#golden mouse ear

[jillraggett]

Plant of the Day

Thursday 5 September 2024

In the crushed, compacted stone on the edge of a car park Pilosella aurantiaca (fox and cubs, Flora's paintbrush, golden mouse ear, orange-flowered hawkweed, red daisy, devil's paintbrush) was thriving. This hairy herbaceous perennial spreads by stolons to form clumps of leaves and has widely naturalised in Britain. The flowers are popular with bees for nectar and pollen.

Jill Raggett

[nanamiskentos]

SCORCHED EARTH ✤ (五条 悟, gojo satoru)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, yes. The hearing.

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

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

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

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

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

The line clicks dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your apartment is dying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Gojo?

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

And yet, aren't you still standing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: dilf!ceo!anakin x f!reader

SMUT ❦

ANAKIN SKYWALKER didn’t even flinch when you climbed into his lap. His chair just creaked softly beneath both your weights, the city lights casting reflections across the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. His black tie was loosened around his neck, sleeves rolled up just enough to show those strong forearms you loved to cling to.

“—no, I said I want the numbers by noon, not excuses,” he said firmly, sharply, edge of his tone screaming in frustration, with his jaw tight, into his Bluetooth earpiece,

Yet, one hand had already slid up your thigh under the hem of your silky little dress like it was normal. Like you weren’t slowly sinking down onto his exposed, free cock (from your love making before), right where anyone could walk in, really.

You bit your lip, trying so hard to stifle the gasp that threatened to escape. You were already so full of him, stuffed to the brim, and he hadn’t even moved yet. He turned his head just slightly, letting you press soft, open-mouthed kisses against the hinge of his jaw. The golden skin of his was warm, rough in all the right places, letting his veins poke against his throat. And he definitely smelled like expensive cologne yet with a hint of vanilla.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered into the mic, though his voice dipped just slightly—because you’d rolled your hips just so right, and your tight little cunt was already clenching around him. “Then figure it out. I’m not repeating myself.”

You whimpered ever so faintly against his throat, hands gripping his shoulders as you started to move—slow, teasing bounces that made your thighs tremble. He was so deep, so thick, so good it made your head spin.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he whispered under his breath, free hand coming up to palm your tits through your dress. “You wanna be loud? Gonna make me hang up on this idiot?”

You shook your head quickly, lips brushing over his ear as you kissed down the side of his neck. You couldn’t help it—you were obsessed with him. His voice, his scent, his age, the way his skin tasted when you sucked a mark just under his collar.

“Just look at you,” he mumbled, clearly not caring if the guy on the line could hear the shift in his tone. “Riding me like a good girl… quiet as a mouse. Fuck, this little hole feels good.” you clenched at the praise, nails digging into his shoulder as you bounced a little faster, breathing ragged against his neck.

“That’s it,” he groaned lowly, finally muting the call for a second just to grab your face and make you look at him. “Gonna come for me, baby? Huh? Riding daddy’s cock like this? Look at that pretty face…”

You nodded desperately, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes from the pressure and the pleasure, as he thrusted up into you once—hard enough that you had to bite down on his neck to keep from crying out.

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[solxamber]

Mission: Emotionally Compromised || Jamil Viper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Parade of Intelligence Failures™:

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

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

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

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

This is getting pathetic.

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

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

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

And then he walks in.

Enter: Jamil Viper.

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

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

And his entrance exam? He aces it. Perfectly.

Too perfectly.

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

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

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

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

Slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips.

This could be fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then Jamil arrives.

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

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

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

Your skin? Clear.

Your inbox? Organized.

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

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

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

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

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

So, you make a decision.

You will convert him to your side.

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

The numbers didn’t make sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it hits you.

His hair.

His stupidly perfect, annoyingly silky, meticulously styled hair.

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

Your brain connects the dots.

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

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

Your eyes widen. You grab Jamil’s arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamil chokes on air.

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

Jamil doesn’t bother correcting you.

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

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

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

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

Jamil doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why does it feel so different this time?

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

And then there was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He almost believes you.

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

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

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

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

But today? Today, you were at your limit.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

And then, you smiled.

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

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

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

His confusion deepened. “Why would—?”

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

The silence that followed was deafening.

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

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

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

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

Well.

He wasn’t about to admit it was impressive.

Or flattering.

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

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

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

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

And there he is.

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

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

He startles like you caught him committing a felony.

Which, honestly, makes you even more confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What just happened.

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

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

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

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

You crouch down. Laugh a little.

And then you pull out your phone.

You: thank you <3

Meanwhile, In Jamil’s car:

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

And immediately slams his forehead into the steering wheel.

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

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

You’re going to be the death of him.

Jamil does not get sick.

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

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

And yet.

Here he is.

Dying. Absolutely, irredeemably, spectacularly dying.

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

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

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

And then—

“Jamil! What’s up?”

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

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

There is a long, stunned silence.

Then, very, very slowly—

“You’re what?”

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

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

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

“…Oh.”

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

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

He does not hear the rest.

Because he blacks out.

Jamil is sick.

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

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

You did not expect this.

And worse—he sounded awful.

Not just tired. Not just mildly inconvenienced.

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

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

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

There is no response.

You ring again. And again.

Nothing.

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

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

And Jamil is standing there.

Barely.

He looks terrible.

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

You are horrified.

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

Like death. Like the very concept of suffering incarnate.

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

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

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

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

“…Food?”

That is not an answer.

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

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

Oh. Right. Him.

Jamil is going to die.

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

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

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

The numbers blink back at you ominously.

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

Jamil tries to protest. He does.

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

Oh.

Oh, that is nice.

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

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

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

Like a child.

Like he is some helpless, pathetic creature.

Which, okay, maybe right now, he is.

But still. This is humiliating.

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

Jamil finally falls back asleep.

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

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

You should not care this much.

And yet.

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

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

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

A pause.

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

Behind you, Jamil shifts.

You do not notice.

But he notices you.

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

You look worried. For him.

Jamil stares, something twisting in his chest.

Oh.

Oh, he is so incredibly doomed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because of course Jamil was going to take the bait.

And sure enough, there he was.

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

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

And then—

He just… stops.

Your eyebrows shoot up. Oh?

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

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

He clicks out of the important files.

Your jaw nearly drops. What.

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

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

—bypasses all the juicy, corporate secrets—

—ignores all the schematics—

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

You almost choke on your popcorn.

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

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

You sit there, stunned.

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

He took your emergency raccoon meme collection.

You blink. Once. Twice.

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

Oh. Oh, this is delightful.

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

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

For you.

How flattering.

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

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

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

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

Oh, interesting.

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

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

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

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

Because Jamil blocked your path.

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

He looked wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamil broke.

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

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

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

And then, hypothesis proven, you kissed him back.

For a moment, you simply blinked.

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

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

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

Jamil freezes.

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

And yet, here you were. Choosing him anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Masterlist

[celuere]

overtime

pairing: Zani x fem!reader

content: there has been an error inside the vault just right before the end of your shift, leaving you no choice but to add some extra hours to your work schedule. 

cw: zani has a dick here because i said so, gentleman zani ngh…., acts of service, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, she really wants that fucking cookie (you), written before 2.3

No, this couldn’t wait until her release. also this is like over 3.5k words uhmmm yes this will have a pt 2

„Have you found anything yet?“

„Not a single thing. The security footage also shows no signs of any intruders.“, a gloved hand guided the mouse over the desk to let the video play once again before your eyes, showing the main hall right before the incident, yet no signs of any abnormalities, even after going through the whole facility thrice. 10pm and you were stuck in the Echo Depository of the Vault Underground because the motion detectors went off right before the end of your shift. And of all of your coworkers you ended up getting assigned with Zani to the case. 

Normally you wouldn’t mind, but when you happened to be as attracted to someone as Zani… things became difficult. Unlike you, she didn’t frequent the underground of the Vault often, working more closely together with the Montelli Family in Ragunna City but today was an exception. Carlotta assigned her with the task to retrieve an ancient amulet from the artwork depository after a client expressed his interest in the golden accessory, which was already resting on a nearby table, ready to travel all the way to the city. And if Zani was known for one thing it was getting the job done on time. She clocks in precisely at 8am every morning and clocks out at exactly 6pm. Not earlier. Not later. So needless to say that she wasn’t in the best of moods during the last four hours. 

„This is getting us nowhere, the footage is clear. We spent two hours combing through the depository with no signs of any intruders or malfunctioning echos. Not even a single thing is missing.“, the chair scratched over the neatly polished floor when she shoves herself back from the desk, „I’m checking out the room again. Would you like to come with me or continue staring at the security footage?“, her hand came up to fix the position of her tie, pulling with her index at the knot on her neck as an almost exasperated sigh leaves through her teeth.

„I guess that might be the better option instead of further hurting my eyes in front of the screen…“, you followed her footsteps out the security office, close behind if not directly next to her. You may have the needed clearance for this part of the Underground, but staying far away from the freely roaming echoes here was always the wiser choice.

Zani hated working overtime.

But it was halfway endurable with the cute Vault Secretary she can never quite stop staring at. And the fact she has an almost unhealthy obsession with pencil skirts. Especially your pencil skirts. Every single time she needs something from the secret Underground System, it is always you greeting her with a smile at the entrance. A pencil stuck behind your ear, a beautiful blouse stuffed into the skirt she loves so dearly. And it’s always a different outfit combination, too. She never once saw you wearing the same outfit over and over again. Yet, one thing she noticed which remained the same was your heels. The almost murderous stilettos with an equally black bottom brought you closer to her height than you actually were. Right now you were reaching her chin. You’d probably barely meet her shoulder without them. 

„There seems to have a fight broken out at the end of the hallway between some echoes… let‘s take the stairs instead.“, a hand was placed on your lower back, guiding you over to the steps. Now, you might love your shoes, but walking down the stairs with them? A perfect recipe for an ankle injury. It‘s not your everyday task to play nightwatch after all. 

„Are you sure we can’t just walk past them…?“, Zani already took the first steps down in her own heels, effortlessly, when she looked back at you over her shoulder. 

„I‘d have no problems getting past them, but I have a beautiful lady to protect after all.“, she reached her gloved hand out to you, a smile playing around her lips as her compliment forces the heat to flush right into your face (and somewhere else), „I‘ll carry you down, if necessary.“

Sadly, there was no need for that. But you still grabbed onto her hand like your life depended on it while she carefully guided you down the staircase and even though you are already walking down the hallway to the room of the incident, none of you dared to break off the physical contact yet. 

„Don‘t you want to get home soon…?“, you blew a lost hair strand out of your face.

„Of course I do, but Lady Carlotta promised me a good compensation for this incident so I will fulfill my duty as usual. And working overtime is not so bad when you…“, red eyes travelled down over your figure, seemingly devouring you, taking in the curve of your hips before finding your face once again, „…have such a lovely woman keeping you company.“, and maybe it was your tired feet, maybe you’re just exhausted but that last sentence surely turned your legs into jelly. You always thought her compliments were just part of her character, that Zani was just a charming person over all, but that seemed to not be the case here. And this thought alone forced your heart rate to increase as if somebody just turned on the motor. „Miss Zani, you truly flatter me, yet I must-”, with one harsh tug by your hand you were yanked behind a nearby pillar with the Montelli Employee pressing you into the cold stone while gently clasping a hand over your mouth to keep the yelp from drawing any attention towards you. 

„Shhh…“, she put her index finger over her lips, gesturing you to keep quiet as her figure loomed over you, the soft scent of a neutral soap and an expensive perfume filling your nostrils when you heard it. Heavy stomps that carried down the hallway you were walking up mere seconds ago. Should you be scared about a possible echo attack? Yes. Should Zani‘s alertness concern you? Also yes. Couldn’t you stop staring up at her beautiful face, white strands of hair, falling into her vision, the cold lights surrounding you bouncing off of her head like an ethereal halo? Fuck yes. The loud thumping of your heart inside your ears caused you to overhear the hefty steps fading into the distance, you only noticed once Zani put some distance back between the two of you, fixing the position of her red tie, „My apologies for the sudden reaction. Are you hurt? The last thing I wanted to happen was running into a Hurriclaw with you by my side…“, her body tilted slightly to the right to ensure the bear-like echo doesn’t randomly decide to head back, „let‘s speed up a little. I don’t want you standing around in the open like this any longer…“, and she was already taking your hand back into hers to continue walking before you could answer. 

„I-I’m not hurt, don‘t worry about me… I‘m rather impressed by how fast you reacted… I didn’t even notice it?“, an all too familiar pain seeped back into your ankles at the sight of another large staircase, but this time you didn’t have the chance to complain with how fast you were swiped off of your feet by your waist and the back of your knees. 

„G-Goodness- Miss Zani- I-I appreciate your efforts but you really don’t have to trouble yourself l-like that for me-!“

Don’t look at her tits. Don’t look at her tits.

