed in either confusion or frustration, you couldn't really tell.

you swallowed, not knowing what to say anymore. it was unlikely that he believed any word you'd said. his self-esteem was broken down enough that any words of compassion would be useless to him. that, and the fact that he probably didn't want to hear those words from anyone other than cath. what worth did they have if they came from you?

"andrew, i-"

"would you?"

"would i what?" your heart was going a mile a minute. his voice was broken, harsh. he was sitting up straight now, body turned towards you and eyes penetrating you with what looked like anger to you.

you weren't scared of him. you had never been. but in this moment, you were terrified you'd given yourself away. that you'd ruined what he believed to be a friendship, something that could provide him with stringless comfort unlike every other relationship in his life.

"would you-" he cleared his throat, "would you feel lucky? to- to have my kid?"

it was blunt, almost cutting, just like everything else with andrew. and it knocked the wind out of you.

instead of stammering a response, of looking away as you always did when you were teens and you happened to catch his attention, you decided to double down. you stared directly at him, resting your full weight on your knees as you lowered yourself to his eye-line before responding.

"yes."

andrew continued to look at you, swallowing before attempting to speak again.

but you didn't let him.

once again, you took initiative, grabbing onto both of his cheeks and pulling his face towards your own, your lips wrapping around his.

there was no hesitation nor shyness in the kiss. any previous hesitation between the two of you was completely forgotten as you lost yourselves in one another.

he returned your kiss, pulling you to straddle him, closing any remaining amount of distance between you. he inhaled deep between kisses, almost as if he were recalibrating, making sure he was real, that this was real.

you sighed his name against his lips, making him groan in return. his hands were shy, parked on your waist and not wandering any further. it had only been a few minutes, but it was already driving you insane.

between you, your hands made their way to his trousers, toying with their hem and sneaking under his shirt, causing a shudder and another groan to leave him.

"kid, are you- are you sure?"

"are you?" you pulled back a bit. "what about-" you couldn't help but hesitate. "what about cath?"

he shook his head, hands tightening on your hips in a possessive manner. "i don't care about her right now. just want you."

"but-"

but his head dipped, lips now on your jaw, on your neck, all the way down to the bare skin exposed by your tank top.

"please." he pleaded at you. "want you. want everything with you. no one cares about me like you do."

and that was enough to break any remaining resolve in you.

you kissed him again, groaning into his mouth when his hands dipped under your shirt, now flat on your back and pulling you as close as humanly possible. the kiss was wet and nasty with zero finesse to be found. there was a chorus of wet sounds and muffled moans in your living room, only interrupted by the ruffling of clothes and the slight squeak of your couch when you couldn't help yourself but grind your hips against his.

"fuck." he breathed out, forehead against yours.

your lips still chased his, tongue finding his open mouth and sneaking its way inside.

"take me to bed, andrew." you mumbled against his lips.

the groan he let out at that was primal, very unlike the usually quiet andrew you knew. next thing you knew, large hands were splayed under your thighs, lifting you up and wrapping your legs around his waist as he got up and headed towards your bedroom. your hands were needy, feeling him up as you continued to kiss at his neck and jaw all the way to your bed.

softly, he laid you down on the bed, waiting for you to scoot to the middle before crawling his way to you. his eyes were an odd mixture of soft and predatory while yours looked up at him with need.

again, he kissed you, one hand behind your head to bring your lips to his as he adjusted himself atop you.

"say it again." he rasped, hands finding your waist again, needy fingers bunching at your tank top in attempts to feel your skin, eyes shyly finding the bare skin there before looking back up to your eyes.

cupping his cheeks, you pulled him close, kissing his lips softly, slowly before looking into his eyes and going an extra mile with your response.

"i want your baby, andrew."

he looked pained at your words. but you were unable to really say anything else before he lunged at you with another kiss, making you fall back against the bed as he licked into your mouth. his hands went crazy, grabbing and pulling at every inch of your skin. the needy desperation in his movements proved obvious by his lack of ability in actually taking off your clothes, pulling at the hem of your shorts to feel up your legs rather than pulling them down altogether, dragging off the straps of your tank top and bra instead of throwing your shirt off, all done just to feel a little bit of extra skin.

meanwhile your hands functioned a bit better than his own. within moments you were able to throw off his shirt and pull down his pants low enough to cup his dick, suddenly stopping his abrasive movements.

"fuck-"

"god, andrew, i want you so bad." you panted into his lips. "get this off, please. i need-"

"anything. i'll do anything for you." he groaned before pulling your top off, lips instantly attaching to the newly freed skin until his lips found the barrier your bra created.

your hands gripped at his hair, pulling when he began sucking at the fat of your breast, close enough to the areola to have your eyes rolling back, "fuck, andrew..."

his own eyes rolled back at the feeling, seemingly in love with the feel of your fingers digging into his scalp.

unwilling to stop there, his hands snuck behind you, undoing your bra with surprising ease and groaning yet again at the sight.

"you're perfect." andrew sighed, not allowing you to react before his lips wrapped around your nipple, moaning against it as if he were the receiver of the pleasure.

"i need more. please, andrew, i need-"

"i know. i'll give you everything, i promise," he mumbled against your other breast, still refusing to stop putting his lips on you.

your hands dragged down his back, legs wrapping around his waist and attempting to pull him down on you, hips raising from the bed to try and roll against his. taking pity on you, andrew ground his hips against yours, earning himself a whine from you at the feel of his hardness digging against your cunt.

desperate, you made work of your shorts on your own accord, awkwardly removing them from underneath him as he continued kissing at you, sucking hickeys into your skin like some horny teenager, hands now reaching down to your hips and digging at the skin there like puddy.

"andrew, god, fuck me. please." you whined once more, slightly embarrassed by the desperation in your voice.

this finally got andrew to respond to you, hands undoing his own pants the rest of the way, freeing himself of his boxers in the process.

you eyed him with absolute depravity in your eyes, biting your lip at the sight in front of you, the thick muscle throughout the entirety of his body, the girth of his dick, the beads of cum squirting at his tip, the flushed hue of his skin and the sweat making him glisten as he hovered over you.

"you're perfect, andrew, fuck."

his hand went to your chin, tilting it and removing your eyes from his body, turning them to face his gaze instead, "look at me."

you hummed, wide eyes staring at his own (fighting an impossible battle to not let them stray down to his lips for the hundreth time).

"i'm going to give you a baby. do you understand that?" his voice was raspy, pained, eyes facing the same battle as yours as they ventured to your lips, to your breasts, to the space between your legs.

nodding numbly, you bit your lip, tilting your head towards his lips, "please."

"tell me you want it."

"i do. i want it. please- want- want your baby, andrew. want everything with you."

with one last groan, he closed the distance again, one hand coming to his cock while the other laid you back down. dragging his dick up and down your slit, he sighed at the feeling.

finally, he pushed in, making your eyes roll back for the millionth time, and sigh out his name.

"fuck." he groaned at the feeling, stilling inside you. "i love you." were his next words, almost missed due to his lips' proximity to your skin.

your hands dug into his hair again, pulling him even closer with a moan, "i love you so much, andrew. a-always have."

"i know." he mumbled, hips beginning to move, "i love you." he repeated. "you're everything to me."

those were his last words before picking up his speed, hammering into you as your legs wrapped around him, pulling him flush against your skin.

"you're mine now. do you understand?" he huffed, lips glued to the skin of your shoulder.

"i'm yours, andrew, i'm- fuck! — i'm yours, baby."

your hands dragged red lines down his toned back, marking him equally yours. his shoulder was your next victim, getting marked by your teeth as you bit into the skin there when he thrust particularly hard.

and he loved it, groaning out a pained moan of your name when you bit at him, hips stuttering and hands gripping your hips in a bruising manner.

"you feel so fucking good." he growled directly into your ear. "you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

that had you reeling. had you tightening up around him, your body completely in tune with him and his words. he was all you'd ever wanted, all you'd watched and waited to have.

the idea of having a baby with andrew crossed your mind many times in the past. they were mostly teenage daydreams of a ring, a house, a honeymoon somewhere far away from home and a lifetime for the two of you completely separate of the mess that always surrounded andrew. you had dreams of saving him from the misery that his family brought along, to finally have him look your way and give him everything you had to offer.

you never thought things would go so out of order, that you'd so easily open your legs for him, not a single thought of using protection on your mind and allowing him to do with you as he pleased — as you'd repeatedly begged.

and in this moment you wanted that more than anything. you wanted that baby in you. to have andrew cum deep inside you time and time again, to try endlessly until it finally took. you wanted to lock him up in your home, hide him from everyone who'd ever hurt him, who'd ever betrayed him and keep him safe between your legs.

you'd give him a baby, tie yourself to him for the rest of your lives. the thought of swelling up for him had you tightening around his cock, thinking of every night you'd lay in bed buried in his arms, being the one constant in his life and the reason for his peace.

you knew he'd be perfect for you. that he'd protect you and your baby with his life. you knew that he'd be loyal, would become infatuated and obsessive and addicted, and it just made you so dizzy in all the best ways.

andrew seemed equally desperate for that future, for that ownership over the rest of your life. he rammed into you with an animalistic desperation as his peak approached, grunting unintelligible praises hidden among curses at the unimaginable pleasure.

