#yandere secretary x reader

[suiana]

I'm thinking about a yandere! secretary who's an absolutely manipulative piece of shit❤️

you hired him because his resume was impeccable and you thought he'd be a perfect fit for the empty position.

which... he is.

but the fact that he's younger than you by a decent amount and can be quite unprofessional at times does throw you off. is it something younger people like doing? is it normal to visit your employee's house with no one else around?

"hey boss, I'm thinking of inviting you over to my place tonight? just the two of us? we can drink and eat fried chicken together❤️"

"my dear, that is rather unprofessional don't you think?"

"what? no of course not. you're thinking into it too much."

it doesn't help that you're sort of a people pleaser and give into his demands easily.

you just want to see all your employees be happy! is that so wrong of you? of course not! and all your other employees (excluding your secretary) all appreciate and treat you with respect. and as you know by now, your secretary is an asshole who makes use of your easily swayed personality to get you to do... things in his favour.

but you don't know that! you just think it's because of the age gap that causes you not to understand his actions and words! surely he's not trying to love you right?

"boss~ don't you think i should meet your family? your parents? you met mine the other day didn't you? oh my parents absolutely loved you! they thought you were so sweet and-"

"w-well... that's only because you got a raise and you suggested i should inform your family about how well you were performing during work... there's no reason for you to meet my-"

"boss, be serious. do you hate me?"

"no of course not! i-"

"that's settled then! we can go and meet your family after this!"

"...yes, my dear."

with that said, he's also an excellent actor and knows how to play things to his advantage. by the time you realize what's going on, you'll already be trapped in the palm of his hand.

"my dear... i am so sorry. we shouldn't have slept together, nor gotten together. it was a severe lapse in judgement and I'm sorry that i crossed the line between personal and professionalism."

"what are you talking about darling? don't worry your silly head over all that. professionalism? who needs that? all the other employees think we look great together, and your family loves me! plus, I'm your boyfriend that you love, yes?"

"i-"

"now stop speaking about stupid things. you don't have to worry about that anymore. just listen to me. it's normal to date your secretary. it's what the younger people are doing nowadays! I'm already 26! so don't worry..."

and it's not like you can just fire him either. like i said, he does an excellent job at being your secretary. also the fact that he practically controls HR and influences them into thinking every other potential employee is subpar. so when you hold a meeting about whether to fire him everyone protests against it. but that's not important.

besides, he won't let you do that. why would you want to get rid of him? you only need him don't you? he's perfect for this job! you don't need another secretary. you don't need anyone else.

just him. only him.

and you two will be happy together as long as you listen to his words and don't try getting rid of him. after all, you might be older but times are changing! you need the hand of a younger and more knowledgeable person. he'll help you bring the company to greater heights and bring in more revenue for you!

so stop talking about how it's wrong. it's not. it's the way of the new generation! and he just.. loves you very much. way too much.

[heartfullofleeches]

"Say, Y/n. Who are your new friends?"

Secretary Darling, sandwiched between two massive demons in human form: O-oh, y'know....Just some pals I made at work.

-

Secretary Darling: Did my skirt shrink in the wash? Why's this damn thing so tight- Ah!-

[Darling yelps as a tear splinters down the backside of his skirt. A snake demon nearby spits out water - spraying another coworker in the eye with their venomous spit.]

-

Succubus #1: Oh, darling, you simply must allow me to do your nails. You have such gorgeous hands.

Succubus #2: May I style your hair?

Succubus #3: Can I kiss you on the lips?... I mean- Do your makeup?

-

Secretary Darling: My feet are killing me.....Hm?

[Darling looks beneath their desk to find their hound demon coworker cramming themselves in the small space, supporting darling's legs on their back. Darling pets the demon as their tail wags]

-

Boss: Your insolence will not be tolerating in this business. If I were a lesser demon I'd have your head. You miserable, pathetic, idiotic excuse for a-

[*Knock* *Knock*]

Secretary Darling: Boss? A new donut shop just opened up near my place and I was wondering if you'd like to try one. My apologies if you're busy- You told me I could visit you at any time so-

Boss, chucking the imp out the window: Perfect timing! I was about ready to die again of boredom! Don't be shy now, come on in!

[komelliko]

manipulative!boss!sunday x timid!secretary!reader

summary: Sunday can no longer control himself around you. He will make his affections known. wc: 1.6k - this is nsfw! cw for dubcon! fingering/dry humping/softdom!sunday

part 2 / part 3 (nsfw) / part 4

---

By his insistence, it had been too late post-dinner for you to head home alone. In fact, it had been too late to bother leaving Blue Hour at all—not when Sunday could find you a place to stay the night as easily as walking through the entrance of the nearest hotel. "One room," he had told the Halovian clerk at the front desk, a kindly young lady with red cardinal feathers encircling her cheeks. "Anything will do." You tapped the empty box of mints clutched in your hand with one of your fingers, as if the slow rap-tap-tap would truly relieve any of your nervousness. His words had stuck with you after all—The Head of the Oak Family wandering around Blue Hour with a glorified nobody wearing a dress like this? Of course they'd assume something!

But you weren't a glorified nobody, you wanted to tell yourself. You had worked your ass off to be here, even if nobody else around you knew that. You were a somebody, no matter where you were or what Sunday had you wear or anything of the sort. You were one of the most powerful people in Penacony, damnit. ...Of course, at the time, you had been too distracted by this train of thought to realize he had only asked for one room. And, furthermore, at the time you hadn't asked if he would be making any trips that night himself.

Sunday had counted on this.

Sunday walks you to your room with his hand on your lower back once again, in what feels almost like a mockery of the conversation you had with him a few hours ago. You suck on the inside of your cheek, wishing the mints hadn't all been swallowed by now. Even as you try to walk faster than him ever so slightly, he seems to set the pace. Slow, methodical, calculated. The first thing you notice when you get to the room is the large window overlooking the rest of the Moment, sprawling buildings disappearing into the edge of the dreamscape. Large billboards painted in shimmering hues of gold display women in ornate jewelry, displaying dazzling watches and rows upon rows of pearls. You've never seen a Penaconian skyline that didn't have its fair share of advertisements, in all truthfulness—Every instance of gold and ochre like another glinting set of eyes watching you as you go about your day. Sunday approaches behind you, his hand resting on one of your shoulders.

"Don't you want to sit down?" he asks. You initially think to protest, but before you can even process it you're already in his lap, a lone wooden chair pulled out from the room's lounging area to sit in front of the window. Your eyes switch between glancing out at the billboards, then your knees, then somewhere in the middle distance. His voice takes on a honey-like quality that it usually only shows a hint of, whispering things in your ear that you accept so easily... because they almost sound like music. A low, deep harmony.

"I hope you know, [Y/N]," he speaks against the back of your neck, fingers dancing through your hair. "That when everything is said and done, I don't just consider you an employee. I consider you a friend."

His other hand goes to rest on your hip. You're still not sure what to make of it—Maybe you just don't want to accept the answer. This hot, churning feeling begins to twist just below your stomach, slowly growing bigger and bigger.

"O-of course, Mr. Sunday. Thank you, Mr. Sunday."

What would please him more: For you to drop the formality, or to keep it even as you're eventually moaning it? Sunday isn't entirely sure, but he lets the thought percolate while he continues to play with your hair. You sink your head back into his touch, and your whole body moves in response: Pressing up against him in a way he would kill for.

He cannot control himself any longer. For the briefest moment, he drops all pretense.

"Hike up your dress, [Y/N]."

Once you realize what he means by it, your hands have already shifted the hem halfway up your thighs. This is your boss. You can't be doing this. You'd only be proving people right this way.

...But what would he do if you said no?

The skeptic in you gives in, clinging onto the reasoning that you have no choice anyways. Hell, in the most pessimistic light, you might get a promotion out of this.

The tent in his pants pokes between your thighs like a cattle brand, hot and stiff. You clasp your knees together, but the choice works against you: the way your thighs press against the intrusion, the way the pooling cyprine leaks onto his pants. If you had any hope of convincing him (or yourself) to stop, it was long gone. You hear Sunday let out a groan, a gloved hand petting one of your thighs.