„Trouble? Helping out a beautiful lady in need is anything but trouble for me“, she flashed you a small wink as she almost elegantly carried you down the stairs, her grip on you tight but not hurtful. The thoughts in your head were too loud to form a coherent sentence. What was she thinking, carrying you around like a damsel in distress? Beautiful lady? Does she want you to mount her right this instant?

She set you back down with only the most gentlest of movements, a large oak door spreading before you, „now, let’s go through this cursed room for the last time…“, when you followed her you were only met with the same unchanged room. A few echos for showcase were placed into each corner, seemingly sleeping. To your right was a satin sofa placed against the wall, facing the main decoration of this particular place, a holy script that belonged to the Order themselves. For reason unknown, the horned woman only mildly expressed her strong distaste for Rinascita‘s religious belief. If you‘d have to take a guess, it probably was connected to her almost devil-like appearance. Two perfectly curled black horns, shimmering in the chandelier light just as her tail trailed from side to side, even if she was standing still… you wondered if you could touch it… what kind of reaction you‘d get out of her. Your hand barely twitched at your side before you ripped your eyes off of her to search around for any clues yourself, the faster you were done here, the better.

Besides the occasional clacking of heels and the clock ticking away on the wall- your effort bore no fruits. And your feet felt like they were about to fall off by the time you allowed yourself to flop down on the nearby sofa to give yourself a moments rest. 

 „By the Imperator… this is starting to get exhausting.“, by leaning your head back into your neck, you didn’t notice Zani kneeling down in front of you before you felt a gentle pair of hands lifting up your foot to slide your stilettos off of your pained limbs, the immediate relief rewarding you with a rush of energy through your spine. The other shoe following mere moments after. It was only when you opened your eyes back up that you noticed a pair of black, beautifully curved horns sitting between your legs.

Right, you weren‘t alone. 

„What… W-What are you doing…?“, you sucked your lower lip in between your front teeth at the sight of her kneeling before you. Like a servant waiting for her next task. „I‘m just doing my job, Miss [Name].“, a look of reassurance spread over her facial features. If she only knew how badly your heart was hurting at this very moment. How the air between you sizzled with raw desire for one another. At least that was your perception of things. You could only hope she knew what she was doing to you. To your body. 

„I-I don’t think taking care of me i-is part of your jo- ooooooh… m-my god…“, your body shivered in an almost sexual relief when she brought her thumb down onto your heel, rubbing firm circles over the skin that’s still covered by an equally colored tights. This felt like the Sentinel itself bringing you their holy message from far above. What kind of luxury is that? „It very much is. I can’t drag a pretty thing like you from a to z for hours on end and not at least relieve her a little bit.“

„Hah… y-you are doing too much- r-really…“, finally, you decided to lean your head back against the cushions as you bathed in her attention. „Mh… seems like we have different opinions regarding that topic. Excuse me for my following words, but you don’t happen to be attracted to me, right?

You blatantly stared down at her, the space between you suddenly growing overly heavy and hot shame sent all your blood up north into your face. To claim that you weren’t fantasizing about the Montelli Employee was a blatant lie, too often you sneaked your hand into your panties at the thought of her. How she greeted you the day prior, a charming smile accompanied by her equally attractive accent when she leaned against the counter you were always seated at. Horns glistening in the light of the crystalline chandelier hanging above your heads. Would she mind you touching them? Asking her about their origin? Too many questions that longed for answers.

Yet, she just asked you one. It would only be fair to answer truthfully, right?

„Miss Zani… I… I-I actually think you are very… very attractive…“, one would think you couldn’t get any redder in the face, but you did. Shamefully so. But mockery was far below her. In fact, it pretty much satisfied her, knowing she wasn’t interpreting too much into your encounters- how you handled her- spoken with her- eyes full of curiosity at the black accessories on her head. Not many people looked at her like that. If anything, she was mostly frowned upon for her demonic appearance. Her relationship with the Order only contributing further to a strained social image, but Zani grew accustomed to it throughout her life. Nowadays she couldn’t care less about what the people where whispering behind her back, let them talk. She‘s got a stable job, an oddly simple routine and an even simpler life. That‘s all what really matters to her. She never cared for stranger‘s opinions until she walked into the Vault Underground for the first time to see you seated at the reception. Going through a set of family heirlooms sent in for further storage, nibbling at the end of your pencil as you didn’t notice her approach and almost dropped the delicate porcelain figure when the first greeting between you both fell.

Zani would be lying if she claimed to have never made up any stories as an excuse to take the secret elevator down south. Now imagine her luck today when you entered the security office earlier, your lungs burning and your beautiful hair tussled beyond recognition from making a run for your life after encountering a bunch of hostile Diggy Duggies.

And now she was kneeling before you. A place where she always wanted to be. 

„My, you truly think so…? Aren’t you scared I’ll…“, hands working up the fabric of the pencil skirt she loved so dearly when her voice was laced with nothing but carnal desire, seemingly burning her from within, her dick aching from the imprisonment of her pants, „whisk such a beautiful thing such as yourself away…? Who knows what I’d with you…“, you immediately noticed to what she was referring to. Her appearance.

„If the devil wished to have me, then I’ll gladly consider myself a sinner.“, dangerous. A very dangerous game you were playing here with her. There might be cameras placed at every corner of the room you were currently in, but she‘s done far worse than fuck the adorable secretary in a high-clearance mission. On a sofa that probably costs ten times her salary.

Her next words came out almost strained, as if she were to contain something, „the devil wishes for far worse things, butterfly.“, in truth she was just caught off-guard by your drenched slip. The fabric already soaked of your arousal that it was sticking to your lips, almost translucent enough to notice your hole fluttering every now and then at the almost painful feeling of being empty. 

You were feeling quite fertile now to be serious with your pussy halfway exposed to her, but that didn’t stop you from pulling the wet cloth to the side, presenting your slick folds in all their glory to her. Something in the air shifted at your move, something you will maybe regret later on because with no warning- no explanation- she was all over you. Tongue dragging over your lower lips, savoring even the slightest bit of those sweet juices of yours that caused the resonator to believe that she was about to experience her second awakening. Maybe she will start frequenting church more often. Maybe the both of you did because eating the living daylights out of your coworker- with cameras pointed at you? Not even Primus Fenrico will be able to cleanse you of your sins. And not even the Sentinel will be able to remove her tongue from inside of you. She didn’t take you for the dirty kind. To fist her hair to further press her into your warmth as your hips treated her like a personal toy to grind themselves against. Sex was by no means a strange occasion for you but this? This was new. Nobody ever had you crying out for forgiveness and what not in the first thirty seconds, tears clumping your lashes as your hand almost instinctively traveled from the back of her head over to her left horn, wrapping your fingers around the body part that was unsurprisingly hard to the touch and yet-

A groan so ecstatic was swallowed up by your moist flesh as gloved fingers dug themselves into your thighs.

They were sensitive.

Amidst the fog of arousal clouding your mind you couldn’t help but give it a few experimental rubs over the surface with your thumb, only earning you more and more desperate sounds.

My fucking god, you will killing her. As if your taste wasn’t enough, she now had to withstand the torture of you rubbing her in the worst place possible. Her cock wanted to fucking burst through her pants by now, a new pair of underwear was also badly needed. Zani was always the master of her desires and impulses, but now? You had her by the throat, dick or whatever you wanted it to be. Her place was right here, face pressed into your cunt and her treating it like the last supper, sloppy munching sounds echoing throughout the room as she licked, nibbled, sucked and slurped on you for you all you were worth. But it wasn’t enough. Right before your high she let go of you with a nasty plop while working her way back up on her feet, the evidence of your pleasure running down her chin, the sudden withdrawal causing you to whine and squirm slightly underneath her.

„Z-Zani- Zani, that wasn’t fair-”, your voice came out shaky as you tried even out the lack of oxygen in your lungs, chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm- she had you stressed for good.

„What an insatiable minx you are… My apologies I… hah… I-I just couldn’t wait any longer…“, two hands worked effortlessly on opening up the belt around her pants and working the layers of clothing just low enough for her leaking dick to spring free.

May Imperator protect you.

You weren’t the most religious person but you sure as hell were now when you stared at a rocking seven inches fat dick, pearly drops leaking from the slit on her cockhead, nearly trimmed white hairs adorning the base before fading into a happy trail underneath her shirt. 

You will make that fit.

„What…? No words left for me…?“

„I-I‘m going to die if you don’t put that in r-right now… Z-Zani please-”, a whine accompanied the last two words, undermining your desperation for her and the woman might just shoot a load by your pleading alone. She bent over in an instant until the tip was touching your greedy hole, feeling it flutter and clench against her as if in an attempt to swallow her up all on your own. The plush of the sofa sunk down further as Zani supported herself on her knee and strong hands grabbing your hip like you were hers to take, hers to fuck.

„Please, hm…?“, despite all her senses screaming at her to fuck your cunt sore, she added herself into you as if it were your first time. Your answer was nothing more than a breathy whisper, „P-Please, please, please… f-fuck me…“.

When you started your sentence your hand was resting on the satin of the furniture you were placed on. When you finished it was buried in her hair. You fit so perfectly around her. Like you were made for her and her only. Gripping her so tightly upon entrance. Sucking her in as if you never wanted her to leave. And she set off with a pace that made you question her humanity once more, one that had the sofa slide backwards until it hit the wall. Tears were blurring your vision now, making it hard to notice how Zani was fighting every urge in her body to start marking you up but that would be incredibly unbecoming for your work. Sadly. She doesn’t even know what to with herself in the first place. You were so warm and welcoming around her, balls slapping against your ass each time she plowed back into you, the creamy evidence of your shared excitement for each other pushed out between your cunt her shaft with even filthier squelching sounds.

This felt even better than a paid day off. By miles. The tip of her cock kissing your cervix each time she buries herself back into you with a sharp hiss had you moaning all over the place, shameless and greedy little thing you are. But it still wasn’t enough when your blouse was carelessly ripped open to expose the lacy bra covering up your nights, a few buttons popping off the seams as Zani immediately hooked her finger underneath the almost translucent layer to expose your beautiful breasts only for her to connect your nipple with her lips and if you weren’t beyond any coherent thoughts already- you were now. Sentinel forbid someone ever bears witness to the secretary getting split open on her coworkers cock as if it were just another Tuesday. 

You just had to delete the camera footage of your little selfmade porn later on- if you were still functional enough.

[undiagnosedcruelty]

GAME OVER

Pairing: bf!felix x afab!reader

Summary: Felix has been stuck in bronze all day, frustrated from shitty teammates and losing streaks. You decide to offer him a little… distraction. But what starts as playful teasing quickly turns into payback when Felix reminds you exactly who’s in control.

Genre: Smut —MINORS DNI!

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Warnings: Oral sex (m + f receiving), teasing/dom!Felix, overstimulation, edging, mild degradation, praise kink, spanking, language, slight power play, Felix being a menace, reader being a brat, explicit sexual content.

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: the things i have in my drafts are questionable.

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EVERYTHING WRITTEN IS PURELY FICTION──NOTHING IS DIRECTLY RELATED TO ANY REAL LIFE EVENTS.

Felix had been gaming for hours.

The constant clicking of his mouse, the aggressive taps of his keyboard, and the occasional frustrated growls had filled the room all evening. He was tense, jaw locked, golden brows furrowed in frustration as he lost yet another ranked match.

“Are you fucking serious?” he groaned, tossing his head back against his chair. His deep voice carried a rough edge, thick with irritation. “These teammates are garbage. No comms, no awareness—how the fuck am I supposed to rank up like this?”

You bit back a smirk from where you stood behind him, watching the sharp rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers flexed aggressively over the keys. His hoodie had ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of taut, golden skin above the waistband of his sweats. His long legs were spread in his gaming chair, his posture stiff with frustration.

Another defeat screen flashed.

Felix exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his dark roots.

That was your cue.

Padding over, you slid behind him, your hands settling on his shoulders, kneading into the tension gathered there. “Still stuck in bronze?” you teased, voice lilting with amusement.

Felix let out a low grunt, his head tilting slightly at your touch, though his fingers remained glued to the keyboard. “Don’t start.”

“You know, maybe you just need a break,” you murmured, leaning in so your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “Or… a distraction.”

Felix stiffened slightly, a visible shiver running through him as your breath fanned against his skin. But he huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. “Babe, I don’t think—”

“You should focus,” you purred, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, feeling his breath hitch beneath your touch. “You're in a ranked game, right?”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “Yeah.”

“Then don’t let me stop you.”

And with that, you sank onto your knees between his legs.

Felix froze. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but his entire body tensed as your hands trailed up his thighs, nails scratching teasingly over the fabric of his sweats.

"Shit—"

The game started. His teammates moved. But Felix didn’t.

