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keferon · 15 hours ago

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Two Peas in a Pod: part 3/?

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Jazz was vaguely aware that Blaster was studying his reaction – or waiting to see if he would give into impulse. But Jazz's excitement had crashed to a puddle of nerves, a bunch of unidentifiable nerves, and he felt anchored to the spot. "Did you find out anything new about – him?" He asked, unsure of… far too much. "Like is there anything I should know?"

"The whole team still has a lot to discuss about," Blaster hesitated, his tone twisting into distaste just before the pause. Yet, relented to whatever it was that was bothering him and continued calmly, "about… him. There isn't anything I have to share, sorry."

He knew the apology was insincere, a show, just another part of the performance. They were friendly, but not friends.

Blaster had always been the one that told him more about what was going on around them than most ever had his whole life. He actively tries to get closer to him more than any past caretaker has and listens to Jazz. A flaw rather than a improvement for their first few years together as Jazz was prone to lying. Still was, but he do so less often and was more withholding the truth with Blaster. But Jazz couldn't quite bring himself to honestly trust him. He did, but not really. Because Blaster was still staff.

And the staff were currently hiding something, something they either didn't want Jazz to know or something they thought he wouldn't understand, so it was pointless. Jazz looked up at him with a – fake and flawless from practice – understanding smile, with the next line in the script. "It's okay."

Blaster smiled back, one that was genuine, than asked, "you calmed down enough for a check up? I got to keep an eye on your blood pressure."

Rather than answer with words, Jazz turned away from the gate and headed for the slope on the pier.

—

He spent the next two hours before dinner between quickly checking the clock and floating in front of the gate. The other orca hadn't even moved, and if not for the clear sound of steady breaths, Jazz would have probably started to freaking-out – okay, he was already freaking-out, but it was back on how he was going to talk with the wild mer. Or, heck, where to start on what to say.

The last thing Blaster said; before finally going home after a busy fourteen hour day, was that there was no need to worry if the wild mer slept until tomorrow. His wounds would recover faster if he didn't move, if anything it was a good thing. For now, went unsaid.

Thus, dinner came and went. Still asleep.

Day staff signed off and night staff came by to sneak a peek. He could pickup on them with his sonar coming by the bay window, but each time voiced disappointed that they couldn't see anything due to the hammock's position. Still asleep.

Dusk came and Jazz struggled to stay awake, exhaustion was finally catching up to him. Still asleep.

—

A wobbling keen caused Jazz to flinch and peek one eye open. It was probably the middle of the night with how dark it still was. As he blinked awake and stretched, his tired brain suddenly realized it understood that sound, that word – {where?}

Jazz quickly rolled over and looked towards the wounded mer. Not quite able to see, but was getting enough of an image of movement with his sonar. Combined with the sounds of shifting fabric and soft rattle of metal supports, Jazz could tell he was awake.

A weak questioning call followed along with a faint splash.

Ah, right, uh–! Jazz panicked for a moment, he didn't want him to become frightened and reopen his wounds, or think they were somewhere all alone. Diving down to an old memory and remembering the warmth, Jazz hoped he could convey his words with comfort, {it's okay… you're safe.}

He didn't get a vocal response, but they became still and within a few minutes, Jazz heard the soft steady breaths once more. He had fallen back to sleep and Jazz couldn't help but smile a little. It wasn't long before he also drifted back off as well.

—

Prowl groaned as he moved, he ached all over, but was given some pretty nasty tugs of sharp pain to remind him of just how bad it was. As he opened his eyes, though still groggy, he took a quick note of the situation as he looked about.

The space. Dim lighting, white walls, an air pocket room with a shallow pool, two doors; one in the water, one on an above-surface area – unusual. Sonar was giving almost unreadable imaging and with a limited range due to other sources of interference – there was a lot of noise to sort out. But he was getting what looked like corridors on one side, large open space on the other. Overall, a simple structure.

His position. A hammock – a bit too snug, unable to rollover, but acceptable comfort.

Injuries. Multiple points of laceration on his arms, flank and tail; claws from other merfolk. Deep punctures along his left side; teeth of a leviathan. Of both arms, the left has more damage and is pinned in a solid net-like cast; potential fracture. Cuts are held shut by a bright coloured, mesh-like covering that clings tightly to his skin by an adhesive, rough to the touch, but not uncomfortable or irritating – likely breathable to reduce infection during the healing process.

Additionally, he noticed in his inspection that his claws had been filed down to his fingers. Irritating, but not unexpected given the extreme caution most give to someone like himself. But in all, this was not first-aid, the treatment is professional.

Conclusion: local clinic.

Prowl gave a breath of relief and relaxed. Someone must have found him adrift after the skirmish and rushed him to a near by town or village. As everything was far to modest to be a big city hospital.

Suddenly, he sensed movement that went over him swiftly and looked up. But whatever it was was gone. Prowl was only picking up empty space above the light-blue ceiling. Then another zipped by. A bird?

Prowl felt everything slow to a stop as cold dread sunk into his bones. That wasn't a ceiling.

That was the morning sky.

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I hope I have the right understanding of how advanced the merfolks civilization is... otherwise this is really awkward. >_>; I also wanted to give Jazz at least one human that is trying to make things better for him and be on his side (he's secretly providing inside information to mer activists and trustworthy researchers). Blaster worked hard to gain the position he has to be Jazz's lead caretaker, but fighting the system and working with in it (or risk being replaced by a yes-man) is a frustrating balancing game.

Sorry this one is so short. The next part is going to be really long as Prowl and Jazz get finally meet! I hope it is worth the wait. QuQ

Thank you for the hug, I return the hug!♡♡♡

-GLC

Oohoh my god oh my

The waitinggggggggggggg. Jazz is slowly going insane and so am I *dies*

Upd: I linked all the parts written by GLC together>:D

Link to the previous part

Also the fact that Blaster is actually gives the information away to those activists??? MUAH. SO GREAT. This would also be a pretty solid reason for why Jazz and Prowl wouldn't get separated after the uh. Haha. The violent incident. Imagine if Blaster immediately got the security tapes and uploaded them somewhere? Kinda like it was with Black fish documentary uncovering the murders done by captive orcas?

Point is. People would see that "oh no those two poor mers defend each other so much they turn violent when separated" and pressure the Aquarium to keep them together. Maybe I sound stupid here but it does make sense in my head. It's really nice for Jazz to have someone on his side is what I'm saying. I love that:>

Separately. The tiny interaction they have is so soft and gentle I'm gonna melt. The little {you're safe}?? AUGH

I can't wait for them to interact IM DOING THE JAZZ ARC IN REAL TIME BASICALLY JUST FREAKING OUT OVER THE FUTURE COVERSATION AHAHDKMGMHMFNFMGMF

Also

Prowl: That's a weird looking underwater facility....

A bird: flies

Prowl:

#and yeah you understood right #merfolks do have their civilization and technology and cities and hospitals and everything #they're technologically advanced lads~#GLC #apocalyptic ponyo #jazz #prowl #I wanna draw so bad but my tablets battery if dead uugjjfkflfnfnfmf #jazzprowl #blaster #I'm vibrating at the speed of fucking sunlight over here #the serotonin do be generating like crazy #there's NOTHING more delightful than looking through the inbox #and seeing an ask starting with “tho peas”#immediate improvement of my living conditions #ponyo jp writing

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dekaydk · 3 days ago

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This is how I defeated one of my enemies at $BIGCORP.

The previous year I'd started this little passion project within my team. I'd scraped together funds in order to get a proof of concept working. This year I'd managed to get some dedicated funding to get it into formal development, but it was still small and would take a lot more money to scale up from a beta test to full deployment. It was also pushing the boundaries of what our department head thought was our remit. It was far from a sure thing.

This bozo in another team thought that he could do something similar but by persuading one of our existing suppliers to build something on top of their (unrelated) system. This would also mean expansion of his declining empire. The vendor (another $BIGCORP) was famous for being expensive and slow to bring products to market (and for the first couple of major versions to be terrible). But, a vendor solution was automatically in a position of strength. Our 1000-person department's head was famous for saying he liked having single vendors because it gave him "one head to chop off."

I was able to volunteer to take the meeting notes. Just some minor subtle tweaks in the wording of the meeting summary bullets (which is all that most people who weren't in the meeting ever read) was enough to create doubt in the minds of the folks with the budget approval powers.

When decision time came, my dude had zero advocates for his plan.

Even happier ending: when we started rolling out my project, it got so much positive word of mouth that we had people from all over $BIGCORP asking when they could get it in their part of the business. My team were suddenly the Hot Thing for our scrappy little project.

Someone at an old job asked why I wanted to write up the meeting minutes for our team and I said 'i wanna control the narrative' and they were like 'what' and I pointed out that no one was gonna remember what we said in six months and so my interpretation of the meeting would dictate the assumed reality of what happened

"none of you ever send corrections when I offer the draft so y'all have consented to my version"

"we don't read that shit"

"you must trust me implicitly to create our shared reality that's so sweet"

That's how several coworkers decided I was a supervillain and how I learned several coworkers didn't understand record keeping as like a CONCEPT

#this is how i defeated one of my work enemies at $BIGCORP #he wanted to pursue something expensive and dumb yet plausible #which would have come at the expense of one of my own projects which at the time was only in a beta test #unbeknownst to everyone said project was about to become super-popular inside $BIGCORP #so i signed up to create the meeting summaries #just a minor subtle tweak here and there in the bullet points was all it took to create doubt in upper management #when decision time came he had zero advocates for his idiotic idea #narrative matters

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prael · 22 hours ago

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Conciliation

ILLIT Moka x Yunah // part 2 to Punishment

words: 6,035 Masterlist

Two weeks have gone by. Two weeks since the incident in their dorm room. For Yunah, it's as though that night never happened. It was just some afterthought that had been shoved down in the deep corners of her memory, as though she would sooner forget and have Moka pretend it was nothing at all.

Moka thinks of nothing else.

She thinks about it in her classes, daydreaming when she should be practising. Rehearsals have become a stop-start procedure, with everyone turning to Moka with the same question: are you okay? She feels so pathetic. Embarrassed at herself, but still thinking, wondering, wishing, that maybe tonight might be that night; that Yunah might snap at some point and give her just a single touch.

She's thought about doing it again, just the same way, touching herself while Yunah is around. Even the mere idea has Moka wet with shame. It would work, surely, it has to work. Then Moka talks herself out of it. Doing it again, trying to instigate a reaction, she may as well just confess, beg, and plead with Yunah. Admit that she likes her. Tell her just how crazy it makes Moka when she walks around the room in only a t-shirt and panties. When she shakes her hair loose out of a ponytail, her brunette hair cascades in the moonlight, looking so soft and thick, and Moka can't get over her.