"cum for me. i'll give you everything, just cum for me." it was the closest thing to begging you'd ever heard from him. the sincerity dripped in his words.

and how could you not lose your mind at that? how could you not when he was staring down at you, mouth agape and eyes locked on your lips, perpetually thirsty for more of you.

you pulsed under him, eyes rolled back and back arched with your breasts pressed up against his chest, the hardness of his muscle further stimulating you throughout your high.

by the time you came back to earth, andrew was a man possessed, drilling into you with a desperation you'd never seen. he made sounds you'd dreamed of, gasping and groaning incoherencies. his grip on you would've been painful had you not been addicted to the feeling of him, to the sight above you.

"cum for me, baby." you sighed, one hand coming up to pull softly at his hair while the other turned his face to look straight into your eyes. "look at me when you cum. get me pregnant, baby. wanna see you when it finally takes."

with one final grunt of your name, you finally felt that warmth inside you. he stilled, shoving himself as deep as possible with a broken gasp, hips spasming weakly against yours.

he made sure not to let himself fall on top of you once he'd filled you to the brim, dropping himself next to you instead. but he didnt allow any distance between you, bringing you to his side with one strong arm, humming when you yelped at the sudden movement.

as if by nature, you nuzzled into his chest, kissing the skin there softly while your hands scratched at the skin of his abdomen with affection.

"you're mine, andrew."

his hand went down to your stomach, rubbing at the skin as if his seed was already implanted in there, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"yeah? well, you're mine too."

➽──────────────────❥

and she did get pregnant with twins and one was a girl and one a boy and they got custody of lena and they got the fuck out of there and andrew finally got his happy ending and everyone cheered yay!!!!!

[ateliersss]

Her Protector

Pairing: Yautja x Fem!Reader Summary: Still new to life on Yautja Prime, you’re struggling to find your place among a clan that sees you as fragile, unworthy and unfit to stand at the side of their great leader. Cross-posted on AO3: here Warnings: English isn't my first language Word Count: 2.399 Before the Blooming Family series

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The twin suns hung high in the muted green sky, casting long, slatted shadows over the structures of the Yautja village. The heat was ever-present, thick, and clinging, but you had begun to grow used to it, at least enough to walk without fainting from the oppressive humidity. It wasn’t Earth and it never would be, but you were going to learn how to survive here. Slowly but surely.

You adjusted the thin, breathable shawl wrapped around your shoulders, gifted to you by Mi’ytiar, one of the only things keeping the sun from baking your skin. The radiation of the sun on Earth wasn’t too bad, but two suns from a whole different galaxy? You needed to be careful until the healer — Cahrein, was it? — could tell that the injections of whatever fluid mixed with Mi’ytiar’s blood was working and changing your DNA enough to resemble theirs.

The path you walked was carved from dark, volcanic stone, well-worn from centuries of passage. Around you rose towering buildings of unfamiliar architecture: jagged and elegant at once, built from obsidian-like minerals and striated metals that caught the light in rainbow sheens. Some of the dwellings loomed high like watchful sentinels, others sat low and wide, mouths agape with open-air entrances that revealed cool darkness within.

You passed a fountain shaped like a clawed hand holding an orb, the water bubbling up from between the fingers in rhythmic pulses. It was the centerpiece of a communal square. A few Yautja sat or stood in clusters nearby, their heavy bodies draped in netted armor and dark leather. Their gazes followed you, some openly staring, others more subtle, turning their heads just enough to watch you pass. You felt their eyes follow you. Not openly hostile but not kind, either. But some didn’t bother hiding their disdain, mandibles flexing in sharp, irritated twitches, shoulders squared in subtle posturing.

They didn’t like you here. Not yet.

It had been weeks since you had arrived. Mi’ytiar’s clan had offered no formal welcome. All you had gotten were wary glances, cautious bows, and far too many muttered words in their thick, guttural tongue when they knew you couldn’t understand. The earpieces you wore had been ready for use since yesterday and they worked perfectly. Now, you could hear the snide comments about your presence.

“Soft.”

“Useless.”

“Pathetic.”

You didn’t let it falter you in your stride and you kept your head high, despite everything about you was screaming outsider: your body being half their size, your plain and colorless skin, your plain and colorless eyes, your fragile bone structure and your barely-there muscle mass.

Younglings scuttled past you, chittering with excitement and curiosity. One youngling, barely up to her shoulder, clicked inquisitively and sniffed at you as it ran past. You smiled nervously, lifting your hand in a small wave. Its mandibles flared open in what you hoped was a grin before its older sibling barked a reprimand and yanked it away.

Well, at least the younger ones were tolerant enough…

Their parents would hopefully follow soon after.

After all, you weren’t officially Mi’ytiar’s mate yet. Not by their standards, at least. That bond had to be consummated, sealed through combat or ceremony, or whatever passed as marriage in this world. But Mi’ytiar called you his mate anyway, boldly and proudly. As if that alone should be enough. It warmed your heart and made you all soft inside when you thought about the way he had purred those words. When that ritual or whatever it was would be over, you could only hope that the tension would lift and stop from crushing you.

Around you, the village lived and breathed in a rhythm you hadn’t yet learned to join. Yautja sparred in the distance, heavy thuds of bodies striking against training pillars. Merchants from other clans displayed their wares — exotic meats, intricately carved bone jewelry, and tools you couldn’t name — all arranged with almost ceremonial precision. You passed what you assumed was a forge, the reek of molten metal and burning oils flooding your senses. Even that had its own brutal beauty: firelight reflecting off the polished fangs of a mask in progress, its metal teeth bared in a permanent snarl.

You stopped to watch for a moment, fascinated. The forge master, a hulking female with scarred tusks and a single, blazing red-orange eye, glanced at you with a curious frown. Then, she turned away without a word. There was neither hatred nor warmth. Just dismissal.

With a sigh, you moved on.

Each step deeper into the village pulled you farther away from the relative safety of Mi’ytiar’s home, your only sanctuary on this planet. Out here, without him at your side, you felt the full weight of isolation. You didn’t have the predictable order of Earth cities to cling to for orientation. This place pulsed with danger, history and contempt.

You reached a narrow side path between two larger buildings. Your intent had only been to circle the village and then slip away through passages like this so you wouldn’t be stared at on your way back home. But now, after catching a glimpse of your new life? You were tired of being afraid to explore, tired of having to hide away when you wanted to embrace the culture, the everyday life of your new home. Mi’ytiar had told you that the market was once every three months and you refused to let their dislike towards you hinder you from giving into your curiosity.

Your fingers trailed along the edge of a smooth, metal outcropping on one of the buildings. Its surface was warm from hours under the sun. The path ahead was unfamiliar, but it didn’t matter. You would turn around and walk home the way you came: through the market under the watchful eyes of every present Yautja. You would think after three months, you would be old news.

Three months.

Three months since Mi’ytiar flung you over his shoulder. Three months since he carried you out of your hometown and to his ship. Three months since it touched his home soil. You remembered stepping out of the vessel, the heels of your black leather Oxfords pumps echoing through the landing platform as you hesitantly left the ship by its metal ramp. You felt dizzy and weak with your first inhale, but Mi’ytiar, standing tall and strong beside you, placed a hand on your back between your shoulder blades.

The first night in the clan leader’s abode had been suffocating. Everything was too large, too loud, too alien. You couldn’t sleep. Not until Mi’ytiar curled around you like a shield in the vast bed made for someone twice his size. Unfortunately, even then, sleep only came in fragments. So, instead, you looked at him in the darkness, his massive form half-illuminated by the low red glow of the ambers of the fireplace circling the bed. He had brushed your cheek with the back of his clawed finger — so gentle, so reverent — and purred into the silence. It had reminded you of how he had touched hours ago in that alleyway.

A part of you had longed to return to that moment. Not for the terror or the pain, but for the clarity. Back then you weren’t an alien in his world but a woman amongst slaughter, but at least you were alone with him.

He was your rock, indeed. Mi’ytiar hadn’t wavered once in the following days. He called you his like it was the law, like nothing else mattered, and you fiercely held onto that. Even now, when you took a deep breath and stepped out of the side path. Heat slammed into you like a wall, oppressive and dry, swallowing your breath.

You crossed the square with purpose, ignoring the stares until you couldn’t.

Four Yautja — all much taller than you but no match to Mi’ytiar’s — stepped into your way as if you were in theirs. They were built like ancient statues, chiseled from fire-hardened stone. The one in front wore half of a broken Xenomorph crest strapped to his shoulder, his mandibles twitching in something that might be a smirk. One spun a bladed disc lazily between his claws, the sharp whistle of metal singing through the air, while another clicked his mandibles, low and guttural. He said something you didn’t fully catch, but the tone is unmistakable — mocking, crude. His eyes crawled over your body and he tilted his head as if examining a thing, not a person. The others chuckled at whatever he had said.