"You wouldn’t leave your team hanging, would you?" you murmured, your fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

His breath shuddered. "You little—"

You tugged at his sweats, and Felix lifted his hips instinctively, letting you pull them down just enough to free him. The moment your fingers wrapped around him, his head tipped back against the chair, lips parting in a sharp inhale.

"Fuuuck—"

His cock was already hard, flushed and hot against your palm, and when you gave him a slow, teasing stroke, his thighs tensed beneath your hands. His fingers twitched on the keyboard, barely able to form a response as the chat flooded with messages from his confused teammates.

"Babe, I swear to—"

But his words cut off into a choked moan as you licked him, the warmth of your tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path along his length.

"Fuck, you’re—” He exhaled shakily, struggling to focus, struggling to breathe. His grip on the mouse was completely useless now, his knuckles white as his free hand slipped into your hair, fingers tangling in the strands.

You took your time, lips brushing over sensitive skin, teasing him with feather-light kisses before finally wrapping your mouth around him.

Felix lost it.

His hips jerked, a sharp gasp breaking from his throat as he completely abandoned his game. His other hand shot to your hair, gripping tight—not to stop you, but to ground himself, to keep from unraveling too fast.

"Fucking—" His voice was low, wrecked, vibrating deep in his chest. "You're killing me, baby."

You hummed in response, taking him deeper, feeling the way his thighs quivered beneath your touch. His cock throbbed in your mouth, the heat of him heavy on your tongue, and when you sucked just a little harder, he swore.

The game blared in the background—his teammates pinging frantically, spamming question marks in chat as his character stood idle in spawn.

But Felix didn’t give a single fuck.

His breathing was ragged, his hand tightening in your hair as he fought to hold himself back, but when you flattened your tongue against him and swallowed around his length, his restraint snapped.

"Shit, shit—baby, if you keep that up—"

His voice was shaking, his muscles taut, his head thrown back against the chair as his hips bucked up, desperate for more. He needed more.

“Babe, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m close—” His thighs trembled, his entire body coiled with tension, his grip firm as he guided your pace. His voice was deep, desperate, laced with pure, unfiltered need.

And then, with one last shattered moan, Felix let go.

His hips stuttered, his breath catching in his throat as he came hard, pleasure crashing over him like a tidal wave. His whole body shivered with the force of it, his fingers tightening in your hair as he rode out every last pulse, every last second of bliss.

You swallowed him down, letting your tongue flick over him just to hear him curse again, his thighs twitching as he let out a broken, ruined groan.

His chest heaved, his body sinking into the chair, completely spent. His grip on your hair softened, fingers threading through the strands gently, soothingly.

The room was silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing. The defeat screen blinked on his monitor.

But this time, Felix didn’t even notice.

Finally, he cracked one eye open, looking down at you with a dazed, blissed-out smirk.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he muttered, voice hoarse, fingers brushing over your cheek.

You licked your lips, grinning up at him. “And yet… you didn’t stop me.”

Felix let out a breathless chuckle, tugging you up into his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist. His lips brushed over your ear, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper.

"Oh, you are so fucked, baby."

Game over.

Your body barely had a second to recover before Felix was on you.

The moment you wiped the smug grin off your face, he had you in his lap, his hands gripping your hips hard as he pulled you close. His eyes—normally soft, warm—had darkened into something predatory, his lips curling into a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Oh, you are so fucked, baby,” he murmured, voice thick, deep, dangerous.

His fingers flexed against your hips, holding you in place as he tilted his head, brushing his lips over your jaw. It was soft—deceptive—before he nipped at your skin, hard enough to make you gasp.

“Thought you could distract me during a ranked match?” he murmured, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your throat, tongue flicking over sensitive spots as you shivered. “Thought I’d just let you get away with that?”

Your breath hitched. His hands slid up beneath your shirt, fingertips skimming over your waist, slow and teasing. You tried to shift in his lap, feeling the heat of him beneath you, already growing hard again despite how wrecked he had been just minutes ago.

But Felix wasn’t letting you set the pace this time.

“No,” he murmured, gripping your thighs and flipping you effortlessly onto the bed. His body caged you in, the weight of him pressing you down, leaving nowhere to run.

Your breath caught as he dragged his fingers down your chest, the teasing, featherlight touch a stark contrast to the dark promise in his eyes.

“You wanted my attention so bad, didn’t you?” he mused, his lips ghosting over your collarbone. “So desperate to have me focus on you instead of my game?”

His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, just brushing over where you needed him most—so close yet still not enough.

“Felix—”

His hand tightened on your waist.

“Oh, now you’re begging?” he chuckled, his deep voice sending heat pooling in your stomach. His free hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. “That’s cute, baby. But I think you need to be taught a lesson.”

And then his fingers slipped lower—deliberate, maddeningly slow.

You gasped, back arching as his fingertips teased at your entrance, pushing your panties to the side, barely pressing inside before retreating. Your hips jerked instinctively, trying to chase his touch, but he tut-tutted, pressing your hips down with his free hand.

“Patience,” he murmured, pressing a lazy kiss to your stomach. “You didn’t let me focus earlier, so why should I give you what you want so easily?”

You whimpered, legs trembling as he kept teasing—dragging his fingers through your slick, never quite giving you the friction you craved.

“You’re already so wet for me,” he mused, pressing the tip of his middle finger inside, barely an inch, just enough to make you ache. “All from sucking me off like a needy little thing, hmm?”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But Felix saw through you—the way your thighs twitched, the way your breath stuttered when he curled his fingers just right.

He smirked, leaning down until his lips brushed against your ear.

“Go on, baby. Tell me how bad you want it.”

Your pride wavered. His fingers stilled, just on the brink of where you needed him, and you nearly lost your mind.

“Felix, please—”

He hummed in approval, finally pressing two fingers in deep, curling them until he found the spot that made you cry out.

“There you go,” he murmured, watching your face as you melted beneath him. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You barely had time to register the teasing before his lips were on yours—hungry, devouring, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your toes curl.

And then he moved—his fingers pumping in slow, deep strokes, dragging out every sound from your lips, his pace methodical, merciless.

Your thighs trembled around his hand, heat coiling low in your stomach, pleasure mounting at an overwhelming rate.

“F-Felix, I—”

He pulled away just enough to murmur against your lips, “Not yet, baby.”

His fingers stopped.

You whined, arching against him, desperate for him to keep going. But Felix only smirked, withdrawing his hand completely—leaving you empty, aching.

Your body screamed for release, but he was enjoying this too much.

“You think you can just tease me during my game and not suffer the consequences?” he murmured, his fingers dragging slick, lazy circles over your clit, never enough pressure to push you over the edge.

“I—I can’t—” You writhed beneath him, your body betraying you, every nerve ending burning with frustration.

Felix chuckled, dark and sinful. “Oh, baby, I know.”

His lips trailed lower, past your collarbone, down your stomach, his breath scorching against your overheated skin.

And then, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, he dipped lower still—his tongue flicking right where you needed him most.

The first swipe had you jerking, a strangled moan breaking from your lips. But Felix just pinned your hips down with his hands, keeping you right where he wanted you.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured against your soaked skin, his voice wrecked with lust. “I’m not stopping until you’re shaking for me.”

And then he devoured you.

His mouth was sinful, tongue working in slow, agonizing strokes before sucking your clit into his mouth, alternating between teasing and torturing you with pleasure.

Your hands shot to his hair, tugging, desperate for something to hold onto as his tongue curled against you, relentless, merciless.

His hands tightened on your thighs, keeping you spread for him as he feasted, groaning against your heat like he was starving.

And then—just when you thought you might survive—he thrust his fingers back inside, curling them against that perfect spot, his tongue and hand working in tandem.

Your vision blurred. The coil inside you snapped.

You shattered.

A choked sob left your lips as the orgasm ripped through you, pleasure crashing in waves so intense it left you shaking beneath him. Felix groaned in satisfaction, his grip on your thighs tightening as he worked you through it, milking every last drop of pleasure from your body.

When you finally slumped against the mattress, boneless, trembling, Felix lifted his head—his lips shiny, his eyes blazing with pure desire.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking as he leaned up, voice mockingly sweet.

“Now you know what happens when you mess with me during ranked.”

Your pulse still pounded in your ears, your body wrecked—but even through the haze, you found the strength to whisper:

“…Maybe I should do it more often.”

Felix’s eyes darkened.

“Baby,” he murmured, flipping you onto your stomach, his body pressing flush against yours.

“That was just the warm-up.”

[shyfoxsky]

Theriotype List

So, to start out, for context, I think we've all seen a skeptic comment about how all therians are only "cool" animals. I personally have always enjoyed keeping up with those with "rarer" theriotypes and even using them as examples when these kinds of arguments are brought up, so I've decided to do a little bit of a personal project, that being creating a huge list of the wide variety within the therian community. Below is the list I've created so far, sorted by general species, then adding in subspecies/breeds, all in alphabetical order.

Please keep in mind and understand that for now, I am only putting Earthen animals on this list, mainly so I and the post can keep up, because there's a LOT here already and I know there are hundreds more out there. This list does need more entries though. If you have a theriotype that you don't see on this list, please comment or reblog and let me know so I can add it! You can follow and find it with the tag "foxskys theriotype list".

Adder - European Agouti Alligator - American Alpaca Ankylosaurus Anteater Argentavis Armadillo - Three-banded Arthropleura Axolotl Badger - American - European - Honey - Japanese - Sunda Stink Baryonyx Bat - Evening - Flying Fox - Vampire Bear - Black - Brown - Polar Bee - Bumble - Honey Beetle - Dor - Stag Binturong Bison - American Bonobo Butterfly - Buckeye Caiman Caracal Cat, Domestic - Bombay - Himalayan - Japanese Bobtail - Lykoi - Maine Coon - Norwegian Forest - Oriental - Ragdoll - Shorthair - Turkish Van Centipede - Amazonian Giant - House - Japanese Giant - Red-headed Cheetah Chickadee Chimpanzee Chipmunk - Eastern Cicada - White Ghost Coatimundi - White-nosed Cockroach Coot - European Cow - Holstein Friesian Coyote Coywolf Crocodile - Nile - Saltwater - Siamese Crow - American - Hooded Cryodrakon Damselfly - Blue-tailed Deer - Axis - Caribou - Hog - Marsh - Red - White-tailed Deinonychus Dilophosaurus Dingo Dog, Domestic - Alaskan Malamute - Australian Shepherd - Beagle - Belgian Malinois - Bernese Mountain - Blue Bay Shepherd - Border Collie - Borzoi - Carpathian Shepherd - Cavalier King Charles Spaniel - Czechoslovakian Wolfdog - Dalmatian - Doberman - German Shepherd - Golden Retriever - Greyhound - Husky - Irish Wolfhound - Karst Shepherd - Nova Scotia Duck-tolling Retriever - Saluki - Samoyed - Sighthound - Silken Windhound - Wolfdog - Yorkie Dolphin - Amazon River - Common Donkey Dove Duck - Mallard Eagle - Bald - Golden Elk - American - Irish Eusmlius Fish - Arowana - Barbel - Betta - Bichir - Bristlenose Pleco - Carp - Hag - Koi - Pike - Salmon - Zander Fly - Blue Bottle - House Fossa Fox - Arctic - Bat-eared - Blanford's - Corsac - Crab-eating - Gray - Red, American - Red, European - Swift Gecko - Day Goat Golden Cat - Asiatic Goose - Canada Gorilla Grackle Grebe - Pied-billed Guinea Pig Hamster Hare - Brown - European Hawk - Red-tailed Hawk-Eagle - Changeable - Wallace's Hedgehog Homotherium Hornbill Hornet - Bald-faced - European Horse - Akhal-Teke - Clydesdale - Drum - Mustang Hyena - Aardwolf - Brown - Spotted - Striped Ichthyovenator Iguana Isopod Jackal - Black-Backed Jaguar Jay - Blue - Florida Scrub Jellyfish - Moon - White Spotted Jerboa Kangaroo Kaprosuchus Katydid Kestrel - Eurasian Ladybug Lemur - Black-and-white Ruffed - Red-bellied - Red-ruffed Leopard - African - Clouded - Snow Lion - African - American - Mountain Lynx - Bobcat - Canadian - European - Iberian Macaw - Blue-and-Yellow - Hyacinth - Scarlet - Spix’s Magpie - American - Eurasian - Yellow-billed Margay Marten - American Pine - European Pine - Japanese - Yellow-throated Microraptor Millipede - Crested Mink - American - Sea Monkey - Capuchin Moth - Cecropia - Cinnabar - Common Domestic Silk - Gold - Luna - Rosy Maple - Satin Mouse - Harvest - Hazel Dormouse Muskrat Nautilus Newt - Marbled Octopus - Mimic Opossum Orangutan Osprey Otter - Giant - River - Sea Oviraptor Owl - Barn - Burrowing - Snowy - Tawny Panda - Giant - Red Pangolin - Black-bellied - Tree Parpsauropholus Parrot - Kea Peacock/fowl Pigeon Pitohiu - Hooded Plateosaurus Possum Pterosaur Pufferfish Python - Ball Rabbit - Lionhead - Lop-Eared Raccoon Raven - Common Ray - Sting Rhamphorhynchus Sable Scorpion Sea Lion Sea Slug Seagull - Greater Black-backed Seal - Harbor - Weddell Serval Shark - Chain Catshark - Nurse - Oceanic Blacktip - Sicklefern Lemon Sheep - Bighorn - Domestic - Hebridean - Herdwick - Mouflon Sinosauripteryx Skink - Blue-tailed Snake - Banded Sea Sparrow - Common House Spider - Black Widow - Orb Weaver Spinosaurus Squid Squirrel - Eastern Fox - Finlayson's - Gray - Red Stoat Stork - Shoebill Styracosaurus Tamarin - Golden Lion Terrorbird Tiger - Bengal - Siberian - Sumatran Toucan Tyrannosaur Uromastyx Vulture - Bearded - Black - Turkey Wasp - Potter Weasel Whale - Killer - Minke - Pilot - Right Whiptail - New Mexico Wolf - Alaskan - Arctic - Coastal - Eastern - European - Gray - Himalayan - Labrador - Mackenzie River - Maned - Mexican - Northern Rocky Mountain - Northwestern - Red - Tundra Wolfdog Wolverine Zebra - Grevey's - Mountain - Plains

[mashtatosworld]

a good day

summary: it's the last episode of Good Day and the family spend the evening at an amusement park with a couple extra guests

The night air was warm and glowing, thick with the sugar-sweet scent of candy floss and popcorn.