They're on their way out of the country, for another big show. Another sleepless night spent travelling. Another opportunity for Yunah to glare at Moka when she's obviously not focused or too busy stumbling through her moves. Another opportunity for her to sit there, only her and her dirty, little thoughts.

There's a slight turbulence, enough to make the sleeping Yunah move in her seat, her head rolling to the side. She looks peaceful and beautiful. That same fringe she's so particular about always ends up in her eyes, so naturally, Moka wants to reach up and push it away, but she forces herself back, that's the last thing she wants; to wake her and look suspicious.

"Not sleeping?" A voice from the other side, makes Moka tear her eyes away from Yunah and find Minju. Minju gives a curious look at Yunah before returning her gaze to Moka.

"Can't sleep," Moka confesses with a sigh.

Minju doesn't reply at first, the look she is giving, makes Moka believe she is contemplating whether she should share or not. "Me neither. Keep thinking about tomorrow."

Moka hums a vague affirmative in response. She wants to appear agreeable and that she isn't preoccupied with the thoughts of someone else.

Minju gives her a wry smirk. "What about you? You keep spacing out."

Her question strikes a chord in Moka. For some reason, she can't deny it or lie about what's been going through her head, and even when she should probably deny it, Moka still finds herself talking about her. "Have you ever liked someone who hated your guts? Like so much it physically hurts," Moka can't help the questions slipping past her lips. It's pathetic really. She should know better, and she knows she's saying too much and too openly, but it's not her fault. She just can't handle it all, not for another minute.

"Are you saying there's a guy you like?" Minju asks, which at least offers Moka the reassurance that the others haven't realised what's going on; why else would she ask that? "You know we're not allowed to date anyone, Moka."

"I know, and I'm not going to date anyone, but I can still like someone, right?"

Minju laughs. "Yeah, you can do what you like," she replies while stealing another look at the older girl across from them, sleeping. "So why does he hate your guts then?"

"Well, I—"

Yunah sighs, breaking the conversation as the pair suddenly falls quiet. They freeze like deer caught in the headlights of a car as Yunah, shifts in her seat, adjusting her position before relaxing again. There is a relief between them, letting out a heavy breath at the realisation that their friend is still very much asleep.

"Lucky her," Minju finally says, shaking her head. "I can't wait for us all to be back in our hotel rooms and having some proper sleep." Minju sighs, turning back to Moka. "You were saying?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Don't worry about it, forget I said anything," Moka rambles. She finds herself silently cursing herself. If the truth of her desires slipped and spilt out, there's no telling what kind of trouble she would be in. But Minju looks at her in a strange sort of understanding, nodding and giving her a reassuring smile.

Moka returns the sentiment and lays her head on her friend's shoulder. Her heartbeat starts to slow down, and as time passes, sleep draws in, luring her into its clutches, and at last, her eyelids flutter shut.

It's 4 am and they're shambling into the hotel lobby, weary, eyes burning, muscles tired, with sore shoulders and legs.

"We've booked rooms for you all. We just went with the same arrangement as the dorm," the manager explains, sending Moka's heart crashing. She and Yunah. Of course. She nods weakly and trudges to the lift alongside her members.

Yunah opens the door, and Moka follows. They haven't spoken a word to each other. The moment the hotel door is closed, and Moka drops her bag on the floor, Yunah takes off her jacket, hanging it on a hook. Moka slips her shoes off, trying her hardest not to make eye contact.

"Moka?"

Fuck. Why couldn't she just walk past without saying anything? Moka's cheeks feel hot. Why now? She glances up, and the look she receives from Yunah doesn't give anything away.

"What's gotten into you? Are you sick?" She snaps, walking right up to her. A rough hand takes hold of her chin, forcing her face up and it shocks Moka so much that it knocks her off her axis for a moment.

There she is. Again. So close. It takes a moment, or three, to figure out what she even said. Moka goes to shake her head, but with her face being held so firmly in place, it's impossible. "No, I'm fine." She swallows. "Just a little nervous."

"Why are you lying to me?"

Her face is still gripped, she's forced to keep eye contact with her and she hates it. She hates that her skin prickles as Yunah's beautiful gaze pours down.

"Whatever," Yunah says incredulously, her hand holding Moka's jaw. Moka nods as best as she can and then she's released. She misses her touch the moment Yunah's hand is gone and she's left to drop her head. "We can't have you being distracted tomorrow. Just get it together."

The older girl retreats into the bathroom, closing the door and leaving a disgruntled Moka alone. She could scream, but instead, she swallows down her frustration.

Moka undresses and slips into her shorts and tank top. She flops onto the soft covers and waits. Curses and empty wishes run through her mind; her fist tightens into a frustrated ball and her eyebrows furrow. How is she supposed to do anything like this? How can she think about anything other than her?

Soon, Yunah returns, but all Moka gets from her is silence, nothing, absolutely nothing, and yet here she is, lying and waiting. Pathetic, it's downright fucking pathetic. She takes a deep breath and lets herself turn and stare at her back. "Yunah?"

"What?"

"Why did you make me feel good?"

"You talk about that like it meant something," Yunah responds, turning her attention away from her phone. Her beautiful hair fans out against the pillow.

"Did it?"

Yunah responds with her own question, "Did you want it to?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry." She turns her attention back to her phone, effectively dismissing her and the conversation altogether.

"Please—"

"Goodnight, Moka," Yunah bites. Her tone leaves no more room for discussion. No room for questioning.

Moka clamps her mouth shut, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. What more could she say? How many ways could she plead with her before it becomes demeaning? But the silence in her room makes the ache between her thighs feel unbearable and impossible to ignore.

It's nearly an hour later when Moka gives in, dipping her hands between her legs. She rubs against the front of her shorts and shudders as she teeters on the brink of losing her senses and giving in to her desires. But the bed shifts, the sheets move, and she stops.

Yunah rolls over and she looks at Moka, as though expecting her to do something, anything. The eye contact alone has Moka feeling so small and helpless.

"Do it," Yunah whispers.

"W-what?"

"I know you want to. These past weeks you've been so distracted. I know you're always thinking of it, of what happened, what I did. I see the way you look at me."

"I... I'm sorry."

Yunah rolls her eyes. "Just do it."

"But you hate it. It makes you uncomfortable, I can't—" Yunah cuts Moka off as she moves closer, she slips her fingers past the waistband of Moka's shorts, down to the wet warmth of her cunt. "Yunah," she whimpers. Moka bites her lip to hold in the noises, but it's impossible to stay silent as Yunah runs teasing touches over her lips, threatening to slip between them.

"You can't do it, can you? Not on your own, not since I've touched you." She says it so plainly that Moka can't help but agree. She knows the truth. "But you don't want to ask for my help because you know I'll just say no. So here I am, doing it for you." Yunah's finger slides between Moka's lips and runs up to her clit. It makes Moka gasp. "Think about why that is. Why would I want to help you?" she murmurs as her fingers circle the hard, little nub.

"I don't know." The words are barely audible.

"I think you do," Yunah says and then her fingers go away.

"No, don't stop."

"I know it's hard, Moka," Yunah whispers. Her fingers are back. They're running through the lips of Moka's cunt, sliding easily, making the skin slick and sensitive. Moka can hardly think as the fingers run up and down, stroking and teasing, edging closer to the opening. "But I need you to say it."

"Because," Moka chokes out. Her head is spinning, and she feels so dizzy. She can hardly form a single thought. All she knows is how good she feels, how desperate she is for those fingers. "You like making me feel good. Because you want it just as bad."

"Because I want it, Moka," Yunah whispers, pushing a single finger into Moka's tight entrance. It sinks in so deep and she moans. She's so fucking sensitive. The feeling of the finger as it enters and stretches her, the feeling as it curls inside, the way it moves slowly and deliberately, is enough to have her trembling. Yunah has to lean in and put her mouth by Moka's ear. "I can't get the fucking thought of you out of my head."

"Oh god."

The words have the desired effect and Yunah's hand moves faster, the thrusts come harder and Moka is completely helpless. Her body starts to arch, her back rises off the mattress and her chest is pulled upwards as if offering herself to the other girl. Her little chest rises, her nipples hardening under the material of her top. Yunah looks at her body and smiles. She pushes a second finger inside, her thumb begins to work her clit and Moka's hands are holding tight to the pillow behind her.

Moka doesn't care that she's moaning, or that she can't stop saying her roommate's name. All that she cares about is how her body is starting to clench, how her hips are bucking and how her legs have gone so rigid, and it's just the best feeling, the best thing that she's ever experienced in her life. Moka opens her eyes and finds Yunah staring. Her face is so close; Moka wants her closer.

She has the overwhelming desire to taste Yunah's lips, but not the strength to pull her down, so she settles for the fingers inside of her and the hand that keeps working her cunt until the orgasm comes.

Moka pulls the pillow tight around her head, muffling the sound that spills from her mouth. She feels her walls tightening around Yunah's digits, her entire body clenching and shaking, and her eyes rolling back. She's so close.

Yunah climbs over her, kneeling between her slender thighs and her fingers never leave. They're so deep. The pressure is too intense. She feels the walls inside of her start to tighten, the heat growing inside her. Moka's head turns and buries into the pillow she holds onto for dear life.

"Look at me, Moka," she coos, leaning into her. "I said look at me."

Yunah takes Moka's hand, prying it away from the pillow. Powerless to resist, Moka's arm is pushed above her head, and then the other. They're placed together, held under Yunah's grasp and Moka's head is free and forced to look at the beautiful woman on top of her, forced to see those deep brown eyes and that gorgeous hair, that pretty face with the full lips, the perfect lips, the ones Moka wishes were pressed against her. But that would be too much. Moka would never want anything more ever again. If she kisses her then it's game over, all she would ever need would be right here. Moka could never think about anyone or anything other than her, ever again.

Moka's stomach tightens, and her face contorts. She lies there helplessly as she is overcome, and the climax hits. She can't help it. She's moaning so loudly and she's clenching around Yunah's fingers. Her legs shake and her arms try to pull themselves away, to have something to cling to. But she can't move. All Moka can do is give into the pleasure. It washes over her, the sensation coursing through her body, making her toes curl.

She leaks messily onto Yunah's hand. The sounds of wetness fill her ears, the lewd, squelching noises as the fingers continue to work her pussy, fucking her through the high and prolonging the sensation until her mind blanks, her body convulses and her voice breaks into a pathetic whine. Moka's head thrashes back and forth, and she's crying, sobbing out loud.