"You can keep a secret... can't you?"

There's nothing else for you to say. You stare at the floor, your face burning bright red.

"Of course, Mr. Sunday."

"...I've dreamed of doing this."

His hand moves with a particular confidence as it slips between your thighs, a single finger tracing that hidden bundle of nerves.

"It's awful," he pouts, his touch slowing to a crawl, "How often I convinced myself I could be satisfied with so little. Yet as I indulged myself with your presence further and further, I could not find satiation." The way his fingers gently pass over you cause you to jump in his lap, and he only sighs again, wrapping his other arm around your waist to keep you still. "Oh, how I betray myself."

The pace of his fingers quickens again, and you stop to think—Promotion? What in Aeon's name would you even be promoted to? What rung on the corporate ladder was there above Secretary to a Family Head (other than being a Head yourself, which was obviously out of the question), and what difference would it make if he changed your title to Personal Assistant or something of that ilk?

Well, there was no point in asking that question. You knew the answer. A promotion was clearly on the horizon—it just wasn't a corporate one.

His fingers breach through, and Sunday gasps as if he himself is being penetrated, not the other way around. What first seems to simply be Sunday readjusting himself in his seat eventually becomes a slow, desperate grinding of his hips, thrusting them up into your own as his fingers continue their work of spreading you open. Two, then three, then four. His head spins at the sensation of syrupy fluid coating his knuckles, as if even touching it is enough to get him drunk. Hissing out a minced oath under his breath, Sunday rips off his stained glove and plunges his fingers in again, practically dry humping you in his lap once he can truly feel the way you clench around his hand.

"Oh, you're perfect," he exhales. "Aeon forgive me for what I want to do to you, [Y/N]. The things you do to me... How badly I needed this." He starts to direct his huffing into your shoulder. "Come for me, [Y/N]—Right on my palm. Ruin me, I beg you."

"Mr. Sunday," you heave, the words forcing themself past your wobbling lip even as you bite it shut. "I—"

"[Y/N]," he whimpers. "Please." You clasp both your hands over your mouth when you finally reach release, throwing your head back with a muffled cry. Your heart continues to race so hard that it makes you dizzy, the sound thumping in your ears. Sunday, too, starts to heave in tandem, and you feel the sheen of sweat on his cheeks as he sloppily plants kisses on the back of your neck. As he catches his breath, Sunday's eyes glance around the room warily. He notices the pitcher of water on the countertop (a complimentary convenience typical for this specific hotel, and the main reason he chose this one to begin with), and resolved to dump it on his lap. Not to wash off any of his and your release currently sticking your laps together and staining his trousers, of course—But simply as a convenient excuse. He'd only been attending to his wonderful secretary, his treasured secretary, when the water was spilled as he filled a glass for you. ...Or maybe spilling it over his head and saying he had to dive into a fountain to valiantly save you from some ne'er-do-well would be more reasonable? Catching stray bullets with his hand to keep his darling safe and the like?

Your orgasm had all but knocked you unconscious, your half-lidded gaze unable to focus on the flashing lights and colors out the open window. The two of you must have been twenty, thirty stories off the ground, far from anyone spotting your little tryst. You slump back into Sunday's chest, rolling your head backwards as you mumble a weak "Mr. Sunday..." "Thank you for indulging me, my dear," is all he responds with, scooping you up off his lap and bringing you to the room's bed. Once you are draped in the bed's covers, you quickly fall asleep, with the night's events sure to become a hazy memory.

Sunday sighs contentedly to himself. In a final moment of trangression, he takes his soiled glove into his mouth for a brief moment to savor that which stains it. He can only hope—no, be certain of the fact that—the endless dream he searches to blanket this world in will be to your every liking. ...With you by his side, no doubt.

It wouldn't need mention just yet, but for your marriage to him to be the first union blessed by Ena THEMSELVES..?

Why, what could be better? --- a/n: when looking back through some of his lines, i thiiiink sunday uses aeon as the singular? correct me if I'm wrong on this lolol. feedback is always appreciated, especially regarding pacing! criticize me to hell and back y'all I want to write better smut :,) tag list: @j1yu425 @crepezinhos @i-am-tiredd

[yandere-writer-momo]

Happy birthday @yandere-wishes 🖤

Yandere DC Special Short: His Inamorata

Yandere Harvey “Two Face” Dent x Secretary Reader

TW:Unhealthy relationship dynamic, yandere behavior, CANNIBALISM AS A METAPHOR FOR LOVE AND OBSESSION, Harvey Dent being extremely delusional, terrifying behavior, horror, playing into the delusions of a mentally ill man, and a relationship that should not be romanticized

Tap. Tap. Clink. Harvey flipped his coin in his right hand while he tapped his left fingers on his mahogany desk. His pointer fingernail just slightly jagged from when he chewed it off from how nervous he felt from the proximity of the apple of his eye, (your name).

She had only been on his payroll for a few months, yet she had somehow warmed her way into his cold heart. Harvey was still unsure on how this progression had even began…

Perhaps it was how her smile melted the walls he had so carefully placed around himself? Or the way her (eye color) eyes never looked away from his midwinter gaze.

The pretty secretary diligently typed away on her keyboard at her desk. Unaware of her boss’s intense interest in her.

(Your name) always knew her boss was rather… eccentric ever since the accident. She had been his secretary back when he was district attorney and since he had became a crime boss, he asked for her to return to her secretarial duties.

(Your name) obeyed since she knew he was completely unstable yet she saw so many glimpses of the man he used to be as she sat in his new office with him. At times, it felt like she was with good ol’ Harvey… other times, she dealt with the beast.

Two Face was flirtatious with her when he was the personality that was forefront. And he was a bit aggressive with his advances at times… but she couldn’t find it in herself to leave. Not when Harvey desperately clung to the past.

The slimmer of dusk streamed over his mangled face from the slightly opened curtains on the window window. Moments like this always made him seem almost like another man. Someone with an aetherium glow under the slivers of sunlight, his eyes half-lidded as the sun brought out the beauty of the right side of his face. The pink and orange hues reminded her of the Greek god Apollo, the nickname he once had when he was still District Attorney. The days he walked in the sun either his head held high…

But as the shadows dance over his brow when the sun sank itself further down in the distance, the scarred half of his face is transformed into something monstrous and twisted like the gnarled branches of an old tree. No longer the dashing Apollo, but rather a form of the intimidating Hades.

A small part of (Your name) found his dual appearance rather attractive in a way. He was handsome like a car crash. Destructive yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Harvey was both Heaven and Hell. The stars and the moon… he was more than his scars and his contrasting nature. Not that she’d ever voice her tidbit of admiration for him. (Your name) feared it would go to his head.

(Your name) was unaware of the storm of lust that brewed within Harvey. Of the way his midwinter sky eyes studied her in the way a predator stalked its prey. She was on his menu… and he would stop at nothing to devour her.

Harvey wanted to consume her. To sink his teeth in her flesh so hard, he left a mark. He wanted to drink (your name)‘s blood until she was dizzy, until she didn’t know where he ended and she began. Harvey wanted to tear her open with his hands so he could crawl inside her ribcage and finally feel like he belonged. He wanted to wrap his hands around her heart and gulp it down before anyone else could try to take it. But he won't—not yet. For now, Harvey would admire her from his position at his half organized and half messy desk. He would pretend that observation from afar would work.

“(Your name)?”

“Yes, sir?” (Your name) smiled at Harvey who returned the smile faintly.

“Please don’t leave me.”

If (your name) would gaze into those piercing blue eyes, she’d see the storm of obsession and love brewing beneath them. Yet she just gave him a soft smile in return.

“I won’t, sir.” She then went back to work as her boss sighed dreamily.

Harvey’s smile soon stretched into a twisted smile. She wouldn’t leave… then maybe it was time to make a move after all?

Harvey was a man lost in madness and darkness, therefore his love would be as well. He knew his love would be intense and twisted like the labyrinth of his mind. Yet he couldn’t help but yearn for love and acceptance.

(Your name) was the only one to show even a hint of either toward him and he lapped at the crumbs of her affection like a man starved of a proper meal for weeks.