Jiyong arrived at the gates of the theme park with Angel snuggly strapped against his chest and Diva leading the way, her tiny sneakers lighting up every time her feet hit the pavement.

“Faster, Appa! Come on!” she shouted, pointing at the rides.

“At least someone's excited,” Jiyong muttered with a soft smile, shifting the baby bag higher on his shoulder and following after her.

Angel let out a sleepy sound against him, her little fists clutching the edge of his shirt like she was already over it.

At the entrance, they were met by two familiar faces - Kwanghee bouncing on the balls of his feet, and Doni casually munching on a churro.

“There he is! GDragon!” Kwanghee sang, arms out wide in greeting, voice way too loud for the hour. “Aigoo, look at your family! How come you brought them to work?”

“They refused to stay home,” Jiyong lied. “They insisted on coming with me.”

As if he hadn't cancelled the babysitter and told his children all about the magical theme park that he just couldn't go to without taking them along.

“I'm gonna go on the ponies!” Diva screamed, bubbling with excitement as she gripped Jiyong's jeans.

“See,” he nodded in answer, adjusting Angel in the carrier as she let out a quiet coo.

"Oh sure," Doni huffed, taking another bite of his sugary treat. "Where's y/n?"

"Work thing," Jiyong murmured despondently, wishing that you were here too. He kissed the top of Angel's head, glad that at least he was able to feel the comfort of your presence through his babies.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Before anything else, Kwanghee dragged them to the nearest cart so Jiyong could purchase everyone matching fuzzy headbands.

Diva picked ones with bunny ears, of course, while Jiyong wore fluffy cat ears that matched Angel’s miniature version. Even Doni didn’t protest too hard when Jiyong planted a mouse headband on his head and said, “For unity.”

They were sitting on a bench sharing churros and juice boxes when the distant music of the carousel started playing.

Diva froze mid-bite. “THE PONIES!!!”

Jiyong didn’t even get a chance to react before she took off. “YAH - stay with me!” he called, jogging after her with Angel bouncing gently in the carrier.

As they reached the carousel, Diva gasped and pointed, “LOOK LOOK!” And there, gracefully circling around on a white horse with golden trim - was you.

Jiyong blinked, then lit up.

“JAGI?!”

His jaw dropped, then he started jumping up and down like a kid -until Angel squawked against his chest and he immediately froze. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispered, gently rubbing her back. “Appa got excited… Your Eomma's here!”

You waved at them mid-spin, grinning as you saw Diva running beside the ride, waving back at you.

“You said you had an event,” Jiyong mumbled when you finally stepped off and kissed him softly.

“Wrapped early,” you replied, adjusting Diva’s bunny ears before she sprinted toward the carousel.

Everyone climbed on - Kwanghee clinging dramatically to a horse, Jiyong holding Angel as he settled carefully onto his own horse, with you and Diva climbing next to him on a pink pony. Doni chose to sit behind on a chariot bench like the cool uncle.

Kwanghee kept trying to take selfies, stretching out his phone at wild angles while the carousel spun and Diva shouted, “AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN!” with every turn.

“Hyung - there are literally four cameras on us,” Jiyong muttered with a laugh. “Do we need all the selfies?”

“Yes,” Kwanghee replied. “For the memories.”

Angel dozed through most of it, nestled perfectly against her Appa’s chest while Diva reached over every few seconds to grab at Jiyong’s hand mid-spin. “We’re flying!”

You couldn’t stop smiling, your heart melting with every soft laugh, every goofy photo attempt, every time Jiyong turned toward you with that starry, giddy look in his eyes like he still couldn’t believe you were really there.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

After the carousel, snacks were devoured on a nearby bench.

Diva sat perched on Jiyong’s knee, crumbs all over her chin, still buzzing from the carousel ride. Angel was snoozing peacefully in your arms, her little headband tilted sideways, pacifier bobbing gently as she breathed.

That’s when everyone saw it.

Towering above, outlined in LED lights and looking way too intense for this hour of the night - the Gyro Drop.

Kwanghee gasped. “Let’s go!”

Jiyong raised a brow. “With the kids?”

“You, me, and y/n. Hyung can stay back with the girls.”

Doni blinked. “Wait, what - ”

"Absolutely not," Jiyong agreed and the older man nodded at him. "Besides, I'm a father now, I can't risk my life."

But you were already pushing off the bench. "C'mon Jiyong, it's been so long since I've ridden a Gyro-drop."

"Has it?" He raised a pointed brow at you.

"Yah! Save that kind of talk for yourselves," Hyungdon scolded, putting his churro to the side, suddenly uninterested. "Give the little one here then," he sighed.

“Hyung, if you're holding my baby, you’re wearing the carrier,” Jiyong said seriously, already unclipping the straps from his own chest.

“Aish! I know how to hold a baby. I have kids of my own, you know that, right?”

“I'm not taking chances.”

Within minutes, Doni was standing awkwardly in the baby carrier, Angel snuggled to his chest, still fast asleep, looking like a koala clinging to a very grumpy tree. Diva’s little hand was placed firmly in his.

Jiyong was still adjusting every strap meticulously. “And hold Jia’s hand. Don’t let her run. If she even thinks about going near a ride - ”

“I got it! I got it!” Doni waved him off, but Jiyong still lingered, looking over his shoulder ten times as you, him, and Kwanghee made your way toward the Gyro Drop tower.

As you were being strapped into the ride yourselves, Jiyong slipped his hand into yours.

Kwanghee peeked over at your interlocked hands. “Hyung can I hold your other hand?”

Jiyong didn’t even blink. “Hold your own hand.”

“I’ll scream louder if I don’t have a buddy - ”

“Don't worry Kwanghee, y/n is a loud screamer too." He said with a chuckle as the ride started to rise, the lights of the theme park growing smaller beneath you.

Kwanghee clutched his harness. “Okay now we're really high.”

You glanced over.

Jiyong, surprisingly, looked… chill. Relaxed, even.

“Not scared yet, old man?” you teased.

He scoffed in minor offence then smirked at you. “Please. This is easy. You know how many stages I’ve jumped off of?”

Kwanghee pouted. “Then why won’t you let me hold your - ”

Then came the drop - sudden, breathtaking, and heart-in-throat fast.

You screamed.

Kwanghee shrieked.

And Jiyong?

He threw his head back and laughed. Hair flying, eyes closed as he held tightly onto your hand.

When you touched down, adrenaline still buzzing, Jiyong turned to you with that familiar gleam in his eyes.

“Still got it.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “We’ll see if you say that on the next ride.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Then came the log flume.

And this time, you had a plus one.

Diva was practically vibrating with joy when the staff confirmed she was tall enough to go on. She jumped up and down, squealing, “Eommaaaa! I go with you!”

Jiyong hesitated. “Is this one really safe for little ones?”

“They just sit and enjoy,” the staff reassured.

“Like a boat?”

“Yes. Mostly.”

Mostly?? Jiyong thought skeptically as he lifted Diva into the ride.

Soon you were all seated into the log-shaped boat - you at the front, Diva right behind you, Jiyong behind her with his arms and legs braced on either side, and Kwanghee in the very back, already giggling.

As the ride floated along its track, everything seemed peaceful. Gentle turns, dimly lit scenes of woodland creatures and faux riverbanks.

“Oh...this is fine,” Jiyong said, looking around at the scenic view.

“Mhmm,” you hummed.

“I’m glad we’re doing this together as a family.”

“Me too.” Kwanghee chirped and Jiyong rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless.

Click.

The boat started to ascend.

Click. Click.

“Wait.”

Click.

“Jagi… why’s it going up?”

You looked back with a grin. “We’re almost at the fun part!”

Jiyong’s hands gripped the sides of the seat. “It’s still going!”

“Yup.”

“It’s too high now. This is - this can't be safe for her?!”

“It's fine!" You reassured from the front, even though you couldn't see the drop yet.

He looked down at Diva, who was sitting between his legs, trying to peek at the view of the theme park as the ride continued to climb higher.

“Jagi! I think we should get off!”

“We’re halfway up now,” And at the peak, you called out, “Hands up, everyone!”

“Hands up!” Diva echoed, tiny arms in the air.

Jiyong panicked, yanking her arms down and wrapping himself around her like a human seatbelt. “NO NO NO. HOLD ON. HOLD - ”

And down you all went.

Then -

Splash.

The log flume plummeted into a wall of water.

The flash of a camera went off, capturing the moment perfectly:

You screaming in delight. Kwanghee gripping onto Jiyong’s shirt with both hands, nearly pulling him backward into his lap. And Jiyong, caught mid-yell, trying to shield Diva with his whole body.

When the boat finally coasted to a stop, drenched and breathless, Diva blinked slowly. Her hair was stuck to her forehead. Water dripped off her lashes.

“Baby, are you okay?” Jiyong gasped, checking her hands, her arms, her face.

She wiped her eyes. “I wanna go again!”

You laughed, glancing at them from over your shoulder.

“She’s a thrill seeker,” you said, proudly.

“She’s going to give me a heart attack,” Jiyong muttered, shaking his head. "Maybe I am too old for this."

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The group gathered near the now-dimming carousel lights, cheeks pink from the cold, bodies still slightly damp from the log flume.

Diva was half-asleep, swaying gently as she leaned against Jiyong’s leg, her little hand clutching the fabric of his jeans.

Angel had stirred again, wide-eyed and quietly taking in the glowing lights while still strapped securely to Doni’s chest. He’d stopped protesting hours ago and had begun patting her back automatically, completely smitten.

“She likes me,” he mumbled proudly to no one in particular.

Kwanghee, still full of energy, clapped his hands together. “Hyung, come on, one last thing! Let’s film a dance challenge. Right here. Theme park background, golden lighting - it's the perfect vibes!"

Everyone groaned in harmony.

"I'm tired," Jiyong mumbled.

Kwanghee was relentless. “Please! One last memory! It’s the last episode!”

Jiyong sighed and gently lifted Diva into Hyungdon's arms. Angel stared up at him whilst Diva rested her head on his shoulder, eyes softly falling closed.

“Aish, no more, Jiyong.” Doni muttered as he held both girls. "I won't have enough arms."

“Don’t drop my babies.” he warned sharply, adjusting his glasses as he got into position.

You held up the phone to record as Jiyong and Kwanghee got into position, the music starting up.

They danced - Kwanghee with his usual amount of flair, and Jiyong with a quiet ease, hitting the moves cleanly, even while teasing Kwanghee mid-routine.

As the song ended, Jiyong turned toward you, a little breathless. “Now I want one with you.”

You blinked. “I thought we were going home.”

“One more,” he grinned, hand outstretched. “For me. I want to dance with my wife.”

You laughed, handing back the phone to Kwanghee and stepping into the frame beside your husband.

The beat of 'Too Bad' started and the rhythm slipped right into your bones.

You moved in sync, playful and effortless - brushing shoulders, spinning, bumping hips. When he pulled you close at the end, you were both laughing together, a little flushed.

You looked up at him with a smirk. “I guess I've still got it too,” you said smugly.