She's left panting, chest heaving as she looks at Yunah who's smiling. That beautiful smile, the one she loves to see.

"You're so pretty when you cum, Moka." She says it most sweetly, and her eyes seem so sincere. Moka wants to kiss her more than ever, and she wants Yunah to feel good too, just like she did. But her body feels like jelly and she can barely move. So she can only lay there and try to catch her breath.

Yunah lowers, laying her head on Moka's chest, her ear pressing gently to her heart, as though listening to it. Her body still twitches and shakes and her legs remain spread with Yunah still nestled between them. Moka tries to calm herself, and she can feel Yunah's breathing slow and soften, her weight shifting on top of her.

"I'm sorry, Moka. For ignoring you, but I knew this would happen. I knew that once I gave in, I wouldn't be able to stop," she murmurs. Moka can only manage a hum in reply. She doesn't even understand what Yunah means, not really, she can barely understand her words. Yunah puts her hand on her waist and slips her own pyjama shorts over her hips and down her long legs. She kicks them off and they're left tangled up at the foot of the bed.

It's when Yunah raises her head from Moka's chest that Moka realises what's happening. Yunah slips her fingers into the waistband of her shorts, pulling them down and off of her legs and throwing them aside. Moka feels so exposed. She can't hide the fact she's blushing, that she's so nervous, that this is what she's been waiting for, what she's wanted.

Yunah pulls her own shirt over her head and throws that off the bed too, and now Moka's staring. Tight and toned. Perky. It's like she can't help but let her eyes roam. She's the most perfect girl in the world. Moka's hands reach up to her, running along the curves of Yunah's body, the smoothness of her skin. Her thumbs brush over her nipples, feeling them harden and rise.

Yunah sighs, and Moka wants to make her do that again. She wants to hear all her pretty noises, just like Yunah said she loved hearing hers. So, she sits up and her hands go around Yunah, holding onto her, bringing her closer. She's so tall. Moka's face presses into her chest and she breathes against her, feeling the heat and inhaling the sweet scent of her.

Moka is so nervous. So anxious that she will do something wrong. She has to force herself to lift her head and part her lips, to lean forward and place her mouth over the stiff, little peak on Yunah's breast. She sucks, pulling it in, feeling the way it moves, the way Yunah lets out a breath and the hand that comes up to her hair. Fingers run through her black locks, nails drag along her scalp, and Moka moves her head to the other, repeating the motion, sucking the skin, flicking her tongue over it and pulling it with her lips.

Yunah moans and the grip tightens, she holds her head, and the other arm wraps around Moka. Reassurance in the form of a touch. It tells her she's doing well, that Yunah's liking it. That's all that matters. Moka wants her to like it, she wants to please her, and she wants to know how to make her feel good. She smiles against her smooth skin, placing kisses, licks, and bites all over her. Appreciation for this girl and her beautiful, wonderful body.

Then Moka finds herself lying on her back. Yunah climbs on top of her and Moka's heart thuds hard against her chest. This is everything she's wanted.

"Don't freak out," she whispers, her breath against Moka's face.

"Never."

Yunah shifts her weight and then Moka feels it, the wet heat of Yunah's cunt against hers, and the sensation of her body on hers. Moka looks down at their bodies and can see the point of their connection, where their skin meets. The sight of it alone makes her mouth go dry, her stomach flips, and it takes all her strength to keep herself together. And then Yunah rocks her hips, grinding against Moka, her slick pussy rubbing against Moka's. The sensation of her skin moving, her wetness, it makes Moka's eyes roll back.

"Yunah..." Moka gasps, her body arching, and Yunah pushes her down.

She does it again, and again, sliding against her, pushing her hips hard. Her breathing is growing faster, and heavier, and her moans are so quiet. Sparks ignite in her lower body. The pressure, the heat. It feels so good to have Yunah against her like that.

Yunah leans down and buries her face in the crook of her neck and she kisses and nibbles at her skin there, whispering against the spot. "Why does this feel so good?"

"I don't know," Moka gasps. She's losing her breath already. She's panting and she feels so hot and dizzy, but in the best possible way.

Yunah can't hold back, she can't hide the fact that Moka makes her lose her control. This cute, petite little thing below her; with her innocent, big brown eyes, and her adorable smile, that makes Yunah want to melt, she's her weakness. Moka, who she heard so many times, night after night. Moka, who she's ignored and tried to put from her mind, but can't. And now she has her. She has her little Moka beneath her, squirming and panting and whining, and Yunah's hips can't help but rut down into her.

Yunah can't get enough of it. Moka's pussy feels so soft and warm against her own. The slick mess that grows between them, it's addicting. The sounds are even worse. She wants to make more. She wants Moka to scream.

All the confusion Yunah once felt has vanished, and in its place, a sense of belonging, a feeling that she has to do this. That she's supposed to be in this bed with Moka and no one else. She never understood it. She was scared to admit it. But now there is nothing else she could ever ask for.

Yunah takes Moka's hand, interlocking fingers and squeezing. It's reassuring, and Moka's grip on her hand is strong, it tells Yunah she's feeling the same way.

"Moka."

"Yes," Moka answers.

Yunah looks down at the younger girl. Moka's face is contorted with pleasure, her lips are parted, and she's breathing so hard. She's completely lost to her sensations, and the sight makes Yunah's heart flutter, her skin burns and her body feels weak. "Moka," she whispers again. This time Moka's eyes open, looking straight at her. Their gazes lock and their fingers squeeze. "I like you."

"I like you too." Moka's smile is the most beautiful thing Yunah has ever seen, it triggers an instinct to fuck her harder. Moka's hand snaps to Yunah's hip and holds her tightly. She's moaning louder now. She can't hide it.

The bed creaks, the headboard hitting the wall. The sheets become tangled. They're sweaty and panting, and Moka's moans grow more desperate by the second.

Yunah can't stop herself any longer. Her stomach tenses tight, her body is on the verge of breaking and she can't take much more. "Moka," she calls her name, she's saying it so desperately. "Fuck, I'm going to cum." She can't hold on. Moka feels too good. Everything about this moment is perfect. It feels so right. Yunah can feel her own pussy twitch, she's getting closer to that edge. She can hear Moka whine, she's almost there. She wants Moka to finish. She needs it. "Cum with me."

"I want it, please Yunah. Please make me cum."

Yunah grinds harder. Moka's moans are so pretty. They fill her ears and they're the only sound in the room. They're music, they're the most perfect thing she's ever heard and the best song Moka has ever sung.

Yunah feels Moka's fingers tighten on her hip as she bucks her own up to meet Yunah's thrusts, and the sensation overwhelms them both. They cling to each other, both bodies trembling as the climax washes over them. Moka cries out, and it's loud. She doesn't even try to muffle herself as she squeezes Yunah's hand, and her hips jolt against hers. Yunah's face buries itself in Moka's neck, groaning into the skin, kissing, biting and sucking as the heat consumes her and her mind blanks, the pleasure takes over.

They lay there for what feels like forever, panting, their hearts thumping in their chests, the sound filling their ears.

It's then that Yunah looks up, pulling her head away. She looks down at Moka. Moka, her Moka, staring back up at her with her big eyes. The most gorgeous girl she's ever met. Her skin is so smooth and flawless. Her little nose, her cute lips, and the black, messy hair splayed on the pillow behind her, framing her face like a painting.

"Moka."

"Yunah."

Yunah leans down, pressing their foreheads together and Moka smiles, she can feel it against her face. Their breaths mingle and their hearts are so close, and Moka is holding onto her.

"I shouldn't have," Yunah pants, "shouldn't have lied to myself. Shouldn't have tried to ignore this."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not okay." She can feel Moka's lips brushing against hers. They're so close. It's just a little movement to close the distance between them, but Moka does it. She pushes her head up, and then Yunah's lips part. She kisses her and Yunah can't help but kiss her back, her tongue slipping into her mouth. Their tongues swirl and slide. Moka moans against her lips. The sound sends shivers down her spine. And Yunah wants her. She wants her so bad.

Moka is panting when Yunah breaks the kiss.

"It's okay now," Moka whispers, her breath ghosting over her. Yunah feels so weak. She's completely helpless.

"I think we need to talk about some stuff. But not now, not right now."

"No, not now," Moka replies with a giggle, leaning up and stealing another kiss.

Yunah gives her a lazy smile, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. She rolls onto her back, lying next to Moka, their legs still half-tangled. They lie in a comfortable silence. It feels so natural and normal as if it were always supposed to happen, that they were always meant to end up here. Yunah turns and looks at her, watching Moka stare at the ceiling.

"Is it weird that I want to do it again?" Yunah asks.

"Probably," Moka answers. She looks at her, grinning, "But so do I."

Thirty minutes later and Yunah finds herself mounted over Moka's face.

She's on her knees, straddling the girl, and the tip of her tongue is tracing patterns against her cunt. She's writing out love letters with her tongue. Signs her name on her clit and makes her legs shake.

Yunah braces, flat-palmed against the wall and throws her head back as she cries out Moka's name, grinding her pussy against the tongue. Sensitive and overused, yet still she wants this. She has to. It's not an option at this point. She's going to ride her until she can't possibly take anymore.

There's no coming back from this. There is only this, them, this room. The whole world has fallen away. It doesn't matter.

Moka is all that matters.

The warm tongue pushes past her lips and sinks into the soft heat, tasting her from the inside. She's moaning into Yunah's cunt, sending the most beautiful vibrations against her and Yunah is so fucking sensitive. Her thighs are shaking and she feels weak, she's struggling to hold herself up, but she can't bring herself to get off her.

"Your tongue, fuck," Yunah moans. The wet tongue laps at the mess, licking up her slick. Yunah can feel Moka swallowing, gulping her down, her little noises growing louder as she feasts. She's going to cum all over that pretty face. She's going to ruin Moka's perfect features and make them shine. Yunah is so close. She can't stop herself from thrusting forward. Her pussy is aching for more, throbbing as Moka eats her. She needs this, wants this.

"Moka... I can't stop, please don't stop," Yunah pants, pushing herself back onto her. Moka grips Yunah's thighs and digs her nails into them. "Fuck!" Yunah squeals. Her hips jerk forward. It's happening. It's too much. Moka's tongue won't stop, it swirls inside of her, and Yunah's legs are trembling.

Her thighs close tight around Moka's face, trapping it between her legs and her back arches, her mouth open, her voice hoarse and broken as she cums, and the walls inside of her clench tight.

And Moka is still eating her out. Yunah can feel the hot mess dripping from her pussy. She feels so sensitive. She can barely stand it, and her body twitches and spasms, and her heart pounds so hard. Her mind blanks. She's so tired, her body aching and exhausted, but her pussy still wants more.