Yet she had been kind to him. She had been his savior and his light at the end of his dark tunnel of eternal damnation. Harvey wanted to worship her! To kiss every inch of her skin and whisper words of reverence into her skin until it was permanently etched into her mind like it was his! To lock her away like a dragon did with a beautiful princess in a tower so no one else could harm a hair on her head.

Yet that other half didn’t want that, no… Two Face wanted to ruin her. To sink his fingers until there were petals of purples, blues, and yellows blossomed on her skin. To tear her apart bit by bit with his teeth and then piece her back together in his ideal image of complete submission. Like how Victor Frankenstein created the bride for his monster, except Two Face would be both her creator and other half.

If there was such thing as the red string of fate, he would cut hers and permanently tie her to himself so she could never run from him.

Harvey and Two Face would be bother her protector and the beast that she feared under her bed at night. They were both love and limerence. Both infatuation and unbridled obsession. Two being that tethered on a delicate balance in the single body they shared yet they had one common goal now… to have her.

And they would stop at nothing until she was theirs. Even if he had to isolate her from everything and everyone, he would have her… his inamorata.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

The Yandere Student Council 

You just needed to get your schedule officialized. Having gained special permissions to take a desired course you needed the student council’s collective stamps of approval to proceed. Normally all you would need to do was slip in the necessary documents. But something seems to keep happening to yours and it just works better for you to do it in person. Thus begins you’re journey of getting the obsessed student council’s approval.

The first one you go to is the one with the easiest access –the Secretary. Gill Hunter has an absolute poker face when his boyfriend isn’t around. So you’re pleasantly surprised when he’s actually willing to hear you out. Keeping his amber eyes on you he listens to your plea for his stamp, seemingly not reacting at all he promises to help you—for a price. You have to step in for him and his boyfriend from time to time. He says it's just a week as he demands you shadow him for the day. Calling to you in his monotone voice to join him in the student council lounge. Don’t bother bringing up you’re friends or your desire to eat your lunch alone. Even as the week comes to an end and you get your stamp he has you working closely with both him and his boyfriend very closely as an honorary assistant.

“Most if not all schedules go through me, you don’t want your schedule being messed up again. Do you?”

The next one is Gill’s beloved–the Historian. June Frimroar is a different kind of person you need to get a stamp from. Where Gill strings you along with his stone-cold face and hardly hidden intentions, June will do the exact opposite. With a smile that flirts with scheming and altruism, he’ll ask for the most innocent kind of help. Only to somehow become something far more intimate and demanding of you in the first place. How else would simply taking notes during student council meetings lead to you smushed in a locker with the historian and his boyfriend? Or how you’ll be forced to help undress June whose hands inexplicably might be sprained? He’s an enigma to loosely associate with trouble, easily put off by how kind he is to you and your friends as you start spending more time with him and the rest of the student council. Certainly, those rumors of him crippling classmates for fun are far from true, right?

“Don’t you trust me, (Y/n)? Just listen to me and I’m sure everything will work out…even if that blackmail situation with your friend is completely separate.”

Like clockwork, you fall into being the student council’s lackey suddenly trusted with helping the seemingly overwhelmed Treasurer. Min Su is an odd fellow who’s been dignified a living legend with his accounting possibilities; rumored to casually be hired by the government a couple of times. So it's odd that he suddenly must have you spending your club hours documenting receipts. He’s so apologetic and jumpy that you don’t feel right questioning him. So it's normal that he has a fierce blush on his face as you take the records from his hand. Or the little noises of excitement pleasure he seems to have when you lean over him to admire his speed as he’s calculating the books. He’s likely to forget that you needed to get his stamp until you off-handedly mention how you’re going to miss him when you get that stamp.

“Oh, you wanted that? I-I’m happy to give it to you, n-no problem! But you’ll still visit me right?”

At this point, your presence is much more normalized in the student council quarters, and naturally, the Sergeant of Arms or more well known as the student council’s hype man is happy to welcome you. Popular beyond belief Roman Ferris arguably has the largest fan and friend base in the entire council. Knowing everything about everyone he already knows what you’re asking for and he’s cheekily telling you he’s already prepared how you’re going to get it. If you thought Gill was forward then you’d be mistaken Roman straight-up demands every weekend that you come with him on a date. Movies, restaurants, ice cream, trips to the park, he’s doing it all with you. Demanding you dress up for these ‘definitely not dates’, hold his hand while you walk, and smile at him only him when you pose for the camera. It's odd how he knows your every like and dislike, always ordering for you and smiling ominously when you ask. But he’s definitely not giving you this stamp if you suddenly stop coming to his dates hangouts, even if he promised he would. It’d be bad if the whole student body considered you a harlot for playing with the golden boy’s feelings. So just smile while you eat your favorites and keep your mouth sealed about your suspicions.

“Don’t worry about it babe, I already know just how you like it! Don’t worry how I know~ You’re so cute when you're well-fed!”

Practically cemented to your unwritten obligation the Vice President is well aware of what you’re after. Spencer Lyle will wait until the end of the day mindlessly stamping your document as he scrambles through his hefty pile of paperwork. Bags under his eyes and his lids dropping dangerously you figure you’ll help him, already familiar with the kind of work he was doing anyway. He thanks you when you eventually wake him up and from then on something sinister a friendship is born. Suddenly he’s coming up to you in your classes, during lunches keeping you talking casually as he leads you to the student council room. You were going there anyway, right? He’s just the perfect friend for you. Great at warding off bullying fans or teachers that get a little too snippy, he becomes your go-to friend. Not too popular but well-respected feared by the student body; totally perfect for relying on him to be relatable. Completely complacent with letting him into your life and it feels so normal now that he rings your dorm bell for an early morning. You know him so well so it's natural he does the same.

“Hey, you ready to go cupcake? Bags under my eyes? Yeah, I was up all night protecting you doing council stuff, you know how I work.”

Last but certainly not least the Student Council President: Lucoa Grander the college’s prodigy cryptid. Known to be a living genius and prominent underground business personality it seems only natural that he gets such a powerful, prestigious position. He is such a celebrity you go to Spencer to deliver your schedule confirmation only to receive a disappointing answer. Apparently, the president’s only willing to stamp yours personally, and thus your witchhunt for the illusive president begins. Searching high and low, stringing on his fan base’s own timeline and the other council members’ accounts you try to find him. But after a while, you give up fully prepared to abandon your desired course to have the blue-haired pierced-up president mysteriously showing up. He greets you so casually, sitting next to you as he asks mundane questions. When you finally ask for his stamp he gives it to you…on a major condition. 

“We’ve been looking to widen our ranks and I’ve we’ve been keeping a close eye on you. And we’re thinking of making you an honorary member–it's a new position to diversify our team. You’ll get your stamp this way and we get you our beloved a new member that’s fair enough isn’t it?”

[jifanjiang0710]

Closed Doors

yan secretary! zhongli x ceo! reader

Lantern Rite was fast approaching. From the glass windows that extended from the ledge at the bottom to the expanse of the ceiling, you could see that every corner and alley was alight with crimson silk and flowers, couplets and ribbons, lights flashing incessantly even in the mind’s eye. Your own office building had some, sporting of the festivities despite the heavy workload the staff have been burdened with recently.

A hand on your shoulder, a whisper of your name, by your ear.

“You have worked hard. Would you care to chat over dinner?”

“...I’m busy, tonight.”

Zhongli pulled back, gently, as if he had taken the rejection well. When has he ever, in this one-sided… situationship… thing?

“Then let me drive you home.”

“No, I’m fine.” You feel like throwing up, even though you had not eaten in many hours. The last time that occured…

No words. He is displeased, and it strikes a hot bolt of guilt through your veins. He did only mean the best for you, your trusted secretary.

“I mean, I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“I can assure you, my dear, it is no hassle at all. Do you not trust me to keep you safe, after all these years?”

You sigh. He speaks much like a doting grandfather. Your eyes trail to the two long red strips on the office door.

“ ‘Longevity like the highest West mountains, blossoming relationships akin to the depth of the Eastern sea.’ Isn’t the second part a bit out of place, Zhongli?”