"Always, Jagi," He grinned, pulled you closer, and pressed a kiss to your lips - sweet and full of pride.

Doni groaned. “Can we not do this in front of the children?”

“They’re asleep,” Jiyong mumbled, not pulling away.

Kwanghee was giddy as he reviewed the footage. “I got it! Hey! Jiyongieeee why didn't you kiss me at the end of ours? Can we re-shoot it?!"

And just like that, the camera panned wide - the carousel spinning gently behind, the soft twinkle of the theme park fading into the night.

You tucked under Jiyong’s arm. Doni beside you with the girls. And Kwanghee threw out his arms and loudly exclaimed:

“Best family ever! This is what Good Day was all about!”

And just like that, the night ended. With wet socks, tired giggles, full hearts, and the best kind of chaos.

A good day indeed.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

i found this one really hard to write but it was highly requested so i hope it was ok!

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen

[goldenstring6123]

Lnds: Flowers for the man

Author's note: Requested by Anon! this was interesting to write as I have no idea how to make it different for each character, hehe. I did my best though and I hope you guys like it! Warning: Lengthy read! 5k words! reader is not the mc but works as a hunter (in Xavier's part)

ZAYNE: Blue roses Mystery, aspiration & admiration

The city park was as beautiful as ever, clean and quiet, with only a few people walking about and doing their business. It was Monday, after all, and most people were at work. Meanwhile, you were able to snag a day off, which was pretty rare. 

It was too much of a nice day to spend alone, and luckily, a particular surgeon was also on his day off. 

You took a little bit more time walking towards your designated meeting area, enjoying the cool spring breeze as it brushed your hair from your shoulders. Off into the distance, you could see that tall silhouette standing by, looking at his phone, before pressing it against his ear. 

With a much quicker pace, you came closer. 

"Yvonne, it's my day off." Zayne sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose shortly after. "Yes, do tell him I'd appreciate it if he respected my decision," he paused. "Yes, I informed him, and I finished all my paperwork before I left last night."

From the tone of his voice, it seemed like Zayne was slowly transitioning into a sour mood. You looked around, almost instinctively looking for something to cheer him up.

Maybe there's a stall somewhere offering some sweet treats?

There were none in the vicinity. Except for the quaint flower store. Can flowers cheer up Dr. Zayne? It can certainly keep him company in the office until it wilts. You looked for a flower that suited the doctor. Perched atop a wooden display of colorful flora, hyacinths, cacti, snake plants, and… blue roses? That's unique! 

You made an effort to tiptoe to the inside of the store, keeping your eyes on Zayne, who failed to notice your presence and was still on his phone call, his sour mood amplifying his annoyance. 

The bell by the door emitted a wonderful chime to your ears, and from the counter emerged a beautiful lady wearing a cherry-colored apron. She smiled at the sight of you approaching.

"Hello, ma'am, how much for the blue flower in front?" you asked.  She named her price and took one out of the flower fridge, swiftly and professionally folding some colorful paper to wrap it around with. She finished off with the golden ribbon, tying the whole thing together. 

You peek out through the front window. Perfect timing! Zayne was no longer on his phone. His back was turned towards you, and you couldn't help but admire the broadness of his shoulders and the slimness of his waist in his dress shirt. 

In order to surprise him, you hurriedly ran to bury your face in the crook of his back. As expected, he flinched at the sensation before recognizing an arm that wrapped around his waist. "You're here." He was trying to turn around to look at you, but you stuck to his back like a mouse stuck to a glue trap. 

"Close your eyes first, Zayne," you chirped. He stopped moving.

"Is this one of your pranks again?"

"Oh, just do it! C'mon, please?" You cooed at him and buried your nose against his back once more, taking a sniff at the faint detergent scent. You could see his elbows shift and his face rise, lightly covering his eyes.  You let go and get on your knees as if you're proposing. With the singular blue rose raised up to him, you tell him to open his eyes. "You can look now, Dr. Zayne."

He slowly opened his eyes, seeing that you were not in his line of sight. He looked back and then forward again before looking down. Zayne's eyes were devoid of thought before slowly, a sheen of light coated his eyes, and the image of you kneeling and offering him a blue rose finally sank in. 

At that moment, his heart stopped beating, and his mind conjured up only a single thought. This woman enamors me beyond human comprehension. The park was quiet, with no one in sight—only the two of you on the trail, sandwiched by beautiful pink and green trees. Faintly, he could hear church bells ringing in the distance. 

"A blue rose for the coolest surgeon in Akso Hospital," you grinned. You got up and waited for him to take the rose; he did, but before you let him say anything, you pulled him by his collar and roughly placed a quick kiss before pulling an inch away and whispering, "And a devoted lover to the luckiest girl in Linkon City."

Everything became much more evident at that instant. Any doubts Zayne has on his mind, any insecurities, or any worries about the future. Everything dissipated like snow on a sunny day. Zayne's smile appeared as you pulled away. His gaze was turning softer, and his cheeks showed that tinted pinkish hue you always adored. 

The sight of his annoyed face became a distant memory. "Thank you; I'll put this on the vase on my desk in the hospital." Zayne placed a kiss on your forehead.

"You're welcome! You do your best to make my day, so I want to do so as well." Your fingers intertwined as you and your partner began to walk to wherever you were going. 

"You always make my day; I've told you that countless times." 

"Yeah, but a while ago, you looked like you were having a bad time with that phone call."

Both of you stopped in your tracks, and you barely saw his face in surprise. "You saw that? I apologize, that was…"

"There's nothing wrong about it, Zayne."

He lets out a sigh before reaching out for your palm. Without a word exchanged between you, his hands made gestures atop your palm, encompassing it with a cool breeze and glowing blue hue. For a brief moment, your palm turned icy cold until it lifted slightly. The image of a small blue, icy ring appeared on your palm. It had a small, beautiful flower as its focal point, and you couldn't help but marvel at its beauty. 

"This is my gift for the flower." He smiled, picking the ring up and sliding it onto your middle finger. 

"Dr. Zayne, are you proposing to me?!" you jokingly asked, exaggerating your tone to not make him feel pressured. 

He chuckled at your wide-eyed expression. "Not yet, but maybe in the near future," he mumbled. "You deserve a better ring than the one I made."

"Oh, so romantic, you're going to make me have heart problems."

"I certainly hope not." Zayne let out a hearty laugh at your joke. 

XAVIER: Daisies Innocence, New beginnings and cheerfulness

"Xavier?" you called out in the forest. Only the birds responded to your call. "Xavier, Nero said he was sorry!" you added.

Still, there no response. 

This wouldn't have happened had Nero been more careful.

It was summer, and unfortunately, the wanderers were at their peak, disturbing more provincial areas than usual. You and Xavier had to be dispatched on opposite sides of the city, reducing your time together. It had been exactly a month and a half since you and Xavier met face-to-face, and tomorrow should be the only time when you have matching leaves.

If only Nero didn't screw up the day-off schedule he submitted to Jenna. 

Well, you can understand Xavier's frustrations, and quite honestly, you predicted that he would at least complain, but to see him walk out? It was something.

The forest you were in was no stranger to you. This was the small buffer space between the city and the field where you and Xavier liked to hang out. It was once a decrepit land devoid of flora and fauna, yet it developed and managed to change into a beautiful flower field over time.  On the horizon, you can see that area; with it, you can see Xavier standing and staring at the blue sky.

Your heart ached at the sight. He looked lonely. 

You took a step closer, stepping on the patches of grass that led to his spot. It had been a while since you visited the field, and you couldn't help but reminisce about the calm mornings you'd spent with him here.  Xavier heard your footsteps and felt your presence but ultimately chose to stay in the same position, not sparing you a glance. After all, the look of silent anger still lingered on his face. Turning your back to him as well, you squat down to your knees, hugging them while fiddling with a white, singular daisy near your shoes. 

"Nero says he's sorry," you stated matter-of-factly.

"Of course he would," Xavier replied. He let out a sigh, easing out the tension in his back and shoulders. "I just… I was looking forward to our day off." He can't help but rub the back of his neck, absorbing the fact that he walked out rudely on his co-worker.

"I was too, Xavier," you replied back.   Silence.

"I missed you a lot." You picked the daisy flower and watched as one tiny petal fell onto the grass; it looked like a small cloud falling gently. "I know we call and text every day, but that isn't enough for me either, so I get why you're mad." Gentle, comforting words escaped your lips.

"I'm sorry you had to see me walk out," he whispered.

"There's nothing to be sorry about."

Another minute of silence; this time, something was yearning to be said, not by you but by Xavier.

"Things are dangerous for us hunters," Xavier began. "You never really know when you or someone else can die at the hands of wanderers." The image of the past flashed itself into his vision. A colleague is sitting up against a rock, bleeding and clutching the only picture he has of his wife and daughter. "And… it's frightening, even for me. I guess I'm lucky enough to work for the same company as you, but knowing what we need to go through daily, I just want to make the most of our time whenever possible." Because I don't want to regret not seeing you in case something happens.   His words didn't need a reply from you.    You twisted the flower's trunk, wrapping the stem's end towards the bottom of the flower. You weaved it together and slipped it on your finger. It nearly slid to the side because you made the loop too big. You took it off and knelt on the grass; hearing that crunch was satisfying. Xavier was still facing away from you even when you turned. 

You tugged on the hem of his shirt, and finally, he turned to you, looking down as you knelt on the grass on one knee. No words were exchanged between you at that moment; only the chirping of birds filled the silence in the air. Your hand gently took his own, and he stared promptly. 

The daisy looked even more beautiful the moment you slid it onto his ring finger. It looked bright and wonderful against his long and slender fingers. You kissed his hand gently,  like kissing an infant. Your lips brushed against his knuckles like silk gliding against his skin. 

You finally looked at him as well, and you could immediately catch the redness of his ears. "Cheer up, Xavier." You cooed at him. "There's no way of telling when we're going to last see each other, and hopefully we don't ever go through that." 

Xavier helped you get on your feet and took a small step closer to you. "So, let's spend every moment we can together, even just 30 minutes during our lunch times. Besides, we're just busy because it's the summer. Any other season, we're good to go."

"Yeah, you're right," he replied, intertwining your fingers together with ease. He wrapped his other hand around you and nudged you for a hug, which you happily gave him. Unknowingly, he looked at the hand with the flower ring, a smile creeping up his face. 

At that moment, all his anger had subsided, and the memory of you sliding on the ring was the only thought that occupied his head. Xavier likes giving you flowers, and you know he likes being given food, but this little, simple gift felt more special than anything else. 

His heart thumped against his chest very loudly, and you could only chuckle, finally clinging to his neck. You kissed his jaw and buried your face at the crook of his neck, letting out a breath you unconsciously held in. It was nice to know that Xavier was no longer angry. 

"I love you," you told the wind.

"I love you too." Xavier's embrace made your heart overflow with happiness, and even with that simple gesture, it was more than evident that you were captivated with each other in more ways than one. 

RAFAYEL: Hydragreas Gratitude, understanding & heartfelt emotions

'Do me a favor, please,' Thomas pleaded. 'Rafayel has been in a foul mood since yesterday, and I don't know why, but he has an upcoming exhibition next Tuesday. He says he doesn't want to come. It's really important and could cost him his career and mine.' 

Those were the poor words of Thomas, who called you yesterday at 12 in the morning. You can't remember exactly why Rafayel was in a bad mood, but you were certainly sure that you agreed to help everyone just so you could go back to sleep. 

You can't help but let out a sigh. It was already hard enough to ask Rafayel on a date with his moodiness, but you managed to get him to meet you at the park. He was against it at first, making excuses like he was out on a trip or doing a painting, but with a bit more perseverance, you managed to let him say yes.

Now, the next problem is: How do you cheer up a grumpy boyfriend?  A kiss wouldn't be enough, that's for sure. It's too early to coax him with special methods. He doesn't really like sweets, and he's super sensitive when he's mad; you can't make fun of him. 

Your boots clacked rhythmically on the pavement, your eyes wandering about for inspiration or a clue on how you could brighten Rafayel's day. What's something that can make him blush? That's certainly one way of getting rid of his anger. 

Something unexpected. Something you haven't really given to him yet. 

Something fragrant.

Colorful

Something from the shop directly beside you. "Bloomscape" is the small wooden signage displayed. A beautiful, tall plant crept up the brick corners of the single-floor structure. A stair-like display rack carried baskets of different green grasses and arranged bouquets. 

A light bulb popped over your head. 

You made your way inside the quaint shop. You explored your options, admiring the wonderful displays of the plants. The colors were so vibrant and beautiful, similar to the paints that Rafayel would use in his works.  There was one bouquet that caught your eye the most. It looked like an arrangement for a wedding, dawning a light blue hue mixed with white roses and round leaves. He would like this. You could imagine him smelling the thing. 