The Yautja, who hadn’t drawn any attention to himself yet, stepped to the side and started circling you. He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of his body burned against your arm.

Around you, a few market-goers paused to watch, but no one intervened.

Of course, they didn’t. This wasn’t their business. You weren’t their kind, not one of them. You were just their leader’s little pet.

Even though your mouth went dry and your heart hammered in your ears, you didn’t back down. You wouldn’t run, wouldn’t show fear because that would only prove what everyone thought about you already. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of making yourself seem like prey by running away and practically inviting them to chase after you.

Prey.

You refused to give them that.

“Move.” You said, quiet but steady.

The biggest of them clicked his tusks together and tilted his head mockingly. “Weak thing.” His eyes slid over your body slowly, insultingly. “He brought back pet.”

The others laughed — a coarse, barking sound that drew more stares from across the square. But still, no one interfered.

The one with the darkest scales leaned in, close enough to catch a whiff of your scent. “Little thing. Tight. Bet she squeal.”

“Soft skin. Pretty noise-maker.” The thickest growled, accessing the little skin that was showing between your clothes.

Your stomach dropped and bile rose in your throat — fury, humiliation, fear — but you wouldn’t shrink away from them. Not even as your knees threatened to give out under the weight of their disgusting remarks. You had faced worse than taunts. You had endured months of cold stares and whispered insults. You didn’t let yourself cower, despite this being out in the open, direct and sharp-edged, instead of muttered disapproval behind your back.

“He become bored and you be passed-”

The words got stuck in his throat and you frowned as their posture changed. They either looked frightened or got into a defensive stance as if they expected to be attacked. Their whole behavior switched in a second and only when you turned around you knew why.

Mi’ytiar stood there, his body tense with lethal aggression. His fingers flexed, his lower mandibles twitched, and a guttural growl broke the sudden silence that had stretched across the market. His eyes wandered from one Male to the other like a predator deciding who to kill first.

A roar followed.

It wasn’t a war cry, wasn’t a challenge, but a warning. It tore through the square like a shockwave. It was primal, raw and laced with something deeper than rage: domination. The kind that froze blood and made his warriors bow down to him in submission.

Before you were able to blink, he moved.

The first Male barely saw it coming. He was lifted up by the throat and thrown into a stone pillar with enough force to shatter it. The bone-crushing sound was sickening and it seemed enough to not make him get up.

The next was grabbed by his mandibles, one of the most sensitive parts of a Yautja’s body, and with another roar that tore deep from within his chest, he ripped them apart to leave a gaping hole where his mouth was. Cartilages snapped and blood sprayed in thick arcs across the stone. The Male screamed or tried to, but it came out a gurgle through the ruined mess of his face. He collapsed, twitching, not dead but a broken beast.

The third and fourth moved together, flanking, trying to close in from either side, foolishly thinking that Mi’ytiar, even outnumbered, could be bested.

Mi’ytiar spun and his foot, high and fast for a kick, collided with the left Male’s chest. He flew back, breath coming out ragged and irregular. He fought to get up, but one look of Mi’ytiar halted him in the attempt.

The fourth slashed with a wrist-blade at Mi’ytiar, who ducked, grabbed the warrior by the waist and lifted him into the air, twisting mid-motion with an inhuman snarl. He slammed him down, headfirst, into the ground. He sidestepped the clumsy grab for his leg and drove his claws into the Male’s gut when he leaned over him. It was slow as it was not intended to kill — not yet, at least — but to humiliate. Like they had humiliated you.

The Male howled and his claws uselessly scrabbled at Mi’ytiar’s forearm, but he simply got up on his feet, letting the feet of his opponent dangle pathetically, before he ripped the body apart. Blood splattered and rained down on him, dousing him in neon green.

The silence that lay down on the square like a blanket was deafening. The Yautja who had looked at you in disdain an hour ago avoided you now completely. No one dared to move, no one dared to speak.

Mi’ytiar ignored his people when his eyes finally, finally, found yours. They softened in an instant as he closed the distance between you with steady steps, his long legs eating up the space that separated you both. The hands that had torn someone apart only seconds ago now lifted up to cup your face with such gentleness, such care. His thumb stroked your cheek and he bent down to nuzzle his forehead against yours.

At least now, no one would dare to look at you if it wasn’t with respect or kindness. He had made sure of that.

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[greenwitchfromthewoods]

a beautiful little lie. [chapter 5] l Harry Castillo

Summary:  you are the personal assistant of Harry Castillo, a wealthy entrepreneur who asks you to go with him to his friend's wedding. there you meet your ex-boyfriend and things get out of hand

Warnings: fluff, friends to lovers (maybe?), some alcohol (a few glasses of wine and a beer), a few ambiguous situations, some kissing (?!), Mr. Murphy and his wife show up

A/N: i wrote THIS. i'd love to read what you think about it, or the whole story. calm down, i'm getting closer to drama and angst. i didn't feel confident writing this, because i was making a presentation and notes for school at the same time. multitasking! i'm glad so many of you liked this story, it's honey to my heart. thank you for being here.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist] [Harry Castillo masterlist] [a beautiful little lie- series masterlist]

“I brought you some coffee.”

You looked at the paper cups Harry was holding in his hands and smiled. “You’re saving my life.” You replied, taking one in your hands and quickly bringing it to your lips.

It was really early, but the airport was already bustling with activity. You had already checked in, but there was still a lot of time before your flight. A few days after the unfortunate party with your friends, you and Harry found yourself at the airport to fly to Los Angeles. Mr. Murphy had his way. He promised to sign a contract with Castillo, but forced him to personally show up at his house for dinner.

“It’s a business trip,” Harry stated as he told you to book tickets for the both of you. “I’ll get to meet a few more people, so you can spend your time however you want.”

You’d never been to Los Angeles before, so once the initial surprise wore off, you figured you should take the risk. You packed your bags and let Harry pick you up at an ungodly early hour so you could spend the next few hours on the plane.

Despite a few sips of coffee, you didn't feel more awake, unlike Harry.

Dressed in a dark green sweater and dark jeans, he curiously watched the other passengers as they made their way through the airport to find their gates. If he looked immaculate, then you were one of those people who traveled in sweatpants and sneakers.

It was only when you were waiting for the plane that you started to wonder if they would let you into business class in what you were wearing. Your worries were unnecessary though. Maybe it was Harry's charm, or maybe the staff was used to this type of passenger and no one paid any attention to you. The flight was really pleasant and you managed to doze off, but most of the time you spent watching movies and talking. The next few hours passed and you were surprised to see that it was time to leave the plane.

Without much trouble, you caught a cab to your hotel and an hour later you were relieved to be thrown onto your perfectly made bed. Your phone buzzed and you looked at the screen.

Harry Castillo: “Breakfast in half an hour?”

You quickly replied and got up to take a shower and change into something more appropriate. When you took the glass elevator down to the lobby half an hour later, Harry was already there waiting for you. The cream linen shirt fit him perfectly as he stood up from the couch and walked over to you.

“You look really pretty,” he said, his eyes adjusting to your dress. “I should have taken you on the trip sooner.”

“You mean I didn’t look pretty before?” you laughed, trying to hide the effect his words had on you. Harry was so casual that sometimes you weren’t sure if you were taking his words and actions correctly. Your brain could be playing tricks on you, and it certainly wasn’t professional.

It all came naturally, too naturally. Talking or being together was like being in a natural environment for both of you. A year of successful working together certainly had an impact on that, but Harry was just an easy person to like. You didn't want to exaggerate his behavior towards you because you knew it wouldn't lead anywhere. Castillo was your boss and that should definitely put a stop to any bold thoughts that were entering your head. But in reality, it wasn't that easy.

“Susan sent an email.” You said, clicking something on your phone and carelessly putting your cup down so it almost fell over. “Mrs. Kruger called to say… Hey!”

The phone was snatched from your hand and the same hand, Harry’s, placed it on his side of the table. “We’re not working right now.” He said with a smile. “I bet you’re hungry and what you ordered looks really good, so – eat.”

You rolled your eyes. “And if it’s important, what? Mrs. Kruger…”

“You’re important now. And your breakfast.” Harry interrupted you and took a sip of his coffee. “Everything else can wait. Besides, I’m your boss, not them, right?”

You smiled, but you had to admit he was right. The area you spent the day in was really beautiful, and the chance to look away from your phone and look around was tempting.

Mr. Murphy wasn't expecting you until the evening, so you didn't have to rush anywhere. Harry took the time to show you around Los Angeles, pointing out all the places he thought you should see. You drank your iced coffee, watching the people stroll along the beach, the sun warming your skin. If Harry hadn't checked his watch, you probably would have been late for your meeting.

"You're irresponsible," you laughed, stepping into the hotel elevator. "You should have gone to him yourself."

“Nuh-uh. Murphy made it clear he wanted you there too.” Harry replied. The smile hadn’t left his face the entire day, and he wondered if he still had control over his facial muscles. “We’ve got an hour, but if we’re late, he’ll forgive us.”

“I’ll do it in an hour.” You announced as the elevator stopped at your floor.