"Yunah," Moka calls to her, patting her thigh and bringing her back from the brink of collapse, "Yunah, I can't breathe." Her little, muffled pleas have her snapping back to reality, realising that Moka's face has gone bright red. Yunah shifts, and she watches the way the girl gasps for air.

"Fuck, Moka." Yunah climbs from her and collapses beside her, chest heaving, sweat coating her skin. "Are you alright?"

Moka doesn't respond at first. She lays there, taking a breath and then she's turning, moving and climbing onto Yunah. "More than alright."

Yunah smiles at her, a sleepy smile that makes Moka blush, and she reaches up to push her black hair from her eyes. Her pretty little eyes are half-lidded and glazed, and her cheeks are rosy and flushed. Lips wet, with Yunah's arousal, it might be the hottest thing she's ever seen. "You're so pretty."

Moka giggles, a bashful laugh as she looks away. "Stop it."

"No," Yunah whispers with a smirk that she knows Moka likes. "I won't."

She flips Moka over and the girl lands with a yelp, a surprised and adorable little sound. She takes her liberties, to kiss and to bite, to suck her skin. Yunah is marking her. Deep kisses on her neck, bites that make Moka's body flinch and writhe, and her little noises are like the prettiest melody in the world. "So pretty," she repeats. "All mine."

Yunah moves down her body, her kisses trailing and leaving little bruises. She sucks her nipples into her mouth, swirling her tongue, sucking and nibbling on the stiff peak and making Moka's body buck up. Her mouth goes to the underside of her breasts, to the flat expanse of her stomach. She sinks her teeth in and Moka is whining. Her back is arched, her head pushed back and she's gripping the sheets, and Yunah is getting closer and closer to her destination. "My pretty girl," she murmurs into the smooth skin.

"Yunah," Moka whines and Yunah looks up, finding her staring, biting her lip. Her eyes are wide and desperate, pleading.

She lifts Moka's leg and kisses the back of her thigh. The younger girl is so sensitive. Her skin shivers as Yunah's mouth moves closer to her core. "Once we're home, Moka, I want to fuck you. Like really fuck you, hard, fast. I've seen those videos. What you watch when you're on your own." Moka squeals and her face goes crimson. She covers her head with a pillow. Yunah can't help the smile as she continues, "I want to do those things with you. One of those strap-ons. You'll look so pretty taking it."

Yunah kisses the girl's clit and Moka's entire body flinches. A hand shoots to Yunah's hair and grabs tight, holding onto the locks. She smiles against her, teasing her pussy, her mouth kissing and sucking on the lips of her cunt. "You can do anything you want to me," Moka gasps. Yunah can't help the laugh that slips out, a laugh of amusement and happiness, and Moka is squirming.

"You're gonna have to be more specific than that." Yunah kisses the mess from her lips, and Moka lets out the cutest, most frustrated noise, her hips lifting and her back arching.

"You can use me."

Yunah stops for a second. She raises her head and finds Moka looking at her. There is a blush to her cheeks and she looks embarrassed, and maybe even a little shy, but that glint in her eye is undeniable.

Yunah lowers herself, pressing a soft kiss to Moka's inner thigh. She takes her time, making a show of it, and Moka's breathing is getting heavier, more impatient. "Yeah?" She kisses her again. "Let me bend you over?" Another kiss. "Hold your face down on the bed while I fuck you?"

"Please," Moka whines, "Yes, yes."

"What else?" Yunah's eyes flick up. Moka's chest is rising, falling, rising.

Moka whines again. She throws her head back. Her body trembles. Yunah kisses her cunt. It's a deep kiss. It has Moka's hips bucking against her lips. "You can be rough with me," she finally manages, her voice breathy.

"Rough?" Yunah's eyebrow arches. She dips her tongue past the wet entrance and laps at Moka's heat. The girl's body is writhing against her mouth and Yunah can't help the muffled giggle. She's so cute like this, so easy to tease. Moka is panting. Her face is contorted in a desperate need for more, for release.

"If you want to," she mumbles, and Yunah is so tempted to tease her further. But Yunah is just as eager. She is so desperate for more of her taste, her body, her scent.

"Maybe," she whispers against the wet lips, "maybe, I'd rather be soft with you." Yunah sinks two fingers into her tight, wet hole. Moka gasps, and then moans. Yunah's mouth latches to the little nub of her clit, sucking it and swirling her tongue. The fingers thrust into her and curl. The walls tighten and tremble. "Take my time, fuck you slowly."

Yunah starts a slow rhythm with her fingers. Moka is whimpering, moaning and trying to buck into the fingers. But Yunah is stronger. Her free hand grabs the younger girl's thigh and forces her down, keeping her still and making her accept the pace.

"Slowly," Yunah repeats, "So slow you'll think it's torture. And I won't let you cum, not for a long time, until you can't bear it anymore." She kisses the skin, kisses her pussy, and then looks at Moka who's staring. She's flushed, her eyes wide and needy, her lips parted, and her body is trembling. "Until your little body is begging for release." She pushes another finger into Moka. She can feel the tightness around her digits and the way she throbs.

"Oh fuck," Moka moans.

"Or maybe I'll fuck you hard and fast." Yunah pushes down hard on Moka's thigh, and the pace picks up, the fingers slamming in and out. The lewd, wet sounds that Moka makes are enough to drive her crazy, the sloppy, messy sounds that come with every thrust and the sight of Moka's pussy, spread wide, stretched and accepting everything she's given, it has Yunah's head spinning. She feels delirious, high off of the pleasure she can give this pretty girl. "Hard, fast. Pound your pussy and make your entire body ache. Make you scream, make you beg me to stop because you can't handle anymore."

Moka's throat strains, and her body tenses. "I can't," Moka moans and Yunah can feel her pussy twitching, clenching around the digits inside of her. So easily does she cum against Yunah's fingers, and she's crying out, loud, without restraint. She doesn't even try to hold it back, and she's so wet. Her cum is leaking out, soaking her fingers, and it's the hottest thing Yunah has ever seen. She can't take her eyes away. She can't look anywhere but the way that Moka is cumming against her fingers.

She curls her fingers a little more and moves a little faster. The flow of cum becomes stronger, and Yunah can't stop the groan that leaves her. "Fuck." Moka's body is thrashing, she's whining and whimpering, and then it sprays a little, her cum, squirting from her and soaking her hand, her arm, the sheets. It leaks and sprays, it's the hottest thing she's ever seen, and Moka's body is spasming. Her hips are bucking and the moans sound so pretty.

And then Moka goes limp, she collapses onto the mattress and pants. She's staring up at the ceiling and her body is still trembling and shaking. Cum still leaking out and staining the sheets. All she sees are stars; pretty, beautiful stars.

"I'll never get tired of seeing you do that," Yunah murmurs as she pulls her soaked hand away.

"Shut up." Moka giggles and pulls her hands to her face. She covers her blushing face. "It's so embarrassing," she mumbles into her palms.

Yunah laughs, climbing from between her legs and lying next to her. Moka turns, lying on her side. "It's not," she whispers, "it's hot." Yunah runs her hand up Moka's bare thigh. Her hand slides to her ass and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Really hot."

#illit smut #Moka smut #Yunah smut #male reader #female reader #smut #f reader #m reader #kpop fanfic #Yunah x Moka #Moka x Yunah

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gaywineauntsstuff · 3 days ago

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Okay I’m gonna drop an unpopular opinion here

I really

Really

Hate the Jason and Damian met in the league and have a close brotherly relationship

I honestly think it detracts from BOTH of their development and makes both the characters a lot more 2D and boring.

And also I think it disrespects my GIRL Stephanie brown. Bc that close personal bickering, anything goes sibling shit? Yeah that’s Damian and Steph all the way.

And yeah I tend to credit Dick Grayson (bc he’s my boy) for a lot of the Growth Damian goes through. But Stephanie brown and him have the funniest sibling relationship in history

And I think to have as interesting of a development as Damian has had you needed characters like Dick and Steph to be his Batman and Batgirl.

Dick who I think we can all agree is objectively the least violent of the bats at a baseline (Richard crash out Grayson moments notwithstanding) as well as Steph. Both have angry moments of doling out justice but BOTH prefer rehabilitation methods and tend to be more mouthy and loud about their thoughts during a battle

Steph CLAWED her way up into her position, she fought for that and held on with an iron grip that left indents. She wasn’t as good as, Dick born acrobat Grayson, Barbara prodigy Gordon and Tim genius Drake. So she worked her ass off and FORCED people to pay attention to her and got good enough that she matches the rest of the bats on the field.

Dick HAS the experience of working with difficult cases. He’s lead teams his age filled with drama, infighting and death successfully, he’s trained kids younger than him successfully on panel.

He’s canonically a very adaptable teacher, who has strength in meeting you where you’re at and getting you to move to where you want to be.

Both these things helped Damian exponentially

Now let me be so clear.

Damian did the work.

Damian put in the blood, sweat and tears into changing his beliefs and perceptions of the world. But that would not have been possible if these two didn’t at least make it known that “hey you can be the kind of person who cares and still have value and not be weak and pathetic”

Damian going vegetarian/vegan bc of his morals, Damian choosing not to kill, Damian choosing to leave Robin, Damian making choices unrelated to mantles, regrets and vengeance. Is due to the fact that he had Dick Grayson and Stephanie brown as examples (now ofc Alfred was also very very very imp but I feel like no one ignores his significance so I don’t feel the need to add him here)

And Jason?

It also imo, FUCK UP JAYS DEVELOPMENT.

Bc if Jason could be this kind, empathic older sibling to Damian? WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK WAS HE DOING WHEN HE FIRST CAME TO GOTHAM? the way he treated the bats and the rogues gallery? Slaughtering all of blackgate to end up in Arkham, making dick watch him fall to his ‘death’.

No absolutely not

This is the ‘pit madness’ nonsense all over again

Jason had to see the world outside of Gotham and work with other people who were anti-heroes who fall into the category.

Bc Jason didn’t start out as an antihero

Jason was a full on villain with a grudge against other villains, he worked for the place he’s in. It’s bc of characters he interacted with, it’s bc of realizations he’s dealt with. It’s because he’s been a little too trigger happy in the wrong place and ended up looking at the grief he caused others and realizing he didn’t want to do that.

It gets rid of Jason realizing HE CAN work with his family.

It gets rid of Jason BECOMING a solid older brother to Tim and erases the Jason who WANTS to have a relationship with his family.