The man in question leaned in, lowering his glasses and scrutinising the words on the couplet. “So it is.”

“Nothing more to say?” That was uncharacteristic of your secretary.

Zhongli coughed, as if to distract that. “I find the emphasis on interpersonal relations between persons agreeable. Is that not something you wish to have in your life, [Name]?”

“I… suppose?”

You knew he wrote it, and dare not remove it from the front doors of the company. You had to settle with unmatching couplets for the next month.

“Speaking of which, [Name]...” he said, tailing behind you at such a leisurely pace that you always had to stop several times for him to catch up. “The, ah, schedule for the company celebration on the second day of Lantern Rite has been updated. I have assigned your seating arrangement near-”

“Oh, right. I forgot to tell you. I won’t be around next month. I’m going back with my family to celebrate.”

…

“Zhongli?”

Why is he…disappointed? It is perfectly fine and common, for the overworked CEO to take time off to visit their loved ones for the holidays. Zhongli still feels an ache in his rustic heart as you said that.

You wouldn’t be spending Lantern Rite with him.

Last year, and the year before that, and the year before as well, you had; too busy slaving for the survival and growth of the company to take the journey home. He doesn’t know what to do with the chip at his feelings knowing you will not be around this year, even if it only consists of the two of you working late nights at the office, and him replacing your lukewarm cup of tea from time to time. By the time he replies you have arrived at your private office.

“... I see.”

After all he’s done for you, as well. Do you view him as nothing but a subordinate? 

Zhongli chided himself, shelving these thoughts for later. His younger self would succumb to petty, childish musings like these, and he would imagine he has matured.

He sees you falter, perhaps noticing the shift in mood. “Are you going anywhere for Lantern Rite?” you asked.

He smiles, not too broadly, making sure to keep his eyes still.

“Where has an old man like me to go, except for work?”

To the untrained eye, you seem unphased, but your secretary knows better. With a little observance, he can detect your uncomfortable twitches, fidgeting, wandering eyes. And, contrary to public belief, Zhongli can be very observant. How do you think he picks out the gem amongst stones? To him, you are that very diamond he so desires.

“Please, you are hardly half the age you act. You could… take a trip somewhere south, escape the cold…”

How intriguing. Before you can blink he towered over you, arm brushing against your shoulder. Zhongli looked you directly in the eyes, without a hint of warmth or the usual wise whimsy he conducts himself with.

“A most interesting suggestion. However I do not intend to go holidaying off by myself.”

You had no response to that, still recovering from the apparent change in attitude of your secretary.

“Not to mention, I would… how do I phrase this… find myself missing you terribly.”

For a moment, you think you see the amber in his eyes morph into a disgusting, bloody red. It could easily be passed off as reflection from the hanging lanterns.

He continues, when you don’t speak. “So, when you return to your, ah, loved ones, partake in the wonders of tradition and communal gathering… please think of me as well.”

A sweet statement turned sinister. Was this how he had gotten you to stay for the past year, and all the Lantern Rite’s before that?

Come to think of it, you don’t know why you were so busy back then either.

“After all, [Name]...”

He would do anything to keep you here, under his watchful eye and within his clutches.

“What is a poor old man to do, without you?”

He tried to play it off as a joke, a light-hearted statement made meant for mild amusement. You seemed to take it well, offering a hesitant chuckle. If you find this off-putting, he would hate for you to discover what he did to earn his position as your secretary. When he was young it would have been much more… how to put it? Physically forceful. 

The bloodlust from them has since faded. How would you feel seeing him slathered in crimson? Cringe in fear and revulsion, or praise him for his devotion?

He finds violence by his own hands unnecessary, now. He can do just as much and more with the influence he currently wields.

The manager who tried to seduce you, the owner of a rival company’s snark comments, all the scathing words of Internet users who think it so clever to be cruel to you behind a screen… one way or another, he has taken care of them as a good secretary would.

All that has paid off. Now he is your most trusted staff, the one who understood every quirk and minute action. No one had been through every high and low, seen you inside and out like he has.

He caresses you so gently, as if you were the most delicate petal or the most fragile diamond. As if all this was right and normal, for a secretary to do.

Who would suspect Zhongli the gentleman, collected, distinguished and composed of such depravity?

“Good morning, dear. Happy Lantern Rite.”

You trusted him, wholeheartedly.

But when you eventually wake up in his arms, in his bed, to the sound of firecrackers and joyful festive cheers, even after he promised the last time that it was a one-time mistake and would not happen again, you’re not quite sure you do, anymore.

[untoldstar]

male yandere king x fem! witch reader x male yandere personal secretary Introductory fic

warnings: no yandere shenanigans here so no warnings really BUT this is an introductory fic the yandere themes will appear in later parts.

You’re roughly shoved forward by the two guards that chained you and dragged you all the way here in front of The Kings throne.

King Reid.

“This is her?” You keep your eyes averted refusing to look at him in fear you might not hold back your glare and have your eyes gouged out for that. You’ve heard bone chilling stories of how ruthless he can be and you aren’t about to test the truth behind those stories yourself “Yes sir.” A gruff voice sounds beside you “And you’re completely sure it’s her?” He asks his tone pressing “Positively.” You look up to see that he’s already staring at you intensely, his body stiff with anticipation "Hm..,very well then." The corner of his mouth lifts slightly and a glint appears in his eyes. He nods his head to your wrists and in the blink of an eye, the rope is cut off your wrists. You groan as you rub your red wrists, at least he didn't keep you tied up. He suddenly turns his head to the guards "Everyone out at once!" The guards hurry to sweep the room of everyone and follow suit shutting the door after them, as the echo of the large wooden door slowly dissipates it dawns on you that you're completely alone now. At his mercy.

He doesn't say anything only rises from his chair and makes his way to a nearby table pouring a drink which you assume is wine based off the crimson color you caught a glimpse of "Care to join me?" You only shake your head when he glances at you "Suit yourself." He grins. Just what is he doing? You've been dragged here like some sack of potatoes, wrists bound, questions ignored, not an explanation spared and yet he's leisurely enjoying a glass of wine?

"I've heard much about you." He plops down on his seat with a sigh. You stay quite simply watching his movements "The infamous witch.." He swirls the liquid in his cups as he stares at you almost spacing out. You quirk a brow. Infamous? Since when? "You might not realize it but you've caused quite the stir." He hums raising the glass to his lips " I hear people have been desperately crawling to your doorstep to give them a glimpse of the future that awaits them, pleas to make them rich overnight, many people willing to pay you a fortune just so their unrequited love can be returned. What is it that you do, potions?" You internally roll your eyes, of course he'd assume that "Spells." You answer keeping your voice even "Ah of course, my apologies, that was quite the childish assumption." Your tense shoulders relax a little you see he wasn't mocking. He's actually embarrassed if his averted gaze is anything to go by "That's alright..it's a common misconception." You try to comfort "Is it really?" You nod "You'd be surprised to know some of the people who come to me also think that." He hums "Is that so? very well then." He seems pleased to see you talking more and letting your guard down even if only a little "Well anyhow, I'm sure you're wondering why you're here" He sets his glass aside and shifts in his seat "I've been..watching you and I think you could be of great help to me and my kingdom." You cross your arms "What would a king want with a witch?" He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped infront of him "I do admit it's not..usual for a king to seek out a witch but that's precisely why I'm doing this. I believe that with you're help this kingdom can flourish" His eyes gleam and you understand why. You can already think of many ways that could be accomplished but what exactly are his plans? "How exactly would that be achieved?" He seems relieved you're not immediately against the idea "Well, in so many ways of course. You would provide me a level of protection my own guards can't give me, you can help me persuade allies, keep away enemies and false allies who seek the fall of my kingdom." You're face shows no emotions as he rambles on passionately, his ideas aren't bad but you don't want to stroke a kings already inflated ego "We can do so much together.." He suddenly rises up and walks towards you "Don't you think so?" He whispers, his body so close to you, eyes pleading and you're almost in disbelief at how a king is the one persuading you and looking at you with such pleading eyes. "Yes that could all work..But why would I do this? Forgive me your majesty but..what exactly are you offering me?" He smirks, thankfully not seeming to be offended by your question. His prideful demeanor returning once again "Why, everything, my dear. You will live here with me in the castle, your room will be right by my quarters, anything you ask shall be granted, I'll personally make sure of it. It will be a completely new way of living. All will be yours as long as you say yes." You don't give an answer. Nothing is stopping you, you live alone, up till now work has been your focus and this..is work. But is he truly to be trusted?