Before he could open his mouth, you slipped through the doors and headed down the soft carpet of the hallway. He watched you for a moment longer before the doors closed and the elevator started moving again.

He liked you. It was obvious to Harry. You were the only woman who had been this close to him for a long time and hadn't disappeared, made excuses or explained anything as "it's about me, not you". You didn't expect gifts or to indulge your whims. Yes, you worked for him. But outside of the time spent at work, Harry had the feeling that you really liked him.

Like today, when you surprised him and bought ice cream for both of you, which you brought while he was on the phone with Mr. Murphy. It was just nice and so natural that Harry didn't even notice when "Thank you, sweetie" slipped out of his mouth.

When he knocked on your door an hour later, he wasn't prepared for what he saw. You were wearing a modest but elegant black dress, your hair nicely done and you had applied lipstick.

"I'm almost ready," you said, entering the room and leaving the door open, which Harry took as an invitation.

The room wasn't chaos, but rather the pleasant mess that people rushing to dinner make. A few colorful magnets that you bought that day were lying on the table next to a cup of tea, and a pair of your heels were lying under the table. A few seconds later, you emerged from the bathroom.

"Can you help me with the zipper on my dress?" you asked, turning to Harry. 

"Sure." 

As he approached, he caught the pleasant scent of your perfume. Damn, he would have taken you to a thousand other places so he wouldn't have to take you to Murphy's manor. But you didn't notice the change in his gaze. You put on your shoes, grabbed your bag and were ready to go.

Mr. Murphy's house was located outside the city center and was surrounded by a beautiful garden full of trees and trimmed bushes. He and his wife greeted you with joy and led you to the spacious dining room, whose large windows overlooked the city bathed in the glow of the setting sun.

"I'm so happy you brought this wonderful person with you." Murphy said as dinner was served. "Traveling is always better when you have nice company."

"Indeed." Harry replied and you smiled faintly at him. "We spent the day walking around the city. It was really nice."

“You should go to the beach. There’s a beautiful place not far from here and there aren’t that many people there.” Mrs. Murphy took a sip of her white wine and looked at you. “You should go there. Nothing is as relaxing as spending the whole day in a place like that.”

“I would. If time permits.” you replied.

“Harry!” Mr. Murphy called to the man sitting next to you. “You have to take this lovely lady to the beach!”

You could barely contain your laughter when Castillo muttered, “Yes, sir.”

The evening passed in a pleasant atmosphere. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy told you about their travels and completely ignored business topics. In their company, you didn’t feel like Castillo’s assistant, but a welcome guest. When you left their house after midnight, you felt pleasantly satisfied with the day spent this way.

“Did you have a good time?”

You turned your head and looked at Harry. His shirt was already two buttons undone, exposing his neck. After a few glasses of wine, his eyes sparkled, the lights of the passing taxis reflecting off them.

“It was really nice.” You replied honestly. “Thank you for taking me here.”

“I had no choice.” Harry grimaced, but the corners of his lips turned up. “Murphy insisted you show up. If I had refused, he probably would have broken the agreement.”

“You’re awful!” you laughed, patting his shoulder. Harry took your hand and before he could stop himself, he brushed his lips across the back of it. Your heart stopped for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, carefully pushing your hand away. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine,” you replied, feeling warmth creep up your neck. Thank God it was dark and Castillo couldn’t see how his gesture affected you.

You couldn't take your eyes off him all evening. Maybe it was his fault, but you couldn't deny that there was something about his mannerisms that drew people in and magnetized them. When you looked at Harry, you didn't see the balance in his bank account, but a nice man who made those around him feel noticed. 

Just like you. You were looking for a job over a year ago, and now you were coming back from a delicious dinner with someone who used to be your friend. It would have been easy to fall under Harry Castillo's spell, and you were too weak for that.

The sand beneath your feet was warm and the wind was playing with your hair. You turned your face to the sun and closed your eyes. Even though you had your sunglasses on, you could still see the light shining through your eyelids. You took advantage of Castillo's meeting and went to the beach that Mrs. Murphy had mentioned. You found a nice spot, rented an umbrella, and then set up your things.

You pulled out your phone and took a quick picture, then sent it to Harry. The reply came almost immediately.

Harry Castillo: I'm jealous. Will you be there long? You: All day, I hope. Harry Castillo: Okay. ;-)

You had brought a book with you so you wouldn't have to worry about boredom. Time passed and you stopped reading in favor of short swims in the ocean or trips to the fruit and smoothie stand. You couldn't remember the last time you had been on vacation, but this few days away could easily be written off as "vacation." Harry had made sure you worked as little as possible and you weren't about to fight it.

“Maybe I should move the office here. What do you think?”

You looked up to see Harry standing over you. He was holding a pizza box, still wearing the clothes you saw him in this morning, but the sleeves of his shirt were already rolled up. He looked a little weird standing in the middle of the hot sand in such an outfit.

“I don’t think we can work here.” You replied. Harry sat down next to you and took off his shoes, pushing his feet into the sand. “How was the meeting?”

“Good. Boring, but it went well. I thought you might be hungry.” He pointed to the box. “Pizza. The one you like.”

“Thanks.” You opened the box and took a slice. “So... Two days and we’re back?”

Harry nodded, looking around the beach and watching the people. A few children were running around, playing with a beautiful golden retriever, while someone else was building a giant sandcastle.

“I could stay here longer.” Harry mumbled. “A completely different life than New York.”

“I’ve relaxed more in the last few hours than I have in the last year.” You replied, swallowing what was in your mouth and reaching for a bottle of water.

“That doesn’t say anything good about me.” Harry snorted with laughter.

“Sorry, boss.” You shrugged, but smiled back.

“You know what? I think I’ll go for a swim.” He stated after a moment, and before you could answer, he was already unbuttoning his shirt.

“W-what? If you tell me you’re wearing swimming trunks…”

“Black boxers will do.”

Harry stripped down without any embarrassment, revealing his broad shoulders and sun-kissed skin. You tried to look away, but it was really hard. He looked really good.

"Are you coming with me?" he asked, giving you a quick glance.

"Yeah, I think so." You replied, getting up from your towel and you and Harry headed towards the water.

The waves weren't big, and the water felt nice and cool on your hot skin. You quickly lost sight of Harry as he dove in and swam a bit. When he surfaced, he brushed his wet curls away. You couldn't help but smile. You hadn't seen Harry as relaxed as he was that day in a long time. The water and the beach seemed to be his natural habitat. You spent the whole day at the beach and it wasn't until the sun set that you gathered your things and headed to the hotel.

“Want to watch a movie?” he suggested, walking you to your room. “I know it’s late, but…”

Your lips moved completely unconsciously. “Yes, I’d love to.”

“Fantastic.” Harry beamed. “I’ll take a quick shower and be right back. We can order something to eat.”

“Sure. I’ll be waiting.”

The quick shower washed the sand and salt off of you, but didn’t cool your head. You had no idea what you were doing. However, when you heard a knock on the door after half an hour, your heart pounding, you opened it. Harry had already changed into comfortable sweatpants and entered your room without much embarrassment.

“We could watch the second part of the movie we saw on the plane,” he suggested, sitting down on your bed and reaching for the remote.

“Sure, no problem. Want a drink?” You grabbed two beers from the hotel fridge. Harry nodded and a few minutes later you were both comfortably sitting on the bed, watching the movie, drinking beer and waiting for the food you ordered.

“I like it,” he said. His voice sounded like he had been thinking about something for a long time.

“What exactly?”

“That. Us. I like spending time with you,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the screen, even though the movie probably didn’t interest him that much. “I feel good around you, you know?”

You didn't know what to say, or maybe you did, you were just afraid. But you couldn't hold it back any longer and the words spilled out of your mouth. "I like it too, Harry. You're a really nice guy."

Harry turned his head and looked at you. "Nice guys finish last, right?"

"That's not true!"

"Sure!" he snorted a laugh and took a sip of beer.

"Harry." You sat up and looked at him as if you wanted to explain something obvious to him. "I've been working for you for a year, I know what I'm talking about. You always make me feel important and heard, you value my opinion, and even outside of the office, like here and now, we can just be together and have fun. It was a really nice day, thank you."

He watched you for a moment, considering your words. They stirred something in him and he felt he couldn't hold it back any longer. There was something about this moment, or maybe between you. Something that wasn't fleeting anymore, was starting to take shape and was more than a boss-employee relationship. You had long since stopped being just an assistant.

He shouldn't have done that. It was definitely the drink he had with his friend and that beer, or the sun. You looked so comfortable and natural that Harry couldn't help himself. You didn't pull away when his fingers brushed your cheek and jaw, you didn't run away when they rested on your neck, you didn't push him away when he sat up and brought his face closer to yours, kissing you a moment later.

It was completely new and so different from that brush of your lips that you both experienced just to make Daniel believe that there was something more between you. Your lips were soft and gentle as you kissed Harry back. But when you parted your lips, allowing him to slip his tongue between them, he believed that this was actually happening. His fingers slid into your hair, pulling you closer. The kiss was deeper, more intimate and made you sigh, which he gladly accepted.