It erases all of the times he’s tried and failed and still got up and tried again

Both of them have grown bc of the people around them and I think if they had each other at that time it would’ve gone 1 of 2 ways

1) a toxic loop re-establishing bad beliefs and practices that damage both of them and leave them more resentful and stuck in their ways

2) they would’ve hated each other and tried to kill each other

In summary

-both these characters didn’t show up nice, they worked for it, don’t erase that

- don’t erase the characters that helped them grow (my girl Steph Brown being left out of conversations she started will kill me)

- Jason can have close relationships with the family im not saying he shouldn’t. I’m just saying that Jay is the cool older brother who very obviously loves you but was at college when you were a kid and now doesn’t really know how to interact with you and it’s awkward but you know you can go to him even if he isn’t your first call in most situations

- Damian was not a good person, he CHOSE to be that’s important to his growth. And with that growth came the ability to form the close connections he now has in canon. Without the growth he undergoes he wouldn’t be able to form the protective loving group of family and friends he has around him

- STOP IGNORING STEPH, I AM LITERALLY A DICK GRAYSON STAN ACCOUNT AND I AM OVERHERE TRYING TO GET CRUMBS OF MY GIRL OHMYGOD

- I would highkey love a short miniseries of Jason and Damian working together and developing a nice relationship both in and out of the masks but until we get that. I’m sticking to awkward brother that loves you but doesn’t get you at all

Also if you disagree/ have more nuanced takes on the Jay Damian sibling arc please leave in the reblogs and comments, I like hearing more nuanced takes and discussing just please don’t be a dick (hehe) about it

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no-144444 · 2 days ago

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confronting- o.piastri

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! Skyf1interviewer! reader

summary: a confrontation in a hotel room doesn't go so well thanks to Franco's loud mouth...

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

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Entertaining the idea of dating Oscar when you knew you’d be gone at the end of the season wasn’t fair. He deserved someone who’d be there for every race, be there for him. You weren’t that person. You weren’t the person anyone should want, you just weren’t like that.

Qatar rolled around and Oscar won the Sprint, and he was P3 in the race. You were meant to do the interviews. He knew that. That’s why he frowned when he was met with Jenson’s face at the end of the race.

“Where’s Y/n?” he asked, not holding the microphone up to his mouth.

Jenson smirked. “Missing her?”

Oscar nodded.

“She’s with Franco, he was pretty upset after the crash.”

“Oh,” he nodded, and the interview began.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

It’s not like you were trying to avoid him, it was just… easier that way. And Franco really was quite shaken after the crash, so that part wasn’t a lie either. You just didn’t want to deal with all of the shit the media and people online would give the two of you. You just wanted a nice, clean break from the world of F1, and the people online who shipped you and Oscar would never let that happen. It was upsetting, because he really was a good friend to you, and you thought you were a good friend to him. Maybe it could’ve been something else, if things were different. You sat with Franco, calming him down since he was pretty upset that his second last race of the season was fucked by a silly turn-one incident.

“What’s going on with you and that model?” you asked. He chuckled.

“Oh my, you saw it too? It’s so embarrassing,” he sighed. “Even my mother has been asking me about it.”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” you laughed at his reaction. “We can talk about anything you want.”

“What’s going on with you and Oscar?” he smirked and your face fell slightly.

“Nothing,” you shook your head. “We’re friends.”

“Friends?” he pried. “You two seem like more than ‘friends’ to me.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’re not. We’re just friends,” you assured him.

Franco sat up, leaning closer to you. He was so close his breath was on your cheek, his eyes staring longingly into yours. You knew what he was doing. “So he wouldn’t mind it if someone kissed you, no?”

You laughed, pushing him back down to his previous position of lying down. “Stop being weird. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He shouldn’t care anyway.”

“Let’s test that,” Franco challenged. “Kiss me in front of him, and then we’ll know. I’ll ask Lando to tell me about it, they’re close, right?”

You sighed, something about it felt a little bit… manipulative. And it’s not like you were looking for Oscar to like you back, he didn’t. That’s what he’d said the last time, it was only a joke, a prank, a mistake. Which was fine with you, of course. It made sense. You couldn’t be there for him while you were supposed to be there for someone else. Someone else on his team.

Ok, so maybe the move to Indycar isn’t just about Sky starting to cover it. Maybe, they need more European fans, and you have to go over there and sell it to them with a relationship with Pato O’Ward. Maybe McLaren is paying you a lot of money to do that.

Just maybe though.

“I can’t do that Franco,” you explained. “It’s not fair. And anyways, I’m kind of… seeing someone.”

“Is it Oscar?!” he questioned. You shook your head. “Lando? Lance? Zhou? Yuki? Who?” “He’s not in F1!” you giggled, watching as Franco freaked out.

“Who is he?! You have to tell me right now!” he begged, taking your hands.

“He’s in Indycar, that’s all I’ll tell you,” you smirked and his jaw dropped.

“Is that why you’re leaving?!” he almost shouted.

“No! Sky really is just branching out, but yes, it is nice that I’ll actually be able to watch his races,” you chuckled.

“I’ll miss you,” he frowned.

“I’ll miss you too,” you chuckled, pulling him in for a hug. “Now, I have to go do my post-race duties, so I’ll see you in Abu Dhabi, alright?”

He frowned even deeper. “Alright,” he mumbled. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me!”

You left the Williams garage with a smile on your face, very much amused by your conversation with Franco.

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You pulled up to the media pen, really to meet with Jenson and Nico, your co-hosts this weekend, but they were nowhere to be seen. Regardless, you prepared yourself with the running order.

Lance, Lando, Max, Checo, Zhou, and Fernando. That’s all you had to get through before you got on a flight to Abu Dhabi the next morning. After another few minutes of waiting, Nico and Jenson showed up, acting slightly strange. They weren't really speaking to you, only with each other. It’s not like they were excluding you, just… not asking for your input. They seemed guilty too.

Lance, Lando, Max, and Checo were all fine, polite and out of there quickly. Oscar didn’t show up. Unsurprising, as you had been avoiding him. Zhou and Fernando went by in a flash, and you were back to your hotel by 2am.

When you walked into your hotel, you were not expecting to see Oscar Piastri standing outside your door.

Holy shit. You were so astronomically fucked.

“What are you doing here?” you questioned. He turned to you.

He cleared his throat. He’d been thinking of a response to that question since the second he’d started waiting outside for you. What was he doing? This was insane. His plan was to make you stay, but he was much too upset to talk rationally when he got the text from Franco about you seeing an Indycar driver. Honestly, it crushed him. He genuinely thought you’d liked him. “I wanted to… talk? Or something, just to gauge what the fuck is going on here,” he was getting heated, and you understood he was probably angry with you, and it’s not like he didn’t have a reason.

“What do you mean?” you asked, opening your hotel room door and letting him inside.

“You’re going to Indycar?” he questioned. “What the fuck?”

You gulped, hard. “Yeah?”

“Why?” he demanded. “What does Indycar have that F1 doesn’t? F1 is faster cars, faster drivers, more money, more races, more countries, more-”

“Oscar! Did it ever occur to you that this wasn’t my fucking choice?!” you shouted over him. Silence. “Indycar doesn’t have Sky coverage, but Europeans are interested in the sport and they need a known interviewer to go there and make it easier to sell it to people, and I got picked. That’s it.”

“So it has nothing to do with whatever Indycar driver you’re fucking?” he scoffed. Your face fell. Your eyes fell to the hardwood floor beneath your feet. “Yeah, I know.”

Your face soured and you looked up again, offended. Who did he think he was? He had no say in your life at all. You’d hated him for 2 years, and you had no real reason to, now you had one. “I owe you nothing Oscar. I’m an adult in a consenting relationship, and yes he’s in Indycar, is that a crime?”

“Is that why you’re going over there?” he asked, stepping closer to you. You could cut the atmosphere in the room with a knife. “Or are you running away from something here?”

“Fuck you,” you pushed him back. This wasn't the Oscar you knew. He was different, angry, mean, and rude. You owed him nothing. “Get out.”

He nodded, and left without another word.

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mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

taglist:

@anotherapollokid @chelseyyouraverageluigi @suns3treading @patis643 @trees-are-books @stressed-cherry @revrse @awenthealchemist @imdyinghelpplease @successfulgarlic81

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swordandscytheandpen · 3 days ago

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Gonna be a little less polite and graceful than you, Ezra, sorry.

Notably absent from OP's post is any explanation or indication as to why one needs to "enjoy every step." It's all pure assertion, a cavalcade of moralizing "should" statements that only carry weight for those who are already convinced that AI developers are a witches' coven. Any particular reason a creator shouldn't focus on the end product? Any explanation as to why solving "the problems along the way" are so strictly required for accomplishment and authorship? No, OP's just dictating how other artists should and shouldn't engage with the creative process, which ironically has the effect of flattening the wonderfully diverse methods of artistic creation into a single orthodox Proper Way To Do Things. Artists, writers, musicians don't owe you a particular artistic process, they can and should use what creative modes and tools they see fit, up to and including LLMs, because choosing what resources to use, and how, is a creative decision too.

Guess what? I like writing, start to finish. For me, it's perhaps the only art form that is true for. I avoid using LLMs for creative-writing tasks because I enjoy having maximal influence over every step of the process. Yet I can recognize that this is not true, or indeed possible, for every writer. My own use case makes LLMs an unpreferable tool to use. That doesn't mean I begrudge the tool itself, or the authors who do choose to make use of that medium. I'm capable of recognizing that different artists have different methods, and that is a beautiful truth that feeds into the variety of works humankind is able to create.

Blanket opposition to LLM technology in creative contexts has no positive results. It's just another breed of purposeless reaction, and I have no idea why it's so widespread. You're policing people's means of expressing themselves, to nobody's benefit. OP, I'm glad that you get the most satisfaction from deeply engaging with the entire hands-on process; you've found the method that works for you. I do not always get that same satisfaction, and I can find first-drafting a bit tedious at times, but I do it anyway because that's how I can best forge the end product I desire. Some others wish to project their thoughts onto a canvas or page, but don't feel the need to stick their hands into every brushstroke or line of text to create a work that brings them joy and fulfillment. Why tell them how to make their art? You wouldn't do that with anyone else. Mind your own damn business.

Unpopular opinion but if you don't enjoy the process you should find a different thing to do.

And I think this is true in general but now I'm talking about it in the context of AI.

If you don't enjoy making art and only care about the end piece and how it'll look and how much traction it"lol get online then making art is not something for you, find something you enjoy from start to finish.

Same goes for writing: if you do not enjoy writing and rewriting and then some more and instead want AI to write for you, being a writer is not something you should pursue.

Sure, not every part of creative process is going to be equally enjoyable but you should get satisfaction from solving the problems along the way and you should get a sense of accomplishment on your way of "making the piece yours" and you should have a sense of ownership once you are done.