"..I-" You flinch when he suddenly places his hands on your shoulders rubbing them, he must have sensed your tension "Why don't you take a tour of the castle and think very carefully of my offer? perhaps that could help you arrive to a judgment" Your stomach clenches when his eyes darken and his tone turns warning "You'll find that taking me up on my very generous offer will turn out to be in your favor." Something is defiantly wrong with him but perhaps it's best to be polite and go along with the tour for now at least. You slowly nod "Alright.." He beams "Excellent!" He turns around and rings a bell that's by his throne and Immediately you hear the large wooden doors behind you open. You look behind you to see a man enter, the distance between you doesn't allow you to discern his features fully or any other details except for his raven colored hair and the fact that he's close to your age if not the same if his voice and build is any indication. He bows his head "You called me, your majesty." You feel Reid place his hand on your lower back "Yes." He turns to you smiling "That's Marcus, he's my personal secretary, he'll be the one to accompany you on the tour." You knit your brows "It won't be you?" He lets out a low chuckle "No, my dear, I'm afraid I have a few pressing matter I must take care of but I'm quite flattered you were hoping to spend more time in my company." He ends in a teasing tone. Ugh, anything you say will be taken as flattery with him won't it?"

"Alright enough of that now, Marcus can take it from here. I shall see you after the tour." He nods at you, his smile a little strained now, he truly does hope you will come to the decision of staying afterwards. It would really be disappointing if you don't, your room is ready and your closet is filled with clothes designed specifically for you, he doesn't want his preparations to go to waste.

He also doesn't want to take certain measures into making you stay.

part 2

[alygator77]

ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony I ch 9 ᰔᩚ

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, some triggers of domestic abuse » 【note, this chapter contains possessiveness, naoya is yandere and not in a hot way, lol. suggestive content and fluff.

ꨄ words: 14.3k

ꨄ a/n. hello darlings, i know it's only been a week but happy early valentines day, here is my gift to you, hehe. it's time to say hi to naoya. this chapter gives you a few different perspectives, but most of it is satoru's! see you at the bottom ♡ (art by @/dmsco1803 on X )

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

♬ playlist

series masterlist ꨄ︎ previous chapter ꨄ︎ next chapter → pending

ch 9 // blood and betrayal

"We have a couple of hours before they come back," Remi murmurs, her manicured nails pressing into the polished wood as she eases the door open, just enough for a figure to slip inside.

And Naoya steps over the threshold without hesitation, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

Gojo’s estate.

It’s even more extravagant than he imagined—pristine marble stretching out beneath his feet, ceilings so high they seem to loom over him, the decor screaming wealth in a way that makes his teeth clench. Everything here is polished, excessive, a testament to the kind of power Satoru Gojo wields without even trying.

Naoya’s fingers flex at his sides, hidden beneath the sleeves of his jacket.

Tch. Flashy bastard.

Adjusting the brim of his cap, sunglasses shield the sharp glint of his gaze as he sweeps the space. He moves with caution, but not fear.

"Where’s the brat?" he mutters.

“Playing,” Remi replies, flicking a dismissive hand before slinking closer, nails skimming along his arm like she’s entitled to touch him.

Those brown eyes of hers glow with a desperate hunger—wide, hopeful, pathetic. Pressing in, her lips are just shy of Naoya’s ear.

“She won’t bother us…” she murmurs.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he resists the urge to shove her off.

Lapdog.

She’s eager, too eager—always hanging off him like she’s something more than just a convenient distraction. He indulges her, when it suits him. And when it doesn’t? She’s still useful.

With a slight turn of his head, he allows his lips to almost graze the shell of her ear as he murmurs flatly, “The office.”

Remi shivers, mistaking his cold disinterest for something else.

“Right this way,” she hums, syrupy sweet, pleased with herself. “I’ll keep the kid busy, don’t want her recognizing you.”

Naoya doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at her as he steps past. Why would he waste breath on something insignificant? No. His mind is elsewhere, locked on a singular purpose.

Leverage. Dirt. Anything he can sink his teeth into.

When he enters the office, it’s eerily still—clean, untouched. It’s clear that Gojo’s staff keep it impeccably tidy. His gaze sweeps over the space and he catalogues every detail—rich mahogany bookshelves, a sleek black leather chair, floor-to-ceiling windows. The space feels open, exposed. Naoya’s lips curl slightly.

Tch. Everything about this room screams control. No paranoia. No signs of disarray. Just an effortless sense of power. Cocky bastard.

As he moves further inside, his eyes zero in on a single framed photograph, placed at the center of Satoru’s desk. With slow, measured steps, he rounds the desk, fingers trailing lightly over its surface before he lifts the frame into his hands. Immediately, his smirk vanishes.

You. Holding that little brat in your arms, smiling like you belong here. Like this life fits you. Like you’re—

Happy.

You should be his.

His jaw tightens as his fingers curl around the frame, the glass creaking under pressure. For a split second, an ugly thought slithers into his mind—he should shatter it. He should put his fist straight through the grinning faces staring back at him.

But instead, he exhales sharply through his nose and flips the frame face down, watching as it lands with a muted thud against the desk.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Moving on, his fingers trail along the desk’s edges before he crouches slightly, pulling open the first drawer without resistance.

Folders. Contracts. Documents marked with Gojo Corp’s insignia.

Naoya’s smirk twitches.

Idiot.

His phone is out in an instant, the soft click of the camera breaking the thick silence of the office.

Click. Click. Click.

He doesn’t bother reading them. No need. He just snaps photos of anything that might be useful—financial records, legal paperwork, contract renewals. Everything is neatly labeled, categorized, almost too easy to find.

Fucking cocky bastard.

And Naoya moves with purpose, each movement fluid, efficient. This isn’t his first time going through someone’s private affairs—but it is the first time he’s had to do it himself. Normally, this would be a job for someone else. A grunt. Someone disposable.

But things have changed.

With Toji rotting in prison, the damn Yakuza have begun distancing themselves ever since he got released, treating the Zenin like liabilities rather than assets. Their once-limitless resources are dwindling, and with every door that closes in his face, Naoya only feels his hatred grow.

His fingers tighten around the handle of another drawer, yanking it open. He can’t wait to bring Satoru Gojo down. But when he reaches for the last drawer, the one at the bottom—his grip stills. It doesn’t budge.

Locked.

His smirk sharpens.

What are you hiding, Satoru Gojo?

Kneeling slightly, his fingers brush along the handle as he pulls a small, thin tool from his pocket. The lock isn’t complicated—nothing particularly advanced, and it takes seconds. The soft click of the latch releasing is almost satisfying, and as he pulls it open, his smirk widens. But the moment its contents are revealed, he immediately looks down to find—

Nothing.

His eyes narrow as his amusement flickers.

Hm... a distraction? Which means whatever matters isn’t here.

Rolling his shoulders, Naoya exhales sharply before straightening to his full height. He’s wasting time. If Gojo was smart enough not to keep anything incriminating here, then whatever he is keeping must be somewhere more personal.

Upstairs.

His gaze drops to his Rolex watch, then to the door. He still has time. He’ll just have to go deeper.

The house remains unnervingly silent as he ascends the staircase, the kind of quiet that isn’t natural. Most of Gojo’s staff have been paid off for their silence, their loyalty nothing more than a transaction.

Money makes everything easier, doesn’t it?

His fingers trail the smooth banister, and once he reaches the top, he pauses—scanning the hallway. Up here, something feels different… strangely satisfying. Because downstairs had been designed to impress—Gojo’s domain, pristine and curated—a place meant to be seen.

But up here? Up here, the walls breathe. This is where you live.