"I'll take one of those," fingers pointed at the arrangement. The lady nodded and took the best one off of the display, placing it in a paper bag for you. You hummed as you left the little shop, eager to show the flowers to your boyfriend. 

Rafayel sat on a lonesome bench hidden from the main pathway of the park. You've seen him once or twice there, so it wasn't really much of a surprise when he was there now. According to him, he liked that seat because it was under a tree and away from people. He could think and bask in silence at that particular spot. 

You lowered your stance as you came to approach him. Carefully avoiding the sticks to not make a sound. You placed the paper bag down on the ground and carefully snaked both of your arms around his waist. He flinched at an unexpected sensation, wanting to turn his head, but you didn't let him by lowering your head to his shoulders.

"Hello!" you chided. 

"Did you really have to sneak up on me like that?" Rafayel sounded a tad bit annoyed. 

"I do," you replied back. "Close your eyes." 

"Close my eyes? Why?" Rafayel raised an eyebrow. You can't help but intently stare at him. He stared back, the wrinkle on his eyebrows disappearing. "Alright, fine, but I'm leaving if there's anything that involves cats." Rafeyel closed his eyes.

"No peeking!" You hopped over the bench as you would over a barricade and took out the flower from the bag, immediately getting on your knees. You straightened your back and held the bouquet properly, stretching it closer to his face. 

"Open," you ordered. He squinted and looked down at the blue and white glow of the flowers before letting his eyes go wide. He blinks once and then repeatedly. His hands wrapped around my own, and he finally held onto it, somewhat perplexed. 

"Did you, did you just…" He scoffed, looking away before looking back at you with a betrayed face. "Did you just propose to me? Wasn't I the one who was supposed to do that? Are we switching gender roles now?" His expression was undoubtedly something, but you were 100% sure it was not anger. 

Not when his ears were as red as a tomato. Rafayel was simply bluffing. I guess this guy has a hard time saying thank you when he's flustered. 

"I would if I gave you a ring," you mumbled. You dusted off your knees and slipped both of your palms into his jaws, urging him to look up at me. Rafayel's eyes were bright underneath the dispersed light of the trees. "I heard from Thomas that you were in a bad mood, so I wanted to cheer you up."

"Thomas, that snitch." He pouted and furrowed his eyebrows. "I'll get back at him when I see him in his office!" 

"You can't blame a guy who wants you happy." I squish his cheeks and plant a kiss on his puckered lips. "He knows you were in a bad mood; cut him some slack." Rafayel's frown quickly dissipated into nothingness, and he voluntarily turned his head to the side and then pressed it against my stomach. 

Were you cheering him up? You honestly weren't so sure, but Rafayel looked like he needed that gift to brighten his day.

"I wanted to cheer you up in a new way, so I got you flowers. Do you like them? They're the prettiest in the whole shop." 

"Yes, they're very pretty," Rafayel mumbled again, his ears turning slightly pinkish. You were caught off guard when he turned his head up to look at you, again frowning. "But I'm more pretty than these flowers, right?" His eyes were staring deep into yours, impatiently waiting for that sweet yes from those lips. 

There it was—a perfect opportunity to coax him. "You can be if you give me a smile."

He looked at you like he was being deceived, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting like he normally would. "So you're saying I'm ugly when I don't smile? That's a mean thing to say coming from my girlfriend!"

A breeze blew past you two, sweeping your soft hair to your cheeks. You laughed at your boyfriend's endearing childishness, recalling why you really love to poke fun at Rafayel sometimes. "You're the prettiest fish in the sea, Rafayel. The most wonderful flower in the garden, the cutest cat in Linkon City—"

"Cat?!"

You purposefully hook your index finger underneath his chin and say, "And the most handsome boyfriend of mine." Before letting him say anything, you took the opportunity to peck him on the lips to shut him up for the time being. You leaned back to study his oh-so-beautiful face. Off of a peck, he was already intoxicated. How adorable. "As of now, at least." You stuck your tongue out to mock him.

"I'll pretend that I didn't hear that." He wrapped a hand around your waist and pulled you closer to his lap, finally kissing you deeper. "Thank you for the flowers; I appreciate it."

That's a job well done for you. You deserved a treat for making your boyfriend happy.

"Alright, now that you're no longer mad, let's go to a restaurant. They serve the best shrimp pasta and fermented wine." With an outstretched hand, you waited for him to take it. Rafayel chuckled and sniffed the bouquet, locking his fingers with yours and swaying it forward and backward.

SYLUS: Black Dahlias Sadness and betrayal or Grace beneath pressure

The warm evening breeze was a wonderful sensation against your chilly cheeks and nose. It had been a while since fall had started, and the city was basked in a warm hue of orange and yellow leaves.

You can't help but shiver in your scarf. Maybe you should've worn more layers. 

It was rare for Sylus to ask you to meet in broad daylight. Knowing him, he'd usually be at work during the afternoons and evenings, and he frequently worked in the N109 zone rather than in Linkon City. 

'I have some business in Linkon City today; let's meet in the afternoon.' 

"Wow, so you won't even ask if I'm free?"

'I know your schedule is free, sweetie; our calendars are synced.'

'Plus, you owe me another date for sleeping in on me last time.'

'hehe, alright. I'll meet you at the park. By the fountain? '

'by the fountain.'

It was rare to see the park so empty. Usually, at a time like this, the park should be filled with children running about with their pets and families running amok in the dull grassy field. 

There was a magazine stand at the corner where you and Sylus would meet. While you were a few meters away, you could see him reading a newspaper and conversing with the old stall owner, who was reading the same material. You can't hear their conversation, but Sylus was certainly not happy. 

You could recognize that frown anywhere, especially those knitted eyebrows. Uh-oh. 

It's been a while since you've last seen that face, and of all times, it's reappearing now. A moody syllable is someone who's a bit hard to cheer up, and you don't want to waste the evening trying to do so. What can you do to cheer him up?

A small wind chime caught your attention. You turned to your left and saw a cute but lonesome little flower shop and a couple exiting holding a bouquet of flowers. The arrangements were undoubtedly pretty, especially under the warm pixie lights, yet none of the flowers really suited Sylus. In fact, Sylus and Flowers really don't seem to belong with each other, but maybe that's why you were enticed to buy him one in the hopes of cheering up his mood. 

You entered the store, and the lady greeted you with a hello.

"Good evening. Do you have a flower that looks—?" Your thoughts wandered for a split second, reveling at the fact that you were unprepared for this conversation. "—cool?"

"Cool?" The flower lady tilted her head in confusion, much like yourself. "Like a cold flower? Or a blue-colored plant?"

"Oh, no, no." You scratched the back of your head and went a little closer. "A flower that suits an image of a cool, mysterious person." Unsure of how helpful that would be, you stared at the lady in anticipation, hoping that she would get what you meant.

"Hm, we have peonies." She gestured to various peonies of different colors, ranging from pink to a dark maroon shade. The dark-colored flower is certainly pretty, but it doesn't look suitable for Sylus. You shook your head.

"Anything else?"

"How about…" She disappeared into the back room and brought out a small bucket full of beautiful black flowers. "These? Black Dhalias; they're freshly delivered." You can't help but stare at the flowers. The image of the flowers on his nightside table popped into your head. It looked just about right. 

"I'll take four of these, please."

The lady arranged it for you beautifully and even gave you a discount. Before you left, she gave you a wave of goodbye. You were suddenly hit once more by the cold autumn air and the dimming lights of the sky. The lamps were now turned on, illuminating the park beautifully. 

You sneaked around the corner and saw Sylus gone, yet he was sitting on a bench, reading a different magazine. A pink magazine hat looks uncanny in his grasp. You tiptoed to the back of the bench and squeezed the flowers in between your thighs. You gently covered his eyes. 

"Hah, brave of you to attack me from behind, Sweetie." His voice let out a melodious chuckle at your actions. 

"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting; I had to pick something up from nearby." You still kept your hands over his eyes. "It's my gift for you."

"Is it a gun? Did you manage to steal a gun from your company's armory and give it to me?"

"That would be a crime, Sylus, and no, it's not a gun; it's something you wouldn't receive from any other girl except for me. Take a guess."

Sylus was bemused by what you said. He's received many things in his life and is not short of a single object. His fingers closed the pink date spot magazine and chucked it to the side before crossing his legs.

"A kiss?"

"I give you that practically every day!"

"Is it another plushie?" "No..try again."

"Your Lingerie—"

"SYLUS!" you shrieked, stopping him from finishing his words. "You're bad at guessing; you know what? Just keep your eyes closed." You carefully peel your hands away from his eyes. Sylus didn't move an inch.

"Are they closed?"

"My eyes are perfectly closed. I can't see a thing, sweetie."

While he sat on the bench, you made your way around him and got on your knees. The bouquet rustled in your clasp, making Sylus shift slightly in his seat. You held the flowers up to him, and their wafting scent gave him a cue to open his eyes. 

"I got you flowers. As an apology for being late and sleeping on our last date," you let out a goofy grin while waiting for Sylus to grab the gift from your palms. He grabbed it and placed it in his own arms. 

For a minute, he stared at the flowers in disbelief. You were right: It was a gift he never received from any other girl. Sylus thought that the first and last time he would receive a flower was on his deathbed, which was practically never. Still, here he is, sitting in a park on a random evening, his lover overtaking him with a flower like she was about to ask for his hand in marriage. 

A genuinely baffling sight, even for the leader of Onychinus.

He was certainly the type to dislike flowers, especially the vibrant ones, but the black dahlias you gave him suits him well. The scene was also beautiful and would most definitely fit on the vase he has in his office.  Absent-mindedly, Sylus stood up, which caught you off guard. For the first time, you couldn't comprehend the expression on his face. He certainly wasn't angry, nor did he look disgusted, but he wasn't happy either. 

"I'm giving you five seconds to run, sweetie," he said. You froze at his words, bewildered. Was he not happy with the flowers?! Did he not like them?! 

"Five." He started counting.

It was like all hell broke loose at that instant. Before anything else could happen, you got up, disregarding the dirt on your knees, and ran towards the city. You dug your own grave when you gave him the flowers. With all the speed you can muster, you manage to get to the street where the city is. You crossed the road and turned back, seeing Sylus chasing you among the throngs of people. 

What the heck is wrong with him?! He doesn't seem particularly mad, but what did he really work up over the flowers?

You turned into an alleyway in between two random shops. Your lungs burned from the lack of oxygen, and you just needed to stop for a bit. The brick wall of the store pressed against your coat, and puffs of smoke escaped from your mouth as you wheezed in silence. 

"Where is he?" you mumbled. You peeked out of the alley only to sense that ever-familiar, spine-chilling breeze when he teleported. In a blink of an eye, you were yanked deeper into the dim area, Sylus pushing you against the cold and damp wall. 

"I caught you," he stated, blocking any way for you to exit.

You balled your fist and aimed for his gut, lightly jabbing it. "What the heck?!" Relief washed over you like a tide when you saw the gentle smile on his face. The fear of his wrath disappeared rather quickly, which made your muscles relax. "I thought you were going to kill me!"

He kept his lips shut. Under the dark shadow of the alleyway, you could still see the vibrant red glow of his eyes. Quietly, you leaned forward, letting your chest press against his own, and your feet raised you the highest they could. He was a tall man, and it was hard to reach his lips, so with one hand, you yanked his turtleneck, and with your other hand, you wrapped it around his neck. 

He resisted first and let him laugh through his nose. Softly, your lips pressed against his own, and you patiently waited for him to return the gesture; he did, albeit rougher and hungrier. You didn't know how it happened, but the next moment, his tongue was inside your mouth, exploring every crevice and getting that sweet and flavorful taste like a deprived man. 

Your body burned at the sensation; erotic sounds were escaping from both of your lips. His hand rested on the dip of your back, holding you closer to him. To Sylus, you weighed nothing more than a weighted blanket; moreover, you were warm to the touch, which he found soothing.  "Why did you make me run?"

"Because I know you'll find a place to hide from me," Sylus said, tucking stray hair behind your ear. "And I get to kiss you out in public."

"You…know you could've just kissed me in the park, right?"

"So you want to let people see us all hot and bothered?" You could see his eyebrow arch. 

"Fair point. Kiss me again," you demanded. "I need compensation for that flower."

Sylus let out a laugh. "What kind of person demands compensation for a gift? You're certainly the only one who does that, sweetie." Again, he pushed himself closer to your face and pulled on your back. "But I'll happily oblige." 

Amidst the noise of the busy streets in autumn, hidden from the blaring lights of the vibrant city, you and Sylus remain hidden in your own little alleyway, holding each other like teenagers in love at the peak of their youth. 

'What a beautiful season,' you thought.    