None of these things will come from typing in a prompt into chatGPT. And I am sad to see so many people are missing on the opportunity to experience the joy of making something with their own hands and brains.

#sorry for being kinda abrasive but the longer this moral panic goes on the less patience i have for it.#it better die down in the next couple years or i might end up being a bit of a jerk on this topic.#my additions #ai art #silicon angels

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elipri · 2 days ago

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Oh man this chapter was hilarious, I laughed so much! But it's also filled with political details and dare I say a setup for future plots and (much needed) character development 👀

Starting off with the confirmation that Ostania is indeed a nationalist country

This is also the first time that an outsider seems to view The Punch as something positive, as though Anya is standing up to right-wing extremism (which would actually be super cool ngl)

All the comedy aside, this is the first child character who's actually aware of politics and international relations. It makes sense that a prince has to keenly study politics and diplomacy, most of his thoughts are about his country and which repercussions his interactions in Eden could have on the grand scheme of things. This kid literally breathes politics, everything from his mannerisms, expressions and thoughts is deeply embedded in his political upbringing. That's quite a burden for a 6 year old kid...

Now let's talk about how this will affect my favourite brat hahaha

They are literal opposites in everything, but I find it interesting how the prince is basically a subversion of Damian (and could probably bring out the worst in him)

Damian thinks he's hot shit because of his father and acts as though he's royalty, but he's maybe a noble at best. He calls everyone who doesn't share his status a peasant and looks down on them. His expressions are brash and very rude and he has gotten reprimanded for it before. He aspires to become a politician, yet he lacks every single skill for that. However he's also courageous when it does matter.

The prince on the other hand is obviously of royal descent, but he's not arrogant at all. In fact, he's just scared of international scandal and a coward. He's humble and eager to befriend his Ostanian classmates and doesn't care if they're "peasants". He has actual diplomatic skills that he applies all the time. He's honest and straightforward in his thoughts and doesn't feel ashamed to openly befriend Anya, even going as far as suggesting that he should visit her home

I can also see him subtly and passive-aggressively make digs at Damian. There seems to be a suggestion that his kingdom is either politically centrist and/or left-leaning and Damian might incorporate everything that prince hates. He would also get away with provoking Damian because he's already mastered diplomacy (for a 6 yo lol) which could ultimately lead to Damian embarrassing himself in front of everyone (and maybe even earn a tonitrus that he kinda deserves ngl). Unlike prince, Damian is impulsive, emotional and just starts to scream at everyone around him. He doesn't know what composure is.

Honestly I wouldn't be surprised if most of their classmates will start to distance themselves from Damian and no longer put him on a pedestal. Why should they when there's a literal prince among them who treats everyone with respect and is always eloquent, even when he's internally freaking out.

All of this will hopefully trigger Damian's long-overdue character development. The clash with prince is inevitable either way, especially because Anya is involved. Yes I want to see jealous Damian, but I also want him to grow up a little and realize that he's not that important, he shouldn't treat others as beneath him and most importantly he should realize that he knows nothing. He doesn't know what actually makes a great leader and politician. He doesn't know how Ostania and his father are viewed internationally. He's not aware how his actions could actually bear political consequences.

I do hope he will befriend prince in the end though, he could learn many things from him. Only in Eden do international relations form during elementary school lmao

#sxf spoilers #spy x family #sxf 112-2 #sxf 112 #sxf analysis #yea im calling that kid prince for now lol

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solxamber · 2 days ago

Text

Mission: Emotionally Compromised || Jamil Viper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Parade of Intelligence Failures™:

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

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

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

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

This is getting pathetic.

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

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

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

And then he walks in.

Enter: Jamil Viper.

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

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

And his entrance exam? He aces it. Perfectly.

Too perfectly.

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

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

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

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

Slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips.

This could be fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then Jamil arrives.

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

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

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

Your skin? Clear.

Your inbox? Organized.

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

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

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

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

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

So, you make a decision.

You will convert him to your side.

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

The numbers didn’t make sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it hits you.

His hair.

His stupidly perfect, annoyingly silky, meticulously styled hair.

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

Your brain connects the dots.

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

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

Your eyes widen. You grab Jamil’s arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamil chokes on air.

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

Jamil doesn’t bother correcting you.

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

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

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

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

Jamil doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why does it feel so different this time?

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

And then there was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He almost believes you.

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

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

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

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

But today? Today, you were at your limit.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

And then, you smiled.

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

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

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

His confusion deepened. “Why would—?”

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

The silence that followed was deafening.

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

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

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

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

Well.

He wasn’t about to admit it was impressive.

Or flattering.

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

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

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

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

And there he is.

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

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

He startles like you caught him committing a felony.

Which, honestly, makes you even more confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What just happened.

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

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

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

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

You crouch down. Laugh a little.

And then you pull out your phone.

You: thank you <3

Meanwhile, In Jamil’s car:

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

And immediately slams his forehead into the steering wheel.

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

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

You’re going to be the death of him.

Jamil does not get sick.

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

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

And yet.

Here he is.

Dying. Absolutely, irredeemably, spectacularly dying.

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

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

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

And then—

“Jamil! What’s up?”

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

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

There is a long, stunned silence.

Then, very, very slowly—

“You’re what?”

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

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

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

“…Oh.”

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

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

He does not hear the rest.

Because he blacks out.

Jamil is sick.

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

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

You did not expect this.

And worse—he sounded awful.

Not just tired. Not just mildly inconvenienced.

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

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

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

There is no response.

You ring again. And again.

Nothing.

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

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

And Jamil is standing there.

Barely.

He looks terrible.

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

You are horrified.

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

Like death. Like the very concept of suffering incarnate.

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

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

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

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

“…Food?”

That is not an answer.

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

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

Oh. Right. Him.

Jamil is going to die.

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

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

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

The numbers blink back at you ominously.

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

Jamil tries to protest. He does.

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

Oh.

Oh, that is nice.

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

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

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

Like a child.

Like he is some helpless, pathetic creature.

Which, okay, maybe right now, he is.

But still. This is humiliating.

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

Jamil finally falls back asleep.

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

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

You should not care this much.

And yet.

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

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

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

A pause.

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

Behind you, Jamil shifts.

You do not notice.

But he notices you.

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

You look worried. For him.

Jamil stares, something twisting in his chest.

Oh.

Oh, he is so incredibly doomed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because of course Jamil was going to take the bait.

And sure enough, there he was.

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

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

And then—

He just… stops.

Your eyebrows shoot up. Oh?

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

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

He clicks out of the important files.

Your jaw nearly drops. What.

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

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

—bypasses all the juicy, corporate secrets—

—ignores all the schematics—

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

You almost choke on your popcorn.

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

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

You sit there, stunned.

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

He took your emergency raccoon meme collection.

You blink. Once. Twice.

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

Oh. Oh, this is delightful.

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

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

For you.

How flattering.

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

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

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

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

Oh, interesting.

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

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

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

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

Because Jamil blocked your path.

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

He looked wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamil broke.

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

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

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

And then, hypothesis proven, you kissed him back.

For a moment, you simply blinked.

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

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

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

Jamil freezes.

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

And yet, here you were. Choosing him anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #jamil viper x reader #jamil x reader #jamil #jamil viper x you #jamil viper #twst jamil

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salemlunaa · 10 hours ago

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YES, WE ARE ALWAYS SHIFTING ˚∘𓇼

manifesting and shifting are one. but why, and how?

so i did promise a longer post and had many asks prompting me to go into more detail

and to do that we must define what shifting is, like what is really is.

The GENERAL DEFINITION for the word “shifting” is "A change in position, direction, or tendency."

A change in position as in where you are in life, direction as in where your life is going and tendency being a likelihood or natural indication. For example, "she has a tendency to be lazy" a shift in that would refer to a reality where she isn't lazy.

That's it, that's all it is

You can interpret manifestation any way you want, however the reason a lot of you can't see this is that you don't understand. The stigma around "shifting" has altered your perception of the word and the process. Shifting isn't just you being whisked away on a broom to Hogwarts. Shifting isn't just you being a kpop star. You've seen people speak about shifting in such a way that you think it's this crazy astral, otherworldly experience.

Both concepts are altering your reality, whether you are inducing the void, manifesting or shifting, you are changing your position, tendency and direction. Shifting isn't change, that's it. Both concepts rely on the principle that consciousness creates reality. And in both cases, you are embodying it until your desired reality until it becomes your experience truly.

There are infinite realities, the reason why there is no difference between manifestation and shifting is that in both cases you are moving/placing your awareness in your desired reality. Yes, you shift because you manifested green eyes, because there was already a reality in which you had green eyes and all you are doing by affirming and watching subliminals for green eyes is resonating with that reality and placing your awareness in that reality.

The same goes for pure consciousness or the void, without the barriers of the time, the 3d and outerman limitations, you are able to shift timelines to a reality where all your desires have materialised.

TO SHIFT IS TO EXPERIENCE CHANGE. TO CHANGE IS TO EXPERIENCE A SHIFT. THERE IS NOTHING MORE TO IT

✺✺✺

Now for everyone's favourite counter argument: "Why would my entire family change if im losing some weight?" "I don't want to leave MY reality, with MY people for manifesting something small"

cue deep sigh….

You aren't "Leaving" anyone, when you shift your awareness and place it in your desired state, because everyone is you pushed out, the people around you will "shift" with you to update to YOUR assumptions. This isn't to say that you can shiftier enter the void to help others it means your perception of the people around you will change to accommodate your new assumptions.

You don't "lose" people, you experience them in alignment with the reality you see as desired, eg, you experience the mother who knows you with green eyes instead of brown, nothing else about her changes. You’re not getting some other mother like in Coraline

The Law didn't start existing when you found out about it or when it's convenient for you. This HAS been happening but because you didn't notice, you were fine. When you have made small changes through manifesting, your reality has shifted to where that has been true, again if you wanted green eyes, great there is a reality where you have blue, brown amber or even multi coloured eyes, but you are choosing to place your consciousness in the reality where you have green eyes.

Your family and friends aren't going to disappear because you have made a change about yourself. Your perception of them changes. If you manifest that you always had blonde hair, your parents will change but the only thing that will change about them is their recollection of you with brown hair, as they now know you've had blonde hair your whole life.

It's not some out of body experience it's shift, you're not waking up in magic world because you wanted a change in weather. A shift doesn't have to be this extravagant event. You only have that assumption because when you've seen people use the word "shift" they use it to describe massive life changes, completely changing the world around them, whether that be for a tv show or something they've scripted themselves.