As his gaze sweeps over the doors lining the hall, he can’t help but notice how everything is perfectly symmetrical—expensive, identical. No labels, no indications, no clues. Just a row of polished wood, concealing whatever lies behind them.

Which one is Gojo’s?

Naoya moves methodically, ghosting through the hallway, and each door he opens only fuels his irritation. A guestroom. A bathroom. A library. He exhales sharply through his nose.

This place is a fucking maze.

His hand falls on the next doorknob, twisting it without hesitation, but the moment it swings open, something inside him stills. Because this isn’t Gojo’s room.

It’s yours.

His fingers flex at his sides.

Fuck…

He shouldn’t waste time. Remi said he only has a few hours. He should keep moving, should focus—but something ugly and possessive coils tight in his chest, sinking its claws into something raw and unsatisfied. And suddenly, his feet are moving on their own.

The door clicks shut behind him, and he immediately can tell that this space is different from the others. Warm. Soft. Laced with something distinctly you—a scent he remembers too well, woven into the very air, clinging to the fabrics, the furniture, the walls.

It doesn’t belong in a house like this.

The rest of the estate drowns in wealth, in cold opulence, in a luxury that doesn’t need to announce itself. And this room is expensive too, of course. Everything about your life is different now. But this—

This is yours.

A sweater draped lazily over a chair. A vanity lined with delicate bottles of perfume, small trinkets carefully arranged as if placed by habit rather than thought. Jewelry. Makeup. Some of it familiar. Things that once belonged in his world. Things that were once his to admire. His jaw clenches as he is reminded yet again.

You’re settled here. Comfortable—

Happy.

Pushing a breath through his nose, his eyes drift toward the far end of the room. An open walk-in closet. Of fucking-course Gojo would give you a closet this big. And so, he moves towards it without thinking, but the moment he steps inside, his fingers flex at his sides.

Fucking hell.

Expensive gowns hang neatly along the racks, luxurious fabrics brushing against his fingertips as he trails them over silk, satin, designer labels—clothes that he knows you wouldn’t have worn before. Not when you were with him. But now, it’s not his money dressing you in these delicate, expensive things. It’s Gojo’s.

Gojo has spoiled you.

Lavishing you in luxuries you never had before—never needed. With Naoya, nothing was ever simply given. No matter how much money he had, you were never entitled to it, and you knew better than to ask.

No—with Naoya, you had to earn things. Had to prove you were worthy of them. Had to be grateful for whatever he decided you deserved. And he let you believe in the illusion of security while ensuring you always needed him.

And you did. You always did.

Or at least… you were supposed to.

The realization curdles something deep in his stomach, a slow, simmering heat that coils tight and bitter in his chest. As his fingers linger over a dress, smooth satin, he can envision you in it and his grip tightens.

Money-hungry bitch.

The thought snaps through his mind like a whip, sharp and instinctive, and he exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his fingers to relax before he rips the damn thing. And so, with measured restraint, he releases the fabric and turns away.

But he’s not done.

His gaze flickers toward your dresser now—a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

What else has Gojo given you?

As he trails his fingers across the glossy surface, tracing idle patterns into the polished wood, he realizes just how untouched it is—pristine, perfectly maintained—like everything in this house. Like you now, perfectly packaged, living in a world of expensive indulgence. A world you should have never been given.

When he reaches for the first drawer, it glides open with ease, and his breath slows. Lace. Satin. Sheer mesh. You always had good taste. His fingers slip between the layers, sinking into the delicate garments—the fragile trim of lace panties, the silken slide of fabric that was made to be touched.

Made to be stripped off you.

He lingers, debating something darker, but he exhales sharply, and with little ceremony, he tosses the garment back, sliding the drawer shut. Still, the fixation doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens.

His gaze drifts to your vanity—a curated shrine of excess. Delicate trinkets, expensive perfumes, meticulously placed cosmetics. A testament to the life you’ve built here. A life you have no right to.

God… he barely recognizes you anymore.

Seeing you at that first charity gala, poised and polished as if you had always belonged in this world, had made his stomach churn. Everything about you had been refined, reshaped, rebranded—until you fit. Until you looked the part of someone who belonged here.

And the worst part?

It suited you. Too well. You looked fucking gorgeous.

Something catches his eye on the vanity—a single tube of lipstick. It stands upright among the rest, and without hesitation, he reaches for it, rolling the cool metal between his fingers, feeling its weight settle in his palm. His breath slows as he uncaps it, twisting the base with careful precision.

The stick rises—smooth, untouched.

Deep red.

The kind of red he’s seen on you before, painted over your lips, smudged at the corners, slick and ruined. The kind of red that stains. You had always left your mark.

He wonders if you still do…

Something bitter simmers in his chest, boiling hot, because the thought of you—fucking Satoru Gojo? Oh, he sees red—the same deep red of that pretty little lipstick.

Jaw tightening, he inhales sharply through his nose, forcing himself to shake it off, to think. His gaze shifts, flickering toward your bed, and the tension in his chest loosens just slightly, amusement creeping in.

Separate beds.

His teeth graze his bottom lip as he exhales, slow and controlled. Maybe Toji was fucking with him. Because there was no way you were actually sleeping with Gojo. No. You wouldn’t.

With a quiet click, he shuts the lipstick, placing it back with calculated precision, exactly where he found it. But just as he moves to step away, a subtle glint of silver against the vanity’s surface catches his line of sight.

A heart-shaped locket.

His brow twitches as he reaches for it, fingers brushing over the delicate chain before lifting it into his palm. It’s light. Fragile. But he knows better. Sentimental things like this always carry more weight than they should.

His thumb presses against the tiny clasp, prying it open with careful precision. But the moment it clicks apart, everything inside him stills.

Your smiling face stares back at him—bright, radiant—pressed against Gojo’s side. His lips graze your cheek, your fingers curled around his sleeve, clinging to him.

Something snaps.

A fire ignites in his chest, hot and consuming, scorching every last thread of restraint he has left. His breath pushes through his nose in slow, seething exhales as something bitter coils tight in his throat.

How dare you.

How fucking dare you.

That should be his.

His life.

His claim.

His fingers clench into a fist at his side, nails biting deep into his palm, but the pain barely registers. His grip only tightens—tighter, tighter—until something warm, something wet, slips between his fingers.

He blinks, a dull ache spreading through his palm. Then, the color registers.

Blood.

His own nails have carved into his skin, deep and unrelenting, the slow trickle slipping down his wrist, speckling the plush carpet, staining the floor beneath him.

Tch. Sloppy.

“Fuck…” The curse is low, sharp—a quiet snarl as he forces himself to inhale, prying his fingers open. The sting of torn flesh burns now, but he barely feels it. He wants to shatter the locket. Wants to crush it beneath his boot, grind it into the floor, leave it in ruins.

But no. That would look suspicious.

With measured care, he sets it back onto the vanity, his fingers steady despite the tension locking his jaw. Exhaling through his nose, he shakes his head and steps back, scanning the room—calculating his next move.

Bathroom.

Without another thought, he turns on his heel, striding toward the en-suite. As soon as he enters, he pulls open the nearest cabinet, snatching a neatly folded hand towel. The white cloth darkens instantly, soaking through with red as he wraps it tightly around his injured hand—twisting the fabric to apply pressure. It’ll hold for now.

His gaze shifts toward the opposite end of the bathroom—to the second door—the one leading to Gojo’s room.

Finally.

With quiet, measured steps, he crosses the room, fingers curling around the handle. The door gives with ease, swinging open into a space that grates against his nerves the moment he steps inside.

Everything about this room pisses him off.

It’s too open, too spacious—like Gojo needs the entire goddamn house to accommodate his oversized ego. High ceilings, sprawling windows, furniture arranged with an effortless elegance that speaks of obscene wealth, yet complete indifference toward it.

Naoya moves with purpose, tearing through Gojo’s things with sharp, practiced efficiency. Drawers snap open, their contents rifled through and discarded without care. Watches, expensive cufflinks—all useless.

…Digimon cards? The fuck is this?

He exhales sharply, irritation mounting. None of it matters. He’s looking for something else. Something he can use. Something—

The next drawer slides open—his breath slows.