The hand that was resting on your waist pulled you closer and again - you didn't protest. Jesus, what a relief it was for Harry! He wanted to kiss you, he wanted you to feel that he really cared. But as soon as your hand touched his face, a vigorous knock on the door echoed through the room. 

In one short second, everything was interrupted. You pulled away from Harry, your gaze frightened. He tried to stop you, but his fingers only slid down your wrist as you jumped out of bed and took a few steps to the door.

“Good evening. I brought you your order, ma’am.” A polite male voice said.

“Thank you. I’ll take this. Good night.”

You pushed the small cart with the ordered food inside and when your gaze landed on Harry, despite his concerns, you didn’t look like someone who regretted what had happened. Quite the opposite, your eyes were sparkling and your face was glowing. You looked simply beautiful.

“I hope you’re hungry, because I can’t eat all this by myself.” You joked.

“We’ll manage somehow.” He replied. “Do you have any more beer?”

“Of course.”

And when a few minutes later you were sitting next to each other, eating the ordered food, watching a movie and drinking cold beer, you both felt that something had changed. It was exciting, new. And you just hoped that the next day you’d feel the same.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist: @nrschuster30 @maried01 @lunariantears @thatesqcrush @suzysface @youkeeno @legoemma @nuo0n @sarahhxx03 @hazzzy418 @pedrofan @peepawispunk @readingiskeepingmegoing @maryfanson @anoverwhelmingdin @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @axshadows @picketniffler @underneath-the-sky-again @kaysfanficcorner @noisynightmarepoetry @xmaykeca @orcasoul @sincerelywithheartt @southernbe @chaoticfestninja @telumendilsoul @hermionelove @paleidiot @lemon-world1 @diabaroxa @scarcetti @thatoneperson38747 @pascal-mynightlyobsession @sunnytuliptime @krystal---meth @nikoanna @capuccinodoll @titlee78

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° he got that boyish look that i like in a man ;)

♡ a/n — first bsd post in a longggg while!!! enjoy this drabble!

♡ word count — 571

♡ content — ranpo edogawa x gn! reader, secret relationship, fluff, not much else to say tbh, not proofread

♡ synopsis — Wrapped in golden sunlight and the shared knowledge of something no one else in the world knows...this is how you and ranpo edogawa like to spend your time.

Ranpo has his head in your lap again.

The blinds in the agency office are tilted just enough to let the late afternoon sunlight spill across the floor, warm and honey-colored. Everyone else has gone — Atsushi and Kunikida wrapped up their case earlier, and even Dazai made his usual theatrical exit an hour ago. You’d stayed behind to finish reports, and Ranpo… 

Well, Ranpo had declared he was “on break from being brilliant.”

Which, in Ranpo terms, meant crawling into the couch, eating two lollipops, and then making himself comfortable with his head in your lap.

Your fingers move instinctively to his hair, brushing through the dark strands, careful not to dislodge his ever-present cap. He hums softly, not quite asleep, not quite awake, utterly content in that lazy, boyish way he always is when it's just the two of you.

“Someone’s going to walk in one day,” you say, voice low and amused. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Ranpo’s eyes stay closed, but his lips curl into a smirk. “They won’t. I locked the door.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You locked the—Ranpo.”

“Relax,” he mumbles, patting your knee like you’re the one that’s overreacting. “They all think I went home. Besides… it’s more fun this way, right?”

You exhale through a small laugh, shaking your head. “You and your secrets.”

He peeks up at you, one green eye glittering with mischief. “You like it.”

And he’s not wrong.

There’s no real reason your relationship is a secret. It isn’t forbidden, or complicated, or shameful. 

But there’s something intoxicating about having this quiet little world that belongs to only the two of you — something about the way his hand brushes yours in the hallway when no one’s looking, the way he’ll pass you notes folded into candy wrappers, or catch your eye in a meeting and wink like you’re sharing a joke no one else is in on.

It’s private. 

It’s safe. 

And it’s yours.

Ranpo stretches like a cat, limbs long and lazy. “You know, if I were anyone else, I’d get tired of hiding,” he muses. “But I’m the greatest detective in the world. I know how to cover my tracks.”

“Mm. Impressive.”

“And I know,” he adds, voice softening, “that you like keeping secrets.”

You glance down. He’s watching you now, gaze open and sharp despite how relaxed he looks. He’s infuriatingly perceptive sometimes, catching emotions you didn’t even realize you were feeling. 

You wonder if he knows how your heart stutters when he looks at you like that — like you’re not just someone he likes, but someone he chooses, again and again.

Your fingers brush along his cheek. “You make it hard not to.”

His grin widens. “Because I’m cute?”

You laugh under your breath. “Because you’re you.”

It’s a simple answer, but it’s the truth. 

You could list a thousand reasons: his genius, his ridiculous sweet tooth, the way he somehow always finds the softest parts of you without even trying. 

But in the end, it’s just… him. All of him. 

The boyish charm, the childlike laziness, the startling flashes of brilliance — you love it all.

Ranpo hums again, content. He pulls your hand into his, weaving your fingers together and resting them on his chest.

And for a little while, you both just stay like that. 

Quiet. 

Hidden. 

Safe. 

Wrapped in golden sunlight and the shared knowledge of something no one else in the world knows.

is the bsd fandom still alive?

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated

⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[asxgard]

Companionship | pt. 3

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: A few moments where Michael is finally honest and a few where he is not.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: y’all are so lovely!! I’m so glad that you guys are enjoying this as much as I am lol Thank you for all the likes, comments, and reblogs!! and shoutout to all my new followers, like omg hi💜

I caved and posted to AO3 with a f!oc so I could explore a character more in depth without imposing too much on the reader, so if you’re interested: AO3 Companionship

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: age gap, foul language, death mentioned (a patient), Robby still trying to bottle up his feelings, alcohol

not beta read

that damn smile

The days passed slowly considering how busy they had been. Between projects, homework, the office, and your half-assed chores, you were beat. That Friday morning was uneventful, a foggy start where you ran from your two classes, hoping it wouldn’t rain. You regretted not signing up for online classes, foolishly thinking being present would make you more productive. Maybe it did, but you longed to be home. As selfish as the thought was, you missed the time when you worked from home.

A weird thing happened around lunchtime: you were sitting at you desk with a homemade sandwich, lunchtime ticking away far too quickly. Your phone rang, and half expecting a scam call, you were surprised to find Michael’s name lighting up your screen.

You swallowed a bite of your sandwich before answering, “Hello?”

“Hello, hi.” His warm voice greeted her.

“I’m sorry. Did I forget we had a call right now?”

“No, no.” He suddenly sounded awkward again. “I, uh, I only have a few minutes, but I was hoping we could talk tonight? My shift should end at 7, but they never end on time.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” You said without thinking about it. “Usually you text me.”

A moment of silence passed. “I usually don’t have time to check my phone, and I just wanted to make sure you could talk tonight. You know, make sure you had a decent amount of notice. I’m sorry, I should’ve—”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped, clearing your throat, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

In his silence, you picked up on the array of beeps that grew louder on his end.

“I’ve gotta go, but I’ll call you tonight? 8:30, maybe?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “That works.”

“Good, uh, okay. Yeah. Talk to you later.”

“Talk to you later.”

—

In a rare lull of the Emergency Department, he had had his phone out before he had even thought about it, stepping into the staff lounge, and clicking on your contact. Usually it was a quick text sent in between patients, but then the phone had been ringing, your voice on the other end.

Michael stared at your contact after the call ended for a long moment, the chaos around him that had been quiet while talking to you slowly becoming louder and louder. Stuffing his phone back into his pocket and ignoring the feeling churning around his stomach, he jumped back into it. Dana had been the one to alert him of a car crash incoming, and he hoped she had not caught him staring at his phone.

Despite the fact that his shifts usually blurred together with how quickly they seemed to go, this one had seemed to slam on the brakes. It was no less busy than normal, but each minute ticked away like an hour, driving him mad.

It was a relief when Jack Abbot walked into the ED to take over. Not wanting to seem too off, Dr. Robby lingered, helping out with a few more critical patients before Jack finally shooed him out.

His watch read 7:39 when he collected his things from behind the charge desk.

Part of him really wanted to open up to you — the anonymity was tempting, but so was your voice — but the other part hated being so vulnerable. Not talking about it had worked out pretty well so far, but it left his chest feeling so tight and made his nights nearly always restless. Or maybe it was the grief. Or the stress. Or the loneliness.

Maybe not so much the loneliness anymore, Michael thought to himself.

Michael walked into his apartment and discarded his backpack by the door, along with his shoes. His entire body sagged, exhaustion running through his system. He realized how hungry he was and knew there was not much in his apartment to eat.

Before he knew it, it was 8:31, making his heart jump. Reaching for his phone, his finger hovered above the call button before he took a deep breath and pressed it.

You answered after two rings, ever reliable, “Hi.”

His lips turned upwards at the sound of you. “Hi.”

“How are you?”