Shifting means to change, that's it, that's all. "I just want to manifest in my reality" you don't have a home reality as you're always changing. There is no such thing as "your reality" for just one. All these realities are yours in the same proximity. And we are always changing.

There is no such thing as a "home reality" because reality is not fixed-it's fluid and ever-changing. Every time you manifest, you are shifting to a version of reality where your desire is already true. You're not "bringing" something into one set reality; you're aligning with a new version of it. So whether you call it manifesting or shifting, you're doing the same thing, selecting a different reality from infinite possibilities.

I think looking into quantum jumping and a quantum shift will allow you to easier see the unity in shifting and manifesting

Manifestation = having a desire → deciding you have it → by using methods, your awareness is placed in your desired state where you have that desire, nothing else has to change, but it's still a change, a shift.

WHEN YOU STOP SEEING THE CONCEPT OF A SHIFT IN SUCH A HEAVY LIGHT, YOU’LL UNDERSTAND

THERE IS NO SEPARATION, IN THIS COMMUNITY WE’RE ALL DOING THE SAME THING

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pinkyqily · 3 days ago

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ONLY YOURS - JUJU WATKINS X READER

Summary: Because of recent speculation, online, it makes you rethink your relationship with juju.

Warning: cursing, angst to fluff, reader bluffing, miscommunication from r

Author's note: this fic was requested by @atditsitzjt and I hope you enjoy reading this, we love Otto in this house, I just needed someone who juju is close to build up fic tension.

feedbacks are always welcome and happy readings readers 💐

To be honest, you had no reason to think that juju would cheat on you.

But overthinking is a bitch and that how you and juju found yourself in this messy position in you're relationship.

It all started with when you saw a comment about how juju is always with Otto and doesn't she have a girlfriend to go to.

That comment didn't bother you at all until the sudden change of your algorithm.

You started seeing post of people shipping them together, pictures that looked way too intimate.

how they are always together from practice to hanging outside of campus together.

You felt like your heart got twisted and toyed with. You waited until she would come over to your place to try and bring it up, not wanting to jump into conclusion yet wanting to give her the benefit of doubt.

Juju came around, and she could tell something was wrong, but she didn't want to push your buttons after the long day she had.

You both enjoyed each other company, but the sense of lingering tension was obviously in the air and if anyone was to enter the room they would most likely feel suffocated.

You were laying on your girlfriend as she scrolled through her phone on Instagram.

But you couldn't keep quite anymore and got off her, she looked at you a confused.

you cleared your throat to speak.

"So you and Otto hang out with each other a lot." You started with.

"Yeah, she's my best friend, you know that." She said.

"You guys are really close for best friend".

"What point are you trying to make?". She said, looking irritated.

"I'm gonna be straight with you, Juju are you cheatin-. Before you could finish you heard her cut you off. "Don't you finish that sentence, what made you come to this." The way she reacted caught you off guard.

"Oh, I'm sorry that my supposed girlfriend loves hanging out with her best friend more than her actual gf, that it has the internet speculating if you guys are dating".

"You have to be serious, you're getting your claims from delusional people on the internet?". She said looking really hurt by the not so accusation you put against her.

"Yeah because they make more sense than whatever your fucking saying juju".

"What can't you understand she's my best friend just because we're always together, means nothing to me." You heard her say, she tired grabbing your hands but you simply moved back creating more space between the two of you.

"But it does to me do you ever think about how I would feel huh, you don't see me always hanging out with my best friend like that". You told her getting upset that she couldn't understand your point of view.

"One she's been with me since day one, she works with the team too, so of course we're always gonna be at the same place two just because we're always together means nothing to me". She explained to you. Grabbing both your hands as she continued speaking

"You're my girlfriend, not her, the person I love and adore you make me feel all sorts of things when we're together."

You felt a little shakend, she was someone who was always straight foward but doesn't to pushy with it. You had nothing to say to her they only thing you could do was leave the living room.

where you both we're staying so you could get some air.

You felt like a huge asshole for doubting her. What type of partner accuses there significant other, onto of that you use the internet as some type of excuses just because of your insecurities instead of communicating with her.

Oh you felt bad, after what felt likes hours but was only a few minutes you went back inside after staying outside. Juju was just how you left her, she was sitting on the arm of the couch fidgeting with her fingers.

You stood in front of her, but there was still the lack of distance between two of you.

You started by saying

"I'm sorry I shouldn't have accused you like that I don't know what wrong with me everything people were saying just got to me". You told her.

"I'm not gonna lie, your accusations hurt me, especially when you know I would never do you like that." She said, pulling you closer as she laid her head on your shoulder.

After your conversation with her that night, you expected her not to stay over like she normally does but she did.

You're both laying down in bed you couldn't fall asleep yet.

"Baby, I just wanted you to know I'm really sorry, and I feel so stupid thinking about it." You said, thinking she fell asleep.

"It okay, just go back to bed mhm". You heard her say as she pulled you closer by your waist.

"Goodnight, I love you." You said to her as you slowly able to fall asleep and be at peace without your mind playing tricks on you.

"I love you too." She said her arms stil wrapped around your body.

#juju watkins #juju watkins x reader #juju watkins imagine #wbb #usc women’s basketball #usc wbb x reader #wbb x reader #wbb fic #wcbb x reader #wcbb fanfics #wbb imagine #ncaa wbb #usc trojans #usc wbb #wbb oneshot #wbb fanfiction #wbb fluff #juju watkins fanfics

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lolitalovess · 1 day ago

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Behind closed doors.

sum: arranged marriage caitlyn kiramman x reader

warnings: this is short but i put my whole pussy into it, reader lowkey has issues, my girl cait does aswell, hardly proofread, INSANE lesbian yearning

you've always appreciated the way the kiramman manor looks at night, after the sun has lulled itself to sleep in orange hues and the moon is reborn - surrounded by black inc and a thousand stars visible through the large windows of you and your shared wife's room, the night-life of piltover with tall buildings and bright lights shown to your tired eyes from linen curtains pulled back.

it distracted you from how your back grew sore from your position of sitting against the headboard, and why you were here in the first place. you gazed down at your resting wife - she's gorgeous, with prussian blue hair fanning over her pillow and framing her face. you're jealous of her peace in her deep state of unconscious sleep the way her comforter is tucked to her chest and the way it rises and falls with every passing breath.

you had been sitting with your busy thoughts for far too long, you could hardly handle yourself anymore. you've never understood the purpose of getting married ever since you first learnt the term as a young girl. to know someone for a few years and finally like them enough to buy expensive rings and voice vowels to one another, which, most of the time, are bullshit.

but caitlyn kiramman, a woman full of so much dark blue woe and sorrow had just taken your heart, and it felt like a sin. was it? to find your arranged wife attractive, to yearn for her love, despite never showing affection or doing anything remotely intimate. it felt like it was.

the area surrounding you consisted of deafening silence like before, though you could swear that the dark shadows of the manor could morth into tall figurines watching you, especially the one heading toward you. you feel a wave of hotness manufactured out of pure anxiety travel through your body until you see azure blue eyes looking into yours with confusion and longing for your warmth next to hers in bed.

"i couldn't sleep." you speak quickly, voice soft in attempt to not ruin her peace. "go back to bed. it's too cold out here for you to just be wearing that robe."

she leaned her hip against the counter next to you, reaching her arms out for you as quickly as you started talking. it was almost like a hug, with her hands interlocking with eachother around your torso from the side, a small frown playing her lips while she studied the side of your face.

“can’t sleep or won’t sleep?” she asked softly, her accent slipping. she knew what it was like being up all night, in her own terms, alone with her thoughts in the empty felt rooms of the precinct. "go back to bed." you repeated, tilting your head to the side to rest it against her chest, which had her instinctively squeezing around her hands around your waist tighter to support you, enjoying the sight and feel of your body against hers. her hands on you would have you feeling like you were on fire if you weren't so tired. "i'll sleep in one of the guests."

it was a rare thing for the two of you to be physical, as much as it always bothered caitlyn how you would never stay close to her unless you needed something, felt unsafe, or was cold. otherwise, they would never touch, as much as your souls yearned for it. "nonsense," she spoke, her hands rubbing gentle circles against your side before speaking again, her deep voice soft and tender, not wanting to wake anyone up, or disturb her wife.

"sleep in the bed with me tonight. it'll be warmer." she added, taking a small step back as if it the action alone would convince you. the weight of your body being tugged along with her ever so slightly and gently had you focused on following her warmth and familiar smell of vanilla and lavender rather than pulling away.

the two of you stood in silence for a few minutes that felt like hours, the quiet beat of her heartbeat present in your ears whilst you felt sleep threatening to take over your conciousness. you knew you could fall asleep like this if you let yourself. "okay."

she was gently tugging you along with her out of the kitchen and back into the bedroom the moment you agreed, where the moonlight filtered through the slightly parted curtains that exposed the view from outside of the city, it was beautiful, even at night. the door was pushed open slowly and closed behind the two of you just as quickly, her feet taking herself to sit down on the edge of her familiar bed, swinging her long legs up and over to get completely on the bed once more. “come here,” she softly spoke as she patted the space next to her.

you complied at the soft demand from your wife, beginning to walk over to the bed opposite side of the bed, the silk covers pulled over your legs and to your waist after you settled. you felt the comforting action of sleep clouding your mind like every other night, the familiar feel of your jade wedding ring cold around your finger.

maybe caitlyn wasn't so bad.

the lesbian yearning goes crazyy... not gonna lie this concept has been in my drafts for AWHILE and i really enjoyed writing something that wasn't vi and smut for once 😭 might do another part to this, lmk what you think and want ♡

#caitlyn kiramman #arcane #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn arcane #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn kiramman x you #caitlyn x reader arcane #caitlyn x you #caitlyn x y/n #i want her children.#i need to wife her up soo bad you don't get it #♡

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revelboo · 2 days ago

Note

The fact that I, as a sex-neutral(maybe repulsed) asexual, love your writing enough to read over half of the characters. Including ones I didn't think I would like at first is beyond amazing. You are a god of writing. I don't even like reading smut normally, and yet I can't get enough of your work!

Speaking of, Wheeljack is such a sweetheart. Can we get more of him soon?

Thank you!

18+ Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Circuits and Wires Pt 13

Wheeljack x Reader

• Servos ghosting over warm skin, his mouth brushes your jaw. Relying on you to stop him if he crosses a line, because he knows what he wants, but he’s not sure if that’s what you’re after. I need you, those soft words spill warm through him. Giving him hope that he’s not misunderstanding you. And your little hands run over him, so soft and gentle before reaching to catch the hem of your upper covering and tugging it off to reveal skin. “You can touch me,” you whisper, expression vulnerable. Not like you’re unsure that you want him to, but like you think he won’t want to. That he might not want you and he hates that he’s given you that impression.