Fabric. Soft, delicate. Not Gojo’s.

Your panties.

Here.

In his drawer.

As his fingers brush against the lace, his breath sharpens—fully registering what he’s holding. The material is familiar—the color, unmistakable. His favorite pair.

Realization seeps in, cold and ugly. He grips them tighter, lifting them slightly, rubbing the fabric between his fingers again, slower this time. The answer is instant, undeniable.

They’re used.

Recently.

His stomach twists, a sharp, curdling heat spreading through his ribs as he raises them to his face without thinking—closing his eyes to inhale.

The scent is instant.

The reaction is immediate. His head buzzes with static, a roaring white noise as something vile slithers through him, coiling, sinking deep. It spreads through his chest like rot, like poison, acidic and suffocating.

You’re fucking him.

This isn’t speculation. This isn’t a lie he can tell himself, a suspicion he can twist to suit his own reality. This is proof. Right here. In another man’s drawer. Taunting him. Mocking him. Stained with the remnants of whatever the fuck you did this morning.

“Whore,” he spits the word out through clenched teeth as he shoves the lace deep into his pocket.

His fingers twitch, his whole body vibrating with the urge to destroy, to ruin, to rip every trace of Gojo out of your life until you have no choice but to remember who you belong to. He should burn this entire fucking house to the ground. Should leave nothing behind but ash.

But not here.

Not now.

Not yet.

Grinding his molars, he rips his phone from his pocket, pulling up your contact with a punishing force. His vision blurs at the edges, rage surging through him like a live wire as his thumb flies across the screen.

At first, he doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. The words spill out, venomous, ugly, a raw, unfiltered snarl of possession and rage.

You little fucking whore. Did you spread your legs for him? You’re nothing without me. I swear to god I’m going to teach you a fucking lesson.

His chest rises and falls with sharp, seething breaths as he stares at the message. His anger, his unraveling, right there in damning black and white. The message hovers, unsent, his thumb poised—

No.

A sharp exhale flares through his nose, and he begins to tap delete. One by one, the words vanish, swallowed by the empty space they leave behind.

He may be seeing red, but he’s not stupid. No. He’s better than this. Smarter than this. Leaving proof would be careless, would be something Gojo could use against him.

Instead, he reels himself in, inhales through his nose, forces himself to recalibrate. He types again, but this time, it’s different. This time, it’s careful. A reminder—a whisper of something softer.

Something that he knows will send you spiraling.

We need to talk. When can I see you? Just... be good for me.

The second it’s sent, he exhales, forcing his shoulders to roll back, his body still vibrating with barely restrained fury. His eyes track the screen, watching the small confirmation appear.

Delivered.

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he rolls his neck, stretching out the tension coiled tight in his muscles. He knows you won’t respond right away—you never do. You’ll hesitate, you’ll overthink. But in the end, you always come back. You always give in.

For now, he still has work to do.

His gaze flicks back to the room, scanning once more, searching. Then he sees it.

A safe.

Tucked neatly into the corner of the closet, hidden but not invisible. The kind of thing most people wouldn’t think twice about, but Naoya’s trained eye spots it instantly. A smirk tugs at his lips as he steps forward, crouching slightly. His fingers skim over the dial, testing the resistance. Locked.

Of course it is.

No matter. He’s cracked safes before. It just takes time. He presses his ear close, ready to test the first turn—

But then, a sharp buzz vibrates in his pocket.

His head snaps down, irritation flickering in his expression as he pulls his phone out. And the second he sees the screen, his breath stills for half a second.

Your name. Your response. Faster than he expected.

Okay. You want to talk, so let’s talk. Tomorrow. Noon. Shirogane Park.

His lips press into a thin line. For a split second, he lingers on it, surprised at the speed. At the fact that you agreed so easily. But before he can sit on the thought for too long, his gaze flicks to the time displayed on his phone—

“Shit...”

The safe will have to wait. He doesn’t have time to crack it now.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Naoya pushes off his knees and moves, retracing his steps down the hall. He’s wasted time—too much fucking time. He should be gone by now, should have what he came for—whatever’s inside that safe—but instead, he’s leaving empty-handed, bleeding, and pissed the fuck off.

By the time he reaches the foyer, Remi is already waiting near the entrance, shifting from foot to foot. The moment she sees him, her eyes widen, flickering down to his wrapped hand.

"Naoya, what—?" Her hands reach out instinctively, fingers barely grazing his arm before he shrugs her off, stepping past her without a glance.

She hurries after him, undeterred. "You're hurt," she presses, her voice laced with something too close to genuine concern. "What happened?"

"Not your fucking business." His tone is clipped, dismissive. When she flinches, he barely suppresses an irritated sigh.

Her hands hover near his injured one again, hesitant but persistent. “You’re bleeding all over—let me—”

"Who's that?"

Naoya freezes.

A chill spreads through Naoya’s limbs, stiffening his spine as he turns his head, slow and deliberate, toward the source of the voice.

A little girl. His little girl.

Haru stands just beyond the doorway, small fingers curled into the hem of her dress, wide, curious eyes flicking between them.

His stomach knots, breath hitching before he catches himself. His disguise holds—cap pulled low, sunglasses shielding his face—but for a split second, something ugly and panicked churns in his gut.

Does she recognize him? Can she?

His fingers twitch.

Remi recovers first, voice high-pitched, too eager to smooth over the tension. "Oh, sweetheart, he's just my friend," she coos, stepping forward quickly, placing a gentle hand on Haru’s shoulder. "But he’s leaving now.”

Haru tilts her head slightly, staring at him a moment longer. Naoya doesn’t breathe. Then, to his surprise, she nods.

"Okay."

His shoulders relax—just slightly, relief fleeting—until—

“Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?”

He barely has time to process the question before she follows it up with something far worse.

"I like 'toru’s sunglasses more."

A slow, seething heat spreads through his chest, curling around his ribs, tightening like a vice.

Remi laughs, nervous and rushed. "Oh, honey, you’re so silly!" She reaches out, smoothing a hand over Haru’s hair, a little too eager to redirect. "Why don’t you go play, baby? I’ll be right there, okay?"

Haru looks at Naoya once more—just a glance, just long enough to make something curdle inside him—before nodding and skipping back down the hall.

The second she’s out of sight, Naoya rounds on Remi.

"You let the fucking kid see me?" His voice is sharp, cutting, barely above a whisper but full of venom.

Remi flinches. "I—I didn’t know she was still up—"

"Sloppy," he spits, stepping closer, heat radiating off him in waves. "You’re fucking sloppy, Remi. I told you to keep an eye on her. That’s your only fucking job."

"I know, I—"

"You’re fucking useless."

Her lips part, breath hitching as her face crumples, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Pathetic. Annoying.

He exhales sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to cool down. "Just… be good for me, yeah?" His voice dips lower, smoother, but the bite is still there, lethal beneath the softness. "Go upstairs and clean up the blood before they come back."

Remi swallows, nodding quickly before turning on her heel and hurrying up the stairs, her movements rushed, frantic.

Naoya watches her go, jaw tight, fingers flexing at his sides.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he’ll remind you exactly who you belong to.

ꨄ

The limo glides to a stop, the soft hum of the engine fading as Ichiji shifts into park. You exhale, rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of the day. The golden hues of the setting sun spill across the Gojo estate, stretching long shadows over the driveway. But even the familiar sight of home does little to ease the tightness in your chest.

Beside you, Satoru lets out a slow sigh, shifting the thick folder of paperwork in his lap. His long legs stretch out in front of him, casual, unbothered—like the weight of today hasn’t been pressing into him, too. His sunglasses still rest on the bridge of his nose, but you can feel his gaze settle on you.

“You okay?”

You nod, reaching for the door handle just as Ichiji steps out to open it for you. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

It’s not a lie—the day has been long, mentally draining in ways you haven’t fully processed yet. Between the looming custody battle, the exhausting legal back-and-forth with Suguru, and the ever-present weight of Naoya’s shadow curling around your mind, your body feels like it’s made of lead.

Satoru hums, shifting the folder under his arm. “Suguru said to bring your documents next time,” he reminds you. “Both for the child support and the ones Naoya served you.”