He digested the question. From your handful of calls, it seemed to be your way of judging if he wanted to talk or just listen.

“It wasn’t a bad shift,” passed his lips before he had the chance to think about it. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t feel bad or stressed about it.” You said, not missing a beat.

“I lost a patient.” He told you. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

You went silent on the other end and guilt ate away his insides. It wasn’t about this patient in particular, or how he lost them, not really. Sure, that weighed on his mind, but nothing compared to Adamson, or the pandemic.

Despite the fact he didn’t want to talk about it, he kept going, “There was nothing we could do. I tried—we—”

“It’s not your fault.”

That struck down his spine, making him sputter. Maybe he was looking for a reason it was, maybe it wasn’t about this patient at all. He had a hard time distinguishing sometimes.

“I’m sure if you could’ve saved them, you would’ve.” You told him, and everything around him was completely silent. “I won’t pretend to understand the weight you carry, or how hard that has to be, but I know you did everything you could. You’re a good man, Michael, and god forbid anything were to happen to me, I know I’d be lucky to have a doctor like you.”

You said it like it was nothing, like the weight of your words did not scoop up the weight on his shoulders and carry it for just a moment. For a single minute, he felt okay. Then, the thoughts crept back in: but you don’t know me.

But maybe I want you to. He shook that thought off just as quickly as it came.

“I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“What?”

What? echoed in his own head, and he quickly started rambling, “You know, maybe talk in person. Might be nice. Only if that’s okay with you? We don’t have to, I—”

The weight of it burned heavily in his mind, churning his stomach. Would you want more money for that? Would you just consider it your weekly talk? Would you—

“That would be nice.”

His racing mind screeched to a halt. “It would?”

“Yeah, did you have a place in mind?”

Fuck! “...no.”

“Well, dealer’s choice.” You told him, your tone light like you were smiling again.

He sat on that for a minute. Did he take you somewhere fancy? Someplace miles away to ensure no one caught you? He still wanted to make sure you stayed far away from his professional life, and he certainly did not want to answer any questions if anyone he knew saw you.

“There’s this Italian place just outside the city. I’ve been meaning to go back.”

“Italian sounds good, actually.”

He smiled.

—

This isn’t a date. This isn’t a date you repeated to yourself over and over again, trying to quiet the anxiety raging through your system. You weren’t all that surprised when he had asked to meet in person, it had been part of the conversation at the cafe. Phone calls had just been easier for him to fit into his schedule up until this point. Or maybe it was easier for him to talk when it wasn’t face-to-face.

According to Google, the Italian restaurant was more of an upscale place, which led to your anxiety on what to wear. Their menu was on the expensive side when you browsed their website. You felt guilt rise in your chest, knowing he was going to be paying.

How the hell did Erin do it? Let those men spoil her with things much more expensive than a nice Italian restaurant with zero feelings of owing them?

Erin’s arrangements are different, you told yourself, sighing deeply through your nose. This is still well in line with what we agreed to. So why on earth were you overthinking it?

Staring into your closet, you weighed your options. There was the knee-length navy blue dress you had worn to the interview for your job, or the pretty black dress that complimented your figure that you wore to graduation, or your most recent splurge: a dress in your favorite color with a flowy skirt. It wasn’t fancy by any stretch, but you certainly would not wear it out for a casual night either.

It seemed like a happy medium between something modest and something you would wear out with your friends.

After fixing your hair, you started your ‘get ready for a night out’ routine. Your mind wandered to what he would wear; would he dress up? Simple shirt and slacks? Would he wear cologne, or—

This isn’t a date, you reminded yourself, why does it matter?

Taking a long look at yourself in the mirror, your eyes took in your appearance. The dress was flattering in all the right ways. You took a breath, smoothing out the dress.

You took your purse from the table by the door, putting on your black heels and light jacket before walking out the door. You left early, stuck between wanting to be early and not wanting to be there first.

The drive did little to soothe your nerves, traffic proving to be as frustrating as usual. You tried to coach yourself through it. This was two acquaintances getting dinner, nothing more, looking to simply talk. Your standards were not high — he would either want to talk or listen, and you had plenty you could still tell him about your week. This was just going to be like a phone call…just in person.

When you pulled up to the venue, you parked your car and sat there — anxiety eating you up. You debated waiting a little longer, eyes flickering to the time: 6:25. Biting your lip, you gathered your purse, tucking your phone away before getting out of the car.

Michael was waiting for you once you reached the lobby, greeting you with a warm smile. You drank in the sight of him in the dim lighting of the restaurant, your cheeks heating. He was wearing brown chinos, a soft grey-blue sweater and a blazer — and your heart nearly stopped just looking at him.

The host walked you both to your table. As you walked past, you took notice of several of the other women, noting you were not overdressed and relief washed through you. Your table was tucked away near a corner of the restaurant, next to a window.

When you were seated, you looked over at Michael across from you and smiled. The lines on his face were softer in this lighting, but he was remarkably handsome regardless, with his lips in a soft smile.

“How—”

“I—”

You both laughed, before Michael gestured for you to start.

“How are you?” You asked, figuring it was as good a place as any to start.

“I’m okay,” he told you, but it looked like he was trying to convince himself more than you. “Uh, how was your day?”

His voice sent shivers down your spine, so used to hearing it on the other end of a phone call. It did so many things in person.

You sipped the ice water in front of you. “I’m well, thank you.”

“How’s that fraud project going?”

You smiled, finding it nice that he remembered some of your ramblings. You had wondered how much he actually listened to vs just needing a voice on the other end of his call.

“It’s going really well, actually. I’ve been really enjoying the course.”

“Good, that’s good.”

The waiter came by to take your drink order, and Michael surprised you by allowing you to order for both of you.

“I’ll have whatever the lady is having.” Michael said, turning his attention back to you.

“Do you like reds?” You asked, deciding wine would be the safest bet, shoving away the thoughts of him not liking wine at all.

He gave a simple nod, and you turned back to the waiter to order a simple pinot noir for each of you. You waited for any sign from him that you had made the wrong choice, but he was sitting happy as could be across from you. You looked down at the menu, weighing your options. You could try to be cheap and order something simple, or forget about the price next to the dishes and allow yourself to be spoiled.

“Tell me about your day.” He said.

That felt as easy as breathing, “I slept in, a rarity for me, but then I got caught up on studying. Between that and some of my reports, that ate up most of my day. My laptop is on the fritz, but as long as it’s plugged in, it’s been fine. Not an impossible work around, but thankfully I didn’t really need to be anywhere with it today. I bring it to classes with me sometimes, but hand-written notes are just as reliable, though they sometimes just look like chicken scratch.” You chuckled.

“Oh, please,” he laughed, “I bet yours are worlds better than mine. There’s a stereotype about doctors' handwriting for a reason.”

“At least I’m the only one who needs to read mine.” Smiling, you continued, “Why’s it so bad anyways? Is legibility an offense to you, or something?”

“The name of the game is speed, unfortunately. I’m so busy I’m lucky to sit down at all. Charting on the computer helps, but those physical files are not going anywhere.” He laughed. “You get used to it.”

You continued like that, jesting and enjoying the company of each other. The waiter came back to take the food order, Michael settling on a pasta ragu — you quickly glanced at the price of his item and found your second choice was just below how expensive his was. It made you feel better when you ordered it.

When dinner came, you settled back into small talk, trading conversation about the cooling temperature and the most recent Penguins game. After taking a sip of wine and placing it back on the table, you let your left hand rest next to the glass. Absentmindedly, you brushed your fingers softly against his, his hand beside his own wine glass. Your mind halted, your eyes taking in your hands touching — his fingers were warm beneath yours.

There was a clang! of his fork hitting his plate and your hand quickly retreated from the tabletop back into your lap with a jolt. Your eyes looked up, catching his flustered face, and anxiety invaded your stomach.

You swallowed, “Did you want to talk about your day? Or work, perhaps?”

He blinked at you, before clearing his throat lightly into his fist and grabbing his fork again. His eyebrows furrowed inward, but he was silent as he slowly chewed his food.

“Yeah,” he started, finally meeting your eyes. “I finally got some pesky chores done around the house that I’ve been putting off.”

With each word he spoke, he sounded like he was avoiding anything with substance. You accepted it regardless, mildly frustrated that he had a hard time opening up — but who were you to demand any more from him?

Taking in your raised eyebrow, he sighed, “I’m not good at this, I’m sorry.”

Blinking several times, “Why are you apologizing? You’ve no need to. I’m enjoying our conversation. I’m just ensuring I don’t talk your ear off.”

His lips flicked up, “Definitely not.”

You laughed, “Good.”

After several more bites between them, Michael sipped his wine, “Actually, I would like to be honest.” A long sigh escaped his nose while he avoided eye contact. “My job is…my job is stressful. I used to think I was good at compartmentalizing, but...” He shook his head, shrugging, “I don’t know. It’s been tough lately.”

You waited, watching him.

“You know, most days, it’s just trying to keep our heads above water. Some days there’s hope…others…” He was shaking his head again, taking a careful sip of his wine. His eyes looked far away, his face scrunched together.