• “This okay?” He asks. Vocal indicators solidly red now as one of his palms rests on your lower belly and slides up. And he doesn’t move at first when you wiggle and start trying to strip out of the rest of your clothes, praying you didn’t read the whole situation completely wrong. Because if you did? If he’s not actually interested and you’re putting everything on display, you’re going to crawl into one of the vents and hide for a week in mortification. Finally, he gets with the program and shifts to stretch out beside you so you can awkwardly shimmy out of the rest of your clothes and you can’t look him in the optics when he stares at you. Now positive you just made things so painfully awkward between the two of you. That he’s not into your squishy alien self and you can’t really blame him. Something’s just wrong in your brain making you want him, alien or not.

• Reaching out he runs the tips of his servos from the base of your throat down your soft body, hesitating against your lower stomach. Afraid to move any lower. To ask for more. And you rest a hand on the back of his. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you say, still refusing to look him in the optics and it’s driving him crazy. “Really, it’s fine,” you add, face reddening. Venting softly, realizing how you’ve taken his hesitation, that you think he doesn’t want you. That he doesn’t need you there against him to calm his restless mind so he can recharge all night long. Your presence reminding him to take care of himself, because skipping a meal interval means neglecting you and he can’t do that. Needs you more than he can begin to explain, looks forward to explaining things to you, to your smiles and laughter.

• “I want to,” he says, hand sliding down to cup you. Servos stroking gently, uncertainly. And his helm bumps your forehead, those blue optics on you, not what he’s doing. Watching your reaction. “What feels good to you?” Honestly? Anything right now. Just want him to touch you, hold you. Hips rocking when he presses a servo inside you, your lips part. Feel his mouth brush yours again as you cling to him, hips finding a rhythm when he strokes you.

• Your scent on every ragged intake of his vents and the taste of you on his glossa when he deepens the kiss. Your arms looping around his neck as your wet heat grips his servo. “Wheeljack,” you murmur against his lips, riding his hand chasing your pleasure. And he’s lost in the way you look, eyes opening to stare up at him, lips parting on a breathless noise. Has no idea how he’s going to explain this to the other Autobots, but then they’ve always laughed at him. Thought he was a bit off, so maybe his newfound xenophilia probably won’t surprise them at all. Because he wants you, wants all of you. You’re his best friend, but he wants more. Needs everything. Needs you.

#transformers x reader #wheeljack x reader #wheeljack

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thefrenchfryturtle2 · 3 days ago

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1. What is you middle name? Don’t have

2. How old are you? MINOR

3. When is your birthday? Somewhere in September

4. What is your zodiac sign? Virgo ♍️

5. What is your favorite color? Gee i wonder…

6. What’s your lucky number? 13 :)

7. Do you have any pets? No :(

8. Where are you from? My mom

9. How tall are you? 5,2”

10. What shoe size are you? 5 and a half

11. How many pairs of shoes do you own? 6… okay that sounds like a lot but two of them are really old

12. What was your last dream about? Uh… I think i forgot

13. What talents do you have? I can fold my tongue into clover, wiggle my ears, flare nostrils, and make my eyebrows do a waveeee

14. Are you psychic in any way? Yeah. Sometimes I can read people’s mind and say things at the same time as them. Just ask @yourfavvvintj and @zerukye

15. Favorite song? Count on Me by Bruno Mars, tho Sweet Tooth by Cavetown is a really close second place

16. Favorite movie? Turtle Tale Sammy’s Adventure lol

17. Who would be your ideal partner? @zerukye lol aka my current one

18. Do you want children? NO THANK YOU

19. Do you want a church wedding? BEACH WEDDING!!

20. Are you religious? No

21. Have you ever been to the hospital? Haha yep-

22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law? No, I’m a law abiding citizen.

23. Have you ever met any celebrities? Do voice actors count-

24. Baths or showers? Showers

25. What color socks are you wearing? Pink and blue

26. Have you ever been famous? My tag game post has over 200 notes which is more than my average amounts combined.

27. Would you like to be a big celebrity? Yeah, but only in the science department.

28. What type of music do you like? Indie

29. Have you ever been skinny dipping? No, and I don’t intend to-

30. How many pillows do you sleep with? 2

31. What position do you usually sleep in? Fetal position or dead positon

32. How big is your house? Medium???

33. What do you typically have for breakfast? Bread and chocolate 😅😅

34. Have you ever fired a gun? Do Nerf guns count?

35. Have you ever tried archery? Yes and I sucked- i want to do it again

36. Favorite clean word? Shoot and dang

37. Favorite swear word? None, I don’t swear

38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep? I’m not sure-

39. Do you have any scars? Loads :)

40. Have you ever had a secret admirer? @zerukye

41. Are you a good liar? Nope-

42. Are you a good judge of character? Absolutely

43. Can you do any other accents other than your own? Bottol o wotor???

44. Do you have a strong accent? No

45. What is your favorite accent? British

46. What is your personality type? INFJ-T

47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing? Glasses

48. Can you curl your tongue? Yep

49. Are you an innie or an outie? Innie

50. Left or right handed? Right handed

51. Are you scared of spiders? Nope, I want a pet tarantula.

52. Favorite food? RAMEN!

53. Favorite foreign food? RAMEN!

54. Are you a clean or messy person? In the middle….

55. Most used phrased? BRUHHHH

56. Most used word? Bruh

57. How long does it take for you to get ready?

58. Do you have much of an ego? Depends on situation—

59. Do you suck or bite lollipops? Bite

60. Do you talk to yourself? In my head

61. Do you sing to yourself? Of course

62. Are you a good singer? Yeah lol

63. Biggest Fear? Needles….

64. Are you a gossip? I’m gossiped about lol.

65. Best dramatic movie you’ve seen? Titanic haha

66. Do you like long or short hair? Short

67. Can you name all 50 states of America? I’m not even going to try… but yeah probably

68. Favorite school subject? SCIENCE 🧪

69. Extrovert or Introvert? INTROVERT-

70. Have you ever been scuba diving? I want to!!!

71. What makes you nervous? The dark-

72. Are you scared of the dark? Terrified-

73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes? Of course

74. Are you ticklish? Yes…..

75. Have you ever started a rumor? No.

76. Have you ever been in a position of authority? Yeah

77. Have you ever drank underage? Uh. I was eight….. we thought it was “tea”

78. Have you ever done drugs? Do antidepressants count-

79. Who was your first real crush? I’m not saying… @yourfavvvintj already knows-

80. How many piercings do you have? 2. One on each ear

81. Can you roll your Rs? Yes

82. How fast can you type? 100 WPM

83. How fast can you run? Not fast-

84. What color is your hair? Black and green and blue

85. What color is your eyes? Boring brown-

86. What are you allergic to? Nothing!

87. Do you keep a journal? Yeah but I don’t update it often.

88. What do your parents do? Love me

89. Do you like your age? I’m a teen, of course I don’t

90. What makes you angry? My sister-

91. Do you like your own name? I would change it to Turtle but that’s weirder than a white girl name.

92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they? Zelda and Link for my future cats.

93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child? I don’t want children so I don’t really care

94. What are you strengths? Singing, creative writing, science, doing two pull up.

95. What are your weaknesses? Running a mile, literary interpretations, balloons…

96. How did you get your name? My parents named me after a president because they want me to be a good leader.

97. Were your ancestors royalty? I don’t think so.

98. Do you have any scars? Yes 👍

99. Color of your bedspread? Navy blue

100. Color of your room? Boring gray

Get To Know Me Uncomfortably Well

PLEASE DON’T LET THIS FLOP AHHHH

1. What is you middle name? 2. How old are you? 3. When is your birthday? 4. What is your zodiac sign? 5. What is your favorite color? 6. What’s your lucky number? 7. Do you have any pets? 8. Where are you from? 9. How tall are you? 10. What shoe size are you? 11. How many pairs of shoes do you own? 12. What was your last dream about? 13. What talents do you have? 14. Are you psychic in any way? 15. Favorite song? 16. Favorite movie? 17. Who would be your ideal partner? 18. Do you want children? 19. Do you want a church wedding? 20. Are you religious? 21. Have you ever been to the hospital? 22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law? 23. Have you ever met any celebrities? 24. Baths or showers? 25. What color socks are you wearing? 26. Have you ever been famous? 27. Would you like to be a big celebrity? 28. What type of music do you like? 29. Have you ever been skinny dipping? 30. How many pillows do you sleep with? 31. What position do you usually sleep in? 32. How big is your house? 33. What do you typically have for breakfast? 34. Have you ever fired a gun? 35. Have you ever tried archery? 36. Favorite clean word? 37. Favorite swear word? 38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep? 39. Do you have any scars? 40. Have you ever had a secret admirer? 41. Are you a good liar? 42. Are you a good judge of character? 43. Can you do any other accents other than your own? 44. Do you have a strong accent? 45. What is your favorite accent? 46. What is your personality type? 47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing? 48. Can you curl your tongue? 49. Are you an innie or an outie? 50. Left or right handed? 51. Are you scared of spiders? 52. Favorite food? 53. Favorite foreign food? 54. Are you a clean or messy person? 55. Most used phrased? 56. Most used word? 57. How long does it take for you to get ready? 58. Do you have much of an ego? 59. Do you suck or bite lollipops? 60. Do you talk to yourself? 61. Do you sing to yourself? 62. Are you a good singer? 63. Biggest Fear? 64. Are you a gossip? 65. Best dramatic movie you’ve seen? 66. Do you like long or short hair? 67. Can you name all 50 states of America? 68. Favorite school subject? 69. Extrovert or Introvert? 70. Have you ever been scuba diving? 71. What makes you nervous? 72. Are you scared of the dark? 73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes? 74. Are you ticklish? 75. Have you ever started a rumor? 76. Have you ever been in a position of authority? 77. Have you ever drank underage? 78. Have you ever done drugs? 79. Who was your first real crush? 80. How many piercings do you have? 81. Can you roll your Rs?“ 82. How fast can you type? 83. How fast can you run? 84. What color is your hair? 85. What color is your eyes? 86. What are you allergic to? 87. Do you keep a journal? 88. What do your parents do? 89. Do you like your age? 90. What makes you angry? 91. Do you like your own name? 92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they? 93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child? 94. What are you strengths? 95. What are your weaknesses? 96. How did you get your name? 97. Were your ancestors royalty? 98. Do you have any scars? 99. Color of your bedspread? 100. Color of your room?

#get to know me #don’t stalk me

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