Author footnotes: I'm trying to go back to a story-telling format. It's been a while since I've done that! Layout by me, using canva premium | Do not repost |

[tqtc-art]

Wright Anything Agency (+ friends) animal charms inspired by the TGAA ones :3 list/thought process + alternate animal sketches under the cut

Gumshoe: Golden retriever -- I also considered bear (see below) but he's Edgeworth's dog so I ultimately had to go with ouppy

Edgeworth: Grey tabby cat -- not a lot of justification lol it just felt right. She didn't make it into this one but in my heart Franziska is a little black cat.

Maya: Chipmunk -- she was hard to decide on! I'm still not 100% sure the chipmunk thing comes across without a tail but if she looks more like a hamster that also works!

Phoenix: Hedgehog -- nothing else was ever seriously an option for him lol

Apollo: Rabbit -- again, an obvious choice!

Trucy: Rabbit -- obviously it matches Apollo, but I also enjoy the magician-rabbit thing!

Athena: Songbird -- again, he didn't make it, but I think she matches with hawk!Blackquill! I wasn't totally sure about making her a nonmammal though, so I also tried out fox

Mouse Phoenix was never really in the running, but I liked the thought of him matching Ryunosuke so I tried it out for fun lol. I liked the golden sunflower ears a lot. I'm still very fond of bear Gumshoe, and fox Athena is a bit too busy for my taste. but she's very cute too. None of them are supposed to have tails, but I cheated and gave her one anyway

[nimbusclan]

Moon 6

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Cold wind whistles through the rocks Moonstar and Fogfreckle are hunched under, bringing the crisp scents of first leaf-fall. With a shiver, Moonstar presses closer to Fogfreckle for warmth, but startles back as he lets out a pained hiss. She rests her gaze on her brother for a moment, eyeing the bristled, spiky fur of his pelt that sticks up around the cobwebs she did her best to wrap him with, stiff with dried blood.

The talon marks that are sunk into his back worry Moonstar. She wishes she had listened better when she was an apprentice, when their old medicine cat, Loudtalon, had been rambling on about herbs. She doesn’t want to try mixing a poultice for her brother in case she gets it wrong; she wouldn't even know where to begin. The most she can do is change his cobwebs when the blood starts to soak through and pray to StarClan that infection doesn’t set in.

She’s been doing her best to keep his wounds clean, but he’ll need new cobwebs soon. With a heavy sigh, she rises to her paws as much as the rocks crushing in around them will allow, her shoulders brushing the ceiling. Her ears have been pinned to her head for so long now that she thinks they may get stuck that way.

Moonstar moves towards Fogfreckle to give his ear an affectionate lick before she leaves, but he ducks away from her, wincing at the movement.

Moonstar halts and pulls back, chin wobbling.

Puffing her fur against the biting wind, unseasonable for this early in leaf-fall, she squeezes her way out of their makeshift den in search of three thing: cobwebs for her brother, fresh-kill for the both of them, and someplace they can finally call home.

With Fogfreckle injured, her search is limited.

Moonstar pads across the mountain, eyes sharp for the movement of prey but mind elsewhere. Before Fogfreckle was confined to his nest to heal from the eagle attack, they were constantly on the move. So far, they haven’t found anywhere that would make for a good camp. They’ve slept in abandoned dens, up in the branches of trees, tucked under scrubbly, thorny bushes – but a place big enough for two cats to sleep is nowhere near large enough for a camp.

They will rebuild NimbusClan. StarClan decreed it – StarClan chose her as leader. It has to be for something, she has to have something, some trait or destiny or something that StarClan can see that she can’t, or they wouldn’t have chosen her. Her stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought.

Her mind strays to worse thoughts, the sharp glide of golden wings slicing through the air a constant in her mind this past moon. She can’t shake how odd it was – sure, it’s not strange that a mother would want to protect her eggs – but the way it shifted its beady black glare from Moonstar to her brother seemed tainted with something more than just a mother’s protection.

With effort, she shakes the subject from her mind and sets to canvassing this section of mountain. She doesn’t want to stray too far from where Fogfreckle is, so she’s been going out in a different direction each day in the hopes she’ll find something suitable. Today, she pokes her head into a shaded clearing of pine trees, only to be met with the blinking eyes of several racoons peering through the needles – sniffs around the opening of a fox den that smells very clearly occupied (hurrying away as quickly and silently as her paws with allow) – and shrinks back into the shadows of a leafy bush when a pair of twolegs turn a corner onto a twolegtrail, speaking loudly in their foreign tongue and likely scaring away all the prey in the area.

She only manages to catch one meager mouse – but that’s fine, because it’s Fogfreckle’s favorite, and with a cobweb-coated twig cradled carefully between her teeth, she doesn’t think she’d be able to carry more than one piece of fresh-kill at the same time, anyways.

Fogfreckle stirs as she presses back into their den, her head angled awkwardly so she can get through with the stick clamped in her jaws. He glances at her as she pushes the mouse towards him, and then looks down at his paws as she sets to working clearing the old cobwebs from his fur. She tries to be gentle, but she’s no good at this medicine cat stuff. Fogfreckle grimaces the entire time and lets his mouse go cold, not sharing a single word with his sister as she rasps a tongue over his wounds, cleaning the dried blood from his fur.

Moonstar goes to sleep when she’s done, stomach rumbling, and tries not to cry.

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

[hrrtshape]

　 v-day in my better cr, 　 　 volume ii . . .

so. if you, inexplicably, criminally, missed the valentine’s day saga (what were you doing? a sensory deprivation tank? a vow of silence? serving a light sentence at rikers?), you can read the full rundown elsewhere, aka at the top. but the tl;dr is that coryo flew me to paris and spent a borderline inadmissible amount of spoils on me. disturbing, actually. feels premeditated. but let’s not dwell.

꒰ day two.

next morning, i had that creeping, noir-movie score suspicion that he was plotting something again. something elaborate. something requiring a mise-en-scène shift. and oh, oh. guess. guess what. anyway. he tells me to dress nice but practical, like we’re off to climb everest. we’d be walking a lot, apparently. deeply untrustworthy.

so i sip my little mimosa. gnaw on a croissant. watch the outside air glitter in that way that makes you feel like the protagonist in a godard film. and then. and then.

we get dressed. we slip into a car he’s rented from free2move (if you know about my cr escapades, this is a crucial, ominous detail). we drive for thirty-five minutes. at every stop, like some kafkaesque harbinger of doom, that mickey mouse billboard flashes past. you’re getting closer. and i’m sitting there, freshly enlightened, clocking him. a day after valentine’s? disneyland? peak crowd levels? claustrophobia waiting to happen? it’s giving sardine tin. it’s giving battlefield. but sure. fine.

we arrive. and it’s disneyland, in all its grotesque splendour. the air smells like synthetic nostalgia and churros. within seconds, he’s dragging me into one of those manic little gift shops, buying me minnie mouse ears with the urgency of a man paying off a gambling debt. he spends the rest of the day adjusting them atop my hair like a stage mother fussing over a starlet. i try to make him buy some to match. he shoots me a look, the kind of side-eye that would make a lesser woman wither. whatever. we eat beignets in the cold while performing a forensic analysis of the general public’s outfits.

first ride, of course, has to be mad hatter’s tea cups. i make him get on. he gets off trying to act unaffected, like some postmodernist take on masculinity, but he looks one sharp movement away from projectile vomiting. then straight to haunted mansion because, obviously, it’s the best one. sublime. evocative. big thunder mountain next, where he keeps his arm around me like a bodyguard anticipating an assassination attempt. it’s a small world. he resists. i drag him anyway. by the end, he looks like he’s lived through a particularly harrowing wartime flashback. i document this moment for future blackmail.

i do attempt to push him towards cinderella for a photo. he refuses. but, plot twist, he does bow slightly to maleficent. he buys me another pair of minnie ears (concerning). we hit the studio park, ride ratatouille, and demolish seven consecutive snacks. at some point, i fake a bathroom break. deception!! espionage!! i slip behind him and pop the most aggressively bland, stoically masculine mickey mouse ears onto his head. he looks like a disgruntled victorian child being forced to pose for a family portrait. exquisite.

we tackle eight more rides. he grumbles, theatrically, about the prevalence of screaming children. someone side-eyes us for speaking english. i, a known non-american, take deep offence. we circle back to haunted mansion, because we understand art. and then. the fireworks show. it’s soft-focus, it’s cinematically framed, it’s almost sickening. he stands behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, whispering things, pressing kisses into my hair. disgusting. humiliating. we should be shunned by society.

then back to paris. tragic. except not really, because we return to the hemingway suite at the ritz, where everything is soft and golden and marlene dietrich probably committed minor sins. we steal champagne. as one does.

꒰ day three.

okay. next day. because, obviously, i am dating the most absurdly good-looking creature to walk this earth, the kind of man whose cheekbones could inspire revolutions. so, of course, he is taking me somewhere else. once more.

we wake up. my feet are dead. rigor mortis has set in below the knee. my entire existence is compromised. meanwhile, coryo, ever the sybarite, orders a hotel breakfast so luxurious it should come with a tax audit. freshly baked viennoiseries, fruit so plump it looks photoshopped, eggs that have been fluffed within an inch of their life. pain perdu drenched in maple syrup, glistening like a bribe. he reads something in french, butchering it magnificently. i correct him mid-bite.

little dress, little boots, big mistake. coryo, ever the pessimist or, rather, the man who knows me too well, grumbles about how my feet will fail me. he tucks ballet flats into my bag, muttering something prophetic. manifest destiny. foreshadowing. ah, literature.

we take the train (yes. train!!!!) to versailles. sitting side by side, heads resting against each other, the whole thing nauseatingly cinematic. every period drama you’ve ever seen, but with better hair.

versailles, golden and gaudy and ghost-ridden. we walk through the town, hand in hand, my scarf slightly askew because i am chic but incompetent. coryo keeps fixing it, scowling, something about how i’ll get cold, perish, and then what? he’ll be alone??? we reach the gates. he sighs. mumbling about how he should've been a king.

inside, the mirrors swallow us whole. coryo, predictably, stares at himself for too long. i take approximately 140 photos in the first twenty minutes. then, tragedy: he becomes insufferable. every gilded room, a fantasy. a pause. a prolonged stare. a solemn nod. an "i could live here." i drag him forward. then, revenge. marie antoinette’s bedroom. i coo. i sigh. i nearly weep. i try to sneak into a restricted area, whispering that i once read about a secret passage. now he drags me away. an even score.

ladurée. obscene quantities of macarons. he feeds me each one with theatrical precision, licking his fingers after every bite. infuriating. romantic. he earns a glare, a sigh, a begrudging toothy smile. we sit in the gardens, sharing a vape.

the petit trianon. coryo mutters something about buying it. i haul him back to reality. i reimagine us as illicit lovers in the 18th century, tell him i would’ve written him devastatingly good love letters, kept them tied in pink ribbon. he plays along, tragic and smirking. then, the temple of love. obvious. inevitable. he kisses me there.

but the best part, the part that sticks, is the little hamlet. disneyland if disney had taste. i say as much ten times. we agree, solemnly, that we like it better than disneyworld.

now. my boots. let’s talk about my boots. because despite the power of denial, my feet, shockingly, begin to ache. and then, as if scripted, coryo, my dearest prophet, pulls out the ballet flats. he carries my boots in his hands, refusing to dirty my bag. stupid. ridiculous. perfect. he earns a kiss for that.

as the sky bruises, we leave. rent a car (again). drive back to the hotel. somewhere between the road signs and his hand on my thigh, he kisses my cheek, murmurs for me to stay put. then, inexplicably, puts my boots away in our room himself. prince charming. (peep the ever after high dr).

dinner. eiffel tower in view. glasses clinking, candlelight flickering, some absurdly good food making its way into our bloodstream. disgustingly romantic. borderline illegal. the kind of night you never really recover from.

and then, a slow walk back, his arm heavy around my shoulders, the parisian night unfolding.

finite. no. jk. we spent two more days there but it’s nothing grandiose. and the reason this took me almost a month to write is. because. i was lazy. plus we broke up. but then got back together. so. everything's good.

[theyandereresident]

Jealously (Yandere Lady Alcina Dimitrescu x Fem! Reader)

Requested by: @milkkyshakeez (Sorry for the wait on this.)

Tw: Mentions of marking, mentions of harm/murder, actions of murder, sadism (not towards the reader), possessive/obsessive behavior, clingy behavior, yandere.

She couldn't help but need your attention every second of the day, every single second. It only should of been on her anyway, those lowly maids didn't even deserve it. They were nothing but dirt under her shoes, a nuisance. The only reason she kept them around was the fact that she needed her daily blood supply, as well as keeping the castle spotless.

The lady would do anything as long as it meant you were satisfied, as long as you were pleased. She would buy, hurt, even shed blood. And more, she really meant anything. Any. Thing.