Your thoughts flickered back to the other day when he had mentioned losing a patient and your heart ached. He was struggling to carry the weight of all of it, what possibly could you say to make it better?

You sat like that for several minutes in tense silence. You kept overanalyzing what to say, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

He suffered a small smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s been nice to talk to someone outside of that environment, you know? To talk about anything else, or listen to you talk about your days, even when I don’t say anything.”

A tiny smile graced your face, “I’m glad I can do that for you. I’m glad I haven’t been boring you.”

He exhaled, lips turning upwards, “Not at all. I’ve enjoyed our conversations.”

“I have too.”

You held each other’s gaze for a long moment, before the waiter came by to offer dessert. Your gaze lingered on Michael’s face before you glanced down at the dessert menu. You thought perhaps dessert was too much, so you went to say “I think I’m just too full.” but Michael beat you to it.

“Make it two of whatever she wants.” He was grinning again, mood slightly lifted, watching you with an amused glint to his eye.

You raised an eyebrow at him, but did not question it, quickly deciding on one of the options.

Dessert came with coffee, decaf for him, and lighter conversation. As the night wound down, you found you wished the night had been longer, enjoying his company. You wondered if you would be seeing more of him in person after this. You hoped so.

He paid the bill without allowing you to even glance at it, which after a few seconds of thought, you were thankful for. You knew it was not likely to be an outlandish amount, but you were glad to not have a number in your head to overthink.

Getting up from the table, you walked close together, arms brushing until you made the split second decision to grab hold of his arm. To avoid bumping into any tables or other patrons, of course. He had not been expecting it, by the way he glanced at you, but you kept your eyes forward. He didn’t say anything. Once back in the lobby, you loosened your hold, but he did not let you go.

“Let me walk you to your car.”

“Oh, thank you.”

You walked in the direction of your car, anxiety bubbling back up. This was usually the bit where your past dates tried — or succeeded — in kissing you. This isn’t a date this isn’t a date this isn’t a date, echoed loud in your head. Did you hug him? Just say goodbye?

“This is me.” You said awkwardly, stopping in front of your car.

He nodded his head, turning to look at you again.

“I’ll—”

“I—”

You smiled at each other, and you gestured for him to go first.

“This was…nice. Thank you.”

“Thank you, I had a good time.”

He shuffled his feet awkwardly, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Have a good night, Michael.”

“You too.” He said, turning to go, before turning quickly on his feet. “Let me know when you get home safe, yeah?”

Opening your car door, you looked back at him and grinned, “Yeah, I will.”

Offering a final smile before you got into your car, Michael walked in the opposite direction.

The drive home was much better than the drive to the restaurant. You felt warm on the inside, going over the dinner in your head again and again. You smiled the entire drive.

Walking into your apartment, you set your things down before pulling out your phone and pulling up Michael’s contact.

Home safe :)

[ Next ]

want to join the taglist? shoot me a message!

Companionship Taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @clementine111002 @virgomillie @emily-b @kaygilles @lt-jakeseresin @imonmykneessir @kniselle @cannonindeez @gabsgabsvaz

All Dr. Robby content: @cherriready

that damn dinner scene gave me trouble for some reason — sorry it took awhile!

Also?? Hozier’s Too Sweet is so Companionship coded

[lady-luckk]

the accidental cult...

# pairings: yandere cult harem x reader

# synopsis: you accidentally start a cult after a video of you goes viral. they’re weird and obsessive. they won’t ever leave you alone. now you have to deal with them forever.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, kidnapping, and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: this is a rewrite of my previous yandere cult harem from my old blog, @screeching-bunny. reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

it started with a mistake.

you weren’t sure how it happened. one moment, you were living an unremarkable life; the next, you were being worshipped. the transition was seamless, orchestrated with eerie precision. from the moment you were taken—kidnapped, though the word feels hollow now—there was a process. a routine. the priesthood that surrounded you operated like a machine, every action calculated to please you, every word carefully chosen to reinforce their beliefs.

at first, you resisted. you questioned them, demanded answers. you threatened and bargained. none of it mattered. they never raised a hand to you, never once forced you into anything. they simply provided. food appeared the moment you felt the slightest hunger. luxuries you never asked for were gifted without hesitation. if you so much as glanced at something for too long, it was presented to you like an offering.

and, slowly, you stopped fighting.

it wasn’t that you believed them. you weren’t that far gone. it was just… easier. if playing along meant safety, meant comfort, meant never having to struggle again—then why not? you told yourself it was temporary. that one day, you’d find a way out. but days became weeks, and weeks bled into months. and somewhere along the line, escape became an afterthought.

the wealth never ran out. that part unsettled you the most. you had assumed, naively, that this whole operation would collapse under its own weight. that your lavish lifestyle, the absurd amount of resources being poured into you, would drain them dry. but no. more and more people arrived. donations poured in. followers spoke of salvation, of miracles, of purpose.

you tried to understand why. the more you listened, the more disturbed you became. they weren’t just devoted. they were obsessed. they spoke of you in reverent whispers, their gazes filled with something beyond reason. their fanaticism was terrifying, unshakable.

“did you see them today? just being in their presence feels like a blessing.”

“i donated everything i had. it’s worth it just to know they exist in this world.”

“i would gladly give my life if it meant they smiled at me one more time.”

and that’s when you realized: there was no escape. not because they wouldn’t let you leave, but because they would follow. it didn’t matter where you went, how far you ran—they would find you. they would never let go. you were their god, and they were willing to tear the world apart to keep you.

at some point, you stopped trying to fight it. stopped questioning how it had all gone so far. you played your part, gave the speeches they wanted to hear, let them believe what they wanted to believe. but in the quiet moments, when the weight of it all pressed down on you, you wondered: were you their prisoner, or were they yours?

the room was filled with soft murmurs, the air thick with anticipation as you walked among your followers. they parted respectfully, bowing their heads as you passed. the atmosphere, once stifling, now felt suffocating in a different way—like a pressing weight that only intensified the longer you stayed. but despite the discomfort, you played your role. you always did.

as you moved, a young woman stepped forward, her hands trembling as she reached for your sleeve. you stopped instinctively, and she fell to her knees, her eyes wide with reverence. there was a sparkle there—a light, so bright it almost hurt to look at.

"please," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet of the room. "i have to know... do you see me? do you see what i’ve become because of you?"

you took a breath, still unsure of what to say. you had been asked questions like this a hundred times, each one more fervent than the last, but something about her voice made you pause.

"i see you," you said slowly, as though the words themselves might break something fragile. "what have you become?"

her eyes glistened, tears threatening to fall. "a better person," she answered, her words almost a mantra. "you’ve changed my life, my everything. i used to feel lost, so... alone. but now i have a purpose. i live for you. everything i do is for you."

she leaned forward, her forehead nearly touching the floor as she offered her devotion. "please, let me serve you. let me show you how much i adore you."

your stomach churned at the sincerity in her voice, the unshakable belief that had taken root in her heart. the adoration was too much, yet it was undeniable. she wasn't the first, and she wouldn't be the last.

before you could speak, another voice cut through the air, low but urgent. "i’ve been watching them for months now," a man said, stepping forward, his hands clasped tightly together. "they... they really do change lives, don’t they? they brought me back from the brink. i had nothing. no hope. no reason to keep going. but now? now i have something. someone. them." he glanced at you, his gaze filled with something unsettling. "they saved me. and i’ll never be able to repay them enough."

you nodded, slowly, unsure how to respond. the words didn’t feel real, and yet here they were, in front of you. his voice wavered, but the desperation was evident. the belief that you had saved him, that you had somehow reached into his brokenness and fixed him, left you frozen.

a third figure, older, stepped up, his voice trembling but firm. "i left my family for this," he said, his tone almost apologetic but with an underlying pride. "i couldn’t be a part of that life anymore. they didn’t understand, they couldn’t. but you... you gave me clarity. you gave me direction. everything else faded. and now..." he hesitated, tears welling up in his eyes. "now i live only for you."

the others stood silent, watching. waiting. their faces a mixture of devotion and fear, as if each word spoken could break some invisible bond. but they were all in it together. they all believed. the room felt suffocating with it, the weight of their collective faith pressing down on you.

one of them, a younger man, almost frantic, reached forward and grabbed your hands with shaking fingers. "do you know what you’ve done for us?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but sharp with emotion. "you gave us purpose. you made us feel seen. before you, we were nothing. now—now we are everything. we are your chosen ones."

he looked up at you, eyes wide, as if waiting for some kind of affirmation. but there was nothing you could say. nothing that would change this. they were all too far gone, caught in a web of their own making, and you—unwillingly, unknowingly—were at the center of it.

"please," the woman from earlier said, her voice pleading. "we need you. we will always need you. don’t leave us."

you felt your chest tighten at the intensity of it all. you didn’t want this. none of it. but you knew, deep down, that you could never get away. they wouldn’t let you. not now, not ever.

you didn’t speak immediately. the words seemed too small, too inadequate to say in the face of their belief. so instead, you gave a nod, just the smallest movement. it didn’t matter. they saw what they wanted to see. your mere presence was enough.

"thank you," the older man whispered, his voice breaking. "thank you for saving us."

and in that moment, as the room held its breath, you realized—there was no escape. not because they wouldn’t let you leave, but because they would follow you, wherever you went. they had already made up their minds.

you were their salvation. and they would never let you go.

it had all begun with an accident. a misunderstanding that spiraled beyond your control.

you had been walking home one night, unaware of the eyes that followed. it wasn’t until the news spread—an image of you caught in the glow of a streetlamp, head bowed, hands clasped in exhaustion—that something shifted. someone online called it divine. a joke, at first, a meme shared in obscure corners of the internet. but the joke gained traction. people sought meaning where there was none, shaped a narrative around you that you had no say in. strangers whispered of a prophecy, of a long-awaited return.

then, the disappearances started.

a handful of them at first. people who claimed to have seen you in their dreams, who abandoned their lives in search of you. others took it further. they created spaces of worship, their symbols and prayers growing more elaborate with each passing week. the whispers turned into murmurs, then into a movement. before you knew it, you had become something beyond yourself.

you didn’t know who orchestrated your abduction. you weren’t even sure if it had been planned or if it was simply inevitable. but when you woke up in the temple—if it could even be called that—you knew something had changed forever.

perhaps, in another life, you would have been able to stop it. but this was not that life. this was the one where you had already been chosen.

you changed their lives, though not in the way you would have ever wanted.

they spoke of you as salvation, as the one who had given them purpose where before there was only emptiness. they wrote about you online in posts that blurred the line between devotion and mania. forums filled with your name, thousands upon thousands of messages dissecting your every expression, every word, every breath. they claimed you had healed them, that your very existence had given them something to believe in.

and they reshaped their lives around you.

people quit their jobs, abandoned their families, sold everything they owned. they gathered in clusters across the world, connected through the web of your unwanted divinity. they fought with outsiders, with each other, with themselves. all for you. always for you. every action justified by their unwavering faith.

you tried, once, to dissuade them. you spoke plainly, told them you were just a person, that there was nothing special about you. they wept at your feet, overcome by the "humility of their god." your denial only strengthened their belief.

you were the center of their world, and nothing you did would ever change that.

to them, you had saved them. they spoke of how they had been lost, aimless, drowning in the meaningless cycle of existence. you had given them something to hold onto. a purpose greater than themselves. something to dedicate their lives to.

in their eyes, you had made their lives better. you had freed them from the burden of choice, of uncertainty. they no longer had to question what came next. every day had meaning because you existed. every struggle was worth it if it was for you.

but you knew the truth. they had not been saved. they had been consumed.

the realization was suffocating.

to them, you had made their lives better. you had freed them from the burden of choice, of uncertainty. they no longer had to question what came next. every day had meaning because you existed. every struggle was worth it if it was for you.

some had been lost, drifting without purpose, and now they belonged to something greater. some had suffered, and now they found solace in your presence. they were willing to give everything because, in their eyes, you had already given them more than they had ever dreamed.

they smiled more. they wept with joy instead of sorrow. they spoke of love, devotion, and fulfillment.

to them, you were salvation.

you knew better.

[thewitchblue]

"Hold this for me. Thanks."

You handed Damian a baby goat before walking away as if nothing had happened. You gave him a light pat on the shoulder as you passed him and a kind smile.

Damian blinked at the goat in his arm before turning back to your retreating figure. Where did you get the goat, and why are you giving it to him? He's an animal lover, true, but unless you have a secret animal farm, what happened? How did you acquire a baby goat? Did you steal it? Assuming you did steal it, why would you steal a goat? What is your motive? To say you kidnapped a kid?

He had only questions and no answers. You were already next to your boyfriend, Dick, so it would be impossible for him to separate you from him for answers. Neither of you ventures far without the other lagging behind. You move as one unit. There would be no answers to his questions unless he can corner you strategically.

He looked at the goat in his arms and decided with a sigh that he was already in love with the innocent doe eyes looking at him. Fine. Dump your kid on him. Maybe you saved it from an abusive farm. He would like to pretend that this is a rescue case and not a kidnapping.

Regardless of how you got it, he walked up to Bruce with the baby goat in his arms. He awkwardly cleared his throat, but Bruce didn't turn around immediately, so he said stiffly,

"Father."

Bruce was on the Batcomputer, but he turned around in his chair to face Damian. The only surprise Bruce showed was slightly raised eyebrows. He sighed softly and petted the goat.

"What do you want to name it?"

He didn't bother asking why he had a goat or what led to him gaining a goat (Bruce knows for a fact he didn't buy that goat and none of the Supers have reported any missing livestock yet). He had long since become used to Damian and his animal loving heart.

Damian had not thought of a name. He glanced back at you. What would you name the goat? Knowing you, you'd probably name it something stupid like Billy, thinking you're funny to name it Billy Goat. It's not even a billy goat. It's a pygmy goat. He thought about it before saying,

"...Noel."

Bruced nodded his approval before turning back to the computer. He was focused on a case. He said,

"Put Noel in with Batcow."

Damian walked away without another word. He held the goat like it was his child. He cradled it as it falls asleep in his arms. How is he going to leave the cave if he doesn't have any hands to do anything besides hold Noel? He'll find out.

Nobody questioned why he now has a baby goat. They merely petted the goat as he passed, but you gave him a grin. You knew he'd like the goat.

He wanted to be mad at you, but he found that he couldn't. He loved Noel already. He held the kid closer to his chest and wrapped it in his Robin cape.

He has no idea how to raise goats, but he will have to figure it out. You just gave him an assignment to research. How does someone raise goats? Will he have to get another one? Farm animals are normally social animals. Would Batcow count as a companion for his new goat? He had no idea, but he realistically should have gotten Batcow a friend already. Titus isn't with her all the time, and she must get lonely. Maybe he'll ask Jon for tips if he can't figure out everything.

He sighed as he looked at the adorable goat in his arms. He hates how much thought was put behind gifting him a goat despite the seemingly randomness of it all.

Damian likes you a lot. However, much to his misfortune, you are not done gifting him thoughtful presents. He has no idea how to handle these thoughtful gifts. He always ends up running away.

He'll eventually learn how to cope with being surrounded by your loving gestures, but for now, he's embarrassed how much you know about him. You know his passions, and you seem to know what's going on in his life.

Every off-handed comment mentioned in passing, you found a way to gift the family something they never thought about buying. Jason was given a therapy dog for his trauma and loneliness, Tim was given a graphic card when he was mentioning he wanted to get into gaming more, Bruce has new upgrades in the Batmobile (which you show him how to use and what everything does), and Dick has you. Kind, compassionate, ever giving you.

You laughed at Dick's side and gave him a quick kiss. You loved this family, and they quickly grew to love you. You fit right into the wacky group of heroes.

Jason pretended to hate seeing the adorable couple, but his romantic heart beats for couples happily in love, even if they are disgustingly so such as Dick and you.

His dog also loved the duo, but the massive dog remained cuddled on his lap as Jason sat on the couch. For some reason, his Newfoundland dog decided she's a lapdog. He was lucky he was as large as the dog, or he'd be drowning in dog fur.

Tim, truthfully, did not care one bit. He appreciated all your knowledge about him, even if it was slightly creepy. How did you know he was missing his favourite sweater? Where did you get the sweater? He doesn't even remember where he got the original. Part of him assumed it was Connor's sweater all along that happened to get mixed in with his stuff.

How did you know Tim has always wanted a specific ring from his father's collection that he was eventually buried wearing? Is this how people feel when Tim "researches" them? You knew too much about him. He can't hide anything no matter how hard he tries. You seem to know everything.

You wrapped your arms around Dick with a grin. You loved this man more than you loved air. He knew it, his siblings knew it, Bruce knew it, and the public knew it. Neither of you was subtle about your relationship, but that's just how your relationship works. You feel like two kids in love.

He leans in and whispers,

"I know you gave that goat to Damian."

You beamed. You weren't trying to be sneaky in the slightest. You loved seeing Damian happy and unguarded. His expression softens, and a small smile spreads across his face. In those short moments, you like to pretend that is default Damian. The soft, kind-hearted kid with so much love to give.

"He will love that goat. I can already imagine the miniature ranch he's slowly gaining. Do you think I should get him a horse next?"

Dick laughed. He loved that your brain was already thinking of the next gift to give his littlest brother.

"How are you going to sneak a horse into the house, cutiepie?"

You smirked. You were already plotting. He narrowed his eyes playfully. What is going on in your brain?

"I don't have to go through the house. I can use the Batcave. All five of you would rush at the triggered alarm."

He shook his head with a smile. You and your little schemes. That would be one way to make an entrance.

"Where are you going to get a horse?"

He didn't like the excited gleam in your eyes. You had a connection somehow. Did Jon tell you where they got their horses? He'll never know. You keep your connections to yourself.

"I know a girl."

You didn't elaborate further despite Dick's pestering, so eventually, he let it go. He won't be surprised if Damian finds a horse in his room after patrol.