Alcina had been in a foul mood lately, more then she usually was. 'A foul mood', was an understatement. She was loathing with hate, filled with fury and jealousy. One of her maids, Maria, had been growing a little too close with you. Who did that stupid and pathetic maid think she was?

She'd made it extremely clear to those maids that you were hers, and only her little mouse. She left marks on you, bites on your neck, and everything of the type. But clearly, it wasn't enough. It infuriated Alcina that this nothing but lowly scum of a maid could think that'd she'd get anywhere with you. And it was clear Maria wanted more then just friendship. Oh it was very clear to dear Alcina, she definitely wasn't stupid.

The little brushes of each others hands, the compliments, it was sickening to the lady. Something had to be done, she couldn't let this go on any further. Oh no no. She was going to teach Maria a lesson, a painful one. One that made sure this little maid would never talk to you again.

The lady was thinking of doing it herself at first, but now that she thought of it. Why not get her daughters to do it? She hadn't treated them in a while, and she knew her daughters held no mercy when it came to the harming of others. It was perfect, absolutely perfect.

The crackling of the fire would sound in the room, as well as an occasional sip from Alcina. Drinking her wine as per usual, sitting in her white and golden rimmed armchair. The strong scent of her perfume would linger in the air, and the faint smell of blood that was in her wine. Her golden gaze would linger on you as you slept, your sleeping form was beautiful to her. You were perfection in every shape, way, and form.

A quiet sigh left her as she placed her wine glass down on a small table beside her. But her crimson lips would curve into a faint smirk, one filled with malicious intent as she thought of the slaughtering of the maid that was bound to happen soon. That maid was finally going to be put in her place. This could of been avoided, but no. That would of just been too simple to happen.

That's when a sudden but faint crying echoed from the halls, as well as pleading. Well speak of the devil. The lady would continue listening, the sadistic laughs of her daughters joining in with the maids sobbing and begging. But the begging would fall on deaf ears, only to be cut off with a loud ear piercing scream. Then it would go silent.

Alcina would be drowning in the enjoyment of the maid's demise, a little chuckle falling from her lips. A slightly deep and sadistic one. She'd suddenly shift back to her neutral expression, her eyes drifting back to your curled up form on her bed. It was a wonder how you hadn't woken up yet, then again, you were a heavy sleeper. How useful.

How adorable~

[strawberri-yan]

TW: Yandere!Jingren x reader, chase scene, nothing explicit, light thriller read, usual yandere stuff

(A/n: Happy Halloween 🎃 🖤💜 A little treat for you guys while I was away. Hope you all enjoy! And yes jingren are an already established couple here, they just saw you and thought you were to cute to not snatch up )

The night was dense and suffocating, shadows stretching far too close as you darted down the dimly lit corridors of the Xianzhou Luofu. Your footsteps echoed against the cold, polished floors, heart hammering in your chest as panic twisted like a vice around you. You had to keep moving. You had no other choice.

 He was close, you could feel it. That stellaron hunter, Blade, moved like a ghost and you had no idea how far, or perhaps close, he was. You couldn’t bear to look back again, couldn’t bear to see him, not when his face was always calm, his lips twisted in that taunting smirk as though he were merely biding his time. Like a mouse running away from a cat toying with its food, you continued to run with no plan, no direction—all you wanted was just to get away, away from that love sick swordsman.

Just as you turned a corner, you slammed straight into a hard, unyielding chest, a solid wall of warmth that smelled faintly of cedar and iron. Strong arms instinctively caught you, steadying you before you could even think to scream.

“Careful there,” came a deep, almost amused voice, and you looked up, breath catching in your throat as you met the golden eyes of the dozing general, Jing Yuan. Relief surged through you, and you clutched at his robes, voice breaking.

“J-Jing Yuan,” you gasped, barely able to steady yourself. “Please—you have to help me. T-that wanted criminal, Blade—he’s—he’s chasing me. He’s gone mad! He wants to—” You swallowed hard, the words tumbling out in a rush. “He wants to take me away, said he’ll lock me up and keep me all to himself, forever. Please, you have to—”

But Jing Yuan’s lips curled, his golden gaze glittering with a strange amusement. He tilted his head down to you, letting out a low, almost condescending chuckle. 

“Did he now?” His tone was almost lazy, dripping with a hidden edge as he looked down at you with half lidded eyes. “Tell me, do you know whose idea this was to begin with?”

You were confused at first until realization hits you like a truck. He… orchestrated all of this? Allowed that wanted criminal to chase you down in the middle of the night by that crazed man? You took a trembling step back, Jing Yuan’s grip on your shoulders tightened, keeping you right where you were, pressed against his unyielding form. His smile only widened as he watched the realization settle over you.

“Wh-What are you talking about? Explain yourself!” you demanded

“I’ve known about it from the beginning. Encouraged it, even. He simply lacked the patience for delicacy.” Jing Yuan laughs softly despite the tense situation.

Both fear and anger took over you, you had trusted Jing Yuan, confided in him—the one person you thought could protect you from that mad man’s fixation. But instead, he’d been a silent conspirator, watching with an amused detachment, allowing this fucked up obsession to unfold. Before you could process it, a soft, steady breath warmed the back of your neck, and you froze. Blade had arrived, as silently as he’d pursued you through the streets, his presence casting a cold shadow over your trembling form. Jing Yuan didn’t move, didn’t even blink as Blade stepped closer until you felt his chest press firmly against your back. The heat of his body sent shivers down your spine, his strong arms snaking around your waist with a possessive, unyielding hold. Jing Yuan’s fingers remained on your shoulder, keeping you in place, effectively trapping you between them.

“You put on quite a chase,” Blade murmured, his voice low, each syllable measured, deliberate. His breath brushed against your ear as his hands tightened their hold, pulling you even closer. “But you know there’s no escaping, don’t you? Not from us.”

Jing Yuan’s hand slid up to cup your chin, gently forcing you to look into his eyes. They were calm, nearly serene, as if this was all a game, a carefully orchestrated plan that he’d crafted with meticulous detail. “Oh beloved, you do know our dear one does get a little skittish sometimes,” he commented, a hint of affection in his tone as he addressed Blade, though his gaze never left yours. “Though I must say, it’s rather… endearing. Like a little mouse.”

Blade hummed, his lips curving into a faint smile against the back of your neck. “Don’t act so innocent, Jing yuan. It was your idea, after all. You wanted to see them panic, to see the way fear would make them so…” His fingers brushed over your trembling hand. “Fragile. In need of saving.”

You could do nothing as you were caught between them, their bodies pressed against yours, you felt trapped as both men sandwhiched you with their overbearingly larger and more stronger frames. You had no where else to run. 

[saltsongwc]

This was inspired by THIS ask I got about Tiger and his dynamic's, which I'll make more of later

And a little writting to acompany the art under the read more

The moss was starting to grow back, snow melting and allowing the new herbs and plants to finally reclaim the soil of new leaf, Tigerclaw didn't enjoy this step in the changing of Leaf-Bare to Newleaf, mostly because it made walking uncomfortable, with the wet snow clinging to his paws and fur.

It gave him an excuse to stay in his den when the storages were full, which he appreciated, the other excuse was the nursery duties that he'd rather perform instead of the apprentices, just to walk between his den and a cozier one.

Right now, there were only two cats sharing the nursery, Frostfur was sleeping the furthest away, her tail curled around her as she sleeped peacefully, 'Any day now' he reminded himself, he was getting the storages ready and extra moss to welcome the new clan members, he chuckles a bit under his breath, Lionheart would stand pacing around camp whenever not on patrol.

His eyes landed on the second shape, the golden molly whose fluffy tail was twitching up and down, Goldenflower had been the only queen through Leaf Bare, and her only company before Frostfur was the tiny kit currently entertained with her tail. Her eyes shifted away from the kit for a moment and gave him a purr in greeting, which he returned, pacing around her landed him right on the kit's field of vision.

"Tiger! Tiger!" the black and white tom used his mother's tail as support, staring at the larger tabby with glee "Can we play? Can we please?"

He sighed in faked dissapoitment, dropping the moss by Goldenflower's bed and shaking his head "It's sunset Swiftkit, how about tomorrow?"

The promise is enough to stop any dissapointment from the kit, who just exclaims "At dawn! Okay!" and curls around his mother's belly, knowing sleep just makes the sun come faster.

Tigerfoot smiles, staring at the small cat while he sits down, before his gaze returns back to the mother.

"...Stop smirking like that"

Goldenflower chuckles and shakes her head "You know, I think you'd be an excellent father Tigerfoot"

"Ha! Imagine a kit with my face" his ear flicks "I bring you moss and that's how you repay me? Mockery? Shame Golden, I thought better of you"

"If you claim to be friend you should expect this from me"

Her gaze returned to the small kit, now snowing peacefully and pawing the air, dreams already claiming his eyes, Tigerfoot caught however, the worried expression in her eyes.

"Mouse for your thoughts?" He asks, lying beside her in comfort while staring at the kit as well. Goldenflower hummed, licking Swiftkit's head gently.

"He's so... small"

The words echoed back to her first time seeing Swiftkit, and his sister before she passed, they had been so lucky Tigerfoot recalls, an especially harsh storm, he spent the night protectively standing guard by the nursery entrance, afraid anything would lurk inside and take the kits... It took one.

"...He's smaller than the average" two moons old, the kit didn't look more than one.

Some nights, he thinks of his apprentice days, some days, he's afraid whenever the kit rushes to him and plays with his tail or jumps on his back, it terrifies him.

"He takes it after his father"

Goldenflower had never confided in Tigerfoot who Swiftkit's father might be, while the whispers and gossips from the clan was Patchpelt (and the now elder had never disputed those claims), he was unsure, now, the fear at night is present, the ghost of someone guarding the fragile kit resting by his friend's belly is less paranoia, an active protector, a scourge from his past.

He should seek the cat, the black shape, but tomorrow he promised Swiftkit he would play with him at dawn, and tonight he wants to guard the den, to make sure the last of Leaf Bare's winds do not take the only kit as well.

[the-universe-carries-on]

LoTF Character Appearance Chart:

I think there used to be one of these, but the person left Tumblr. My copy is the Penguin Great Books copy (teal cover), so it might be different from yours. Bear with me.

Ralph: Fair hair (p. 1), Grey shirt (p. 1), 12 years old and a few months (p. 4), wide and heavy shoulders like a boxer (p. 4), mild mouth and eyes (p. 4), biggest on the island (p 15), Ralph started with hair at half an inch (p 96), bites his nails to the quick (p 96), His mother is dead as he claims mummy was still with them (p 99)

Jack: Tall, thin and bony (p. 13), red hair beneath his choir cap (p 13), face crumpled and freckled and ugly without silliness (p 13), light blue eyes (p 13), biggest choir boy (p. 14), freckled (p 15), sandy long hair (p 39), sunburnt (p 39), tall (p 57)

Simon: skinny and vivd (p 16), straight black coarse hair (p 16), smaller than Ralph and Jack (p 17), small (p 46), darkish in color and tanned deeply (p 46)

Piggy: Wind-Breaker (p. 1), Shorter than Ralph and "Fat" (p. 1), Thick glasses (p. 1), Pale (p. 6), tans to golden brown (p 54), wispy hair as though baldness was his natural state (p 54), different accent than the others (p 54)

Roger: slight, furtive boy (p. 14), dark boy (p 15), doesn't darken by tanning (p 50), black hair down to his nape (p 50), swarthy skin (p 52)

Johnny: Six years old (p. 11), Sturdy and fair (p. 11), well-built with fair hair (p 50), china blue eyes (p 50)

Maurice: second largest choir boy (p 14), broad and grinning all the time (p 14)

Samneric: Bullet-headed with "hair like tow" (p. 12), not enough skin when they smile (p. 12), unsuspected intelligence (p 31), unable to do things apart (p 84)

Mulberry Boy: about six years old and a shrimp (p 27), mulberry colored birthmark on one side of his face (p 27)

Henry: Biggest littlun and distantly related to the mulberry boy (p 49)

Percival: Mouse-colored and not very attractive (p 50)

Phil: Self confident littlun (p 73)

Littluns: A dark little boy (p. 11), Uniforms colored grey, blue, fawn (p. 11), Hair in brown, fair, black, chestnut, sandy, mouse-colored (p. 12)

Extra Information: Simon Robert and Maurice are in a grey area between littlun and biggun (p. 49), Jack's original paint is one cheek and eye socket white red on the other half of his face and charcoal from right ear to left jaw (p 51), Maurice Simon Piggy and Ralph were not present for the first pig killed (p 56), Jack and Ralph both think Africa is a country (p 71), Bill slaps Johnny to get him to stop crying (p 88), Robert laughs at Simon when he bashes into a tree (p 91), Simon predicts his own death (p 98), they bit Simon as he died. They cannibalized him (p 136)