You nod, stepping out onto the driveway. “Yeah… they should still be in my nightstand.”

Satoru follows after you, stretching his arms above his head before tilting his head with an exaggerated hum. “Your nightstand, huh?” a slow smirk curls on his lips. “Hope I don’t find anything scandalous.”

Rolling your eyes, you nudge him lightly with your elbow as you pass. “Shut up.”

His laughter follows you as you step through the entrance, but before you can say anything else, the sound of little feet pattering against the hardwood echoes from down the hall.

“Mama!”

Haru’s voice rings bright, lifting the heaviness from your chest in an instant. Before you can react, she’s already barreling toward you, small arms wrapping tight around your legs.

Your heart softens, exhaustion momentarily forgotten as you crouch to her level, brushing a hand through her hair. “Hey, baby,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Did you have fun today?”

She nods enthusiastically, rocking on her heels. “We watched a movie! I drew a picture—oh! Come look Mama!”

You smile, smoothing back a stray strand of hair. “I’d love to see it.”

Satoru steps past you, shifting the folder under his arm. “I’ll grab your papers,” he says, already making his way toward the stairs.

You nod absentmindedly, barely registering his words as Haru tugs at your hand, leading you eagerly toward the living room.

Taking the stairs at an easy pace, Satoru moves with unhurried strides, letting the faint hum of conversation from downstairs settle in the background. The house is quiet, undisturbed—yet as he nears your room, something feels… off.

A figure kneels in front of your vanity, back turned to him, her posture hunched, the rhythmic sound of fabric scrubbing against the carpet breaking the silence. Satoru slows—steps light, gaze sharpening.

Remi?

She doesn’t notice him at first, too focused on whatever the hell she’s doing, her shoulders rigid as she drags a damp rag over the floor in slow, deliberate strokes. The sharp scent of cleaner lingers in the air, but it does little to mask what she’s trying to erase.

Red.

Satoru leans against the doorframe, arms folding over his chest. “What’s that?”

Remi jolts, her body going stiff before she turns halfway, eyes widening like a cornered animal. But she recovers quickly, straightening as she tucks the rag into a small plastic bucket beside her.

“Oh—just cleaning up,” she says too lightly, too quickly. “I—I spilled something earlier. Cut myself while wiping it up. Nothing serious.”

Satoru quirks a brow, his gaze dropping to her hands.

No cuts. No bandages. No blood on her fingers.

His eyes shift back to the stain, lingering just a second too long. The silence stretches between them.

Then, he exhales through his nose, pushing off the doorframe. “Be more careful next time,” he mutters, brushing past her as he steps inside your room.

She nods quickly, relief flickering across her face as she turns back to her scrubbing.

He should press further. Should ask why the hell there’s blood on your carpet. Should question why she looks like she’s barely holding herself together under his gaze. But he doesn’t

Because he’s exhausted.

Because today has drained him in ways he doesn’t have the energy to unpack.

Because he’s trying—really fucking trying—to make sure you’re at ease.

Safe.

You need to feel safe. That much is non-negotiable.

The way you reacted to Naoya’s text? He’s never seen you like that before. That single message sent you spiraling, and he saw it all—the way the color drained from your face, how your breathing turned uneven, how you couldn’t even look at the screen without your hands shaking.

That wasn’t just fear. That was something deeper. Something lived in. And that pisses him off more than he knows how to put into words.

His jaw clenches as he moves toward your nightstand, pulling the drawer open with ease. Just as expected, the crisp stack of legal documents sits exactly where you left them. His fingers curl around the papers, grip tightening just a little too much.

Naoya… fucking prick.

Satoru already had enough reasons to hate the bastard, but now? Now it’s different. Because this isn’t about old grudges or petty feuds—this is about you.

Shaking off the slow burn simmering under his skin, he takes the papers, shuts the drawer with a quiet thud, and heads back downstairs.

His steps remain unhurried, just as they were before, but his mind isn’t. Irritation lingers at the edges of his composure, gnawing at him, but he shoves it down, forcing it into that familiar compartment where he locks away everything that threatens to throw him off balance.

By the time he reaches the first floor, the hum of conversation between you and Haru filters in from the living room, grounding him just enough. Without a word, he moves past the foyer, pivoting toward his office with the folder tucked securely under his arm.

The door clicks shut behind him, sealing him into the quiet. Everything is just as he left it—pristine, precise. Unlike his office at Gojo Corp, which is more of a curated disaster, this space is controlled. Every document stacked neatly, every file aligned with sharp precision, not a single thing out of order.

And yet… something doesn’t sit right.

His fingers drum against the polished wood of his desk as his gaze sweeps over the room. Nothing is visibly out of place, but there’s a nagging itch at the back of his mind, something subtle but persistent, like an off note in an otherwise perfect melody.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s nothing.

Satoru has never needed much sleep. Four hours is a luxury, three is the standard, and anything less? Just another part of his reality. He’s learned to function on exhaustion, to push through it with the same effortless charm that convinces everyone he’s untouchable, unbothered—unaffected by the weight pressing down on him.

It’s just another mask. One he wears so well, even he forgets it’s there sometimes.

And now, ever since he took over Gojo Corp, the days have stretched longer, the nights shorter. The weight of responsibility never really eases. But with Naoya clawing his way back into your life, with the custody battle looming like a goddamn storm cloud, sleep is even more of an afterthought. Especially since he’s been working on something for you.

His jaw tightens slightly as he exhales, rolling his shoulders.

He hasn’t told you yet—not because he’s hiding it, but because he wants it to be a surprise. A fully staffed, fully equipped on-site daycare at Gojo Corp. Something designed with you in mind. Because he never wants any of his employees to go through the same bullshit you did before you married him. He remembers it too well—how you had to balance everything alone, how the world made it so damn difficult for a single mother to simply exist without constantly fighting for scraps.

He never wants you to worry about that again. And if he can make sure no one else has to deal with it either? Then it’s worth every sleepless night.

Still.

His gaze flickers to the folders on his desk. They look untouched—stacked neatly where he left them. But something nags at him. As he slides one open, flipping through the pages, everything is in order. No missing documents. No sign that anything’s been moved.

So why does it feel like they have?

He’s about to dismiss the feeling entirely, chalk it up to exhaustion, but then his eyes land on something else. His photo—one of you and Haru—lying face down on his desk.

His breath stills for half a second. Did he leave it like that?

Frowning, he reaches out, flipping it over with careful precision. His thumb drags along the edge of the frame, his jaw tightening as something uncoils low in his gut—but he pushes it away.

Nah… It’s fine.

It has to be fine.

He’s too fucking tired to dwell on it. Too drained to pick apart another thread when everything else is already unraveling at once. He needs to reset. A shower, maybe? Wash off the weight of the day, let the hot water unknot the tension clinging to his body.

Or maybe… something else. A different kind of relief.

Your panties.

Still tucked away in his dresser, untouched since his last indulgence in you. The thought alone sends a slow, simmering heat curling low in his stomach, exhaustion momentarily pushed aside by something darker, something hungrier.

Yeah. A ‘shower’ sounds good.

Rolling his shoulders, he stands, dragging a hand over his jaw as he steps out of his office. The sound of your voice drifts through the house, light and warm, blending with Haru’s bright giggles. It stops him for a fraction of a second, just long enough to take it in.

That sound—it’s starting to feel like something he craves.

When he steps into the living room, you don’t notice him right away, too focused on Haru as she excitedly waves her latest drawing in front of you. He lingers in the doorway, watching the two of you—so soft, so at ease, so different from how you’d looked earlier when Naoya’s text ripped through you like a slow, suffocating vice.

Good. You should be at ease.

Closing the distance, he leans down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek. You glance up, blinking in mild surprise, but he only smirks.

“Gonna get cleaned up,” he murmurs.

You nod, already distracted again as Haru tugs on your sleeve, eager to keep your focus.

Satoru watches you for a beat longer before turning on his heel, heading upstairs—already anticipating what waits for him in his nightstand—eager to rub one out.

At this point, it’s almost routine—indulging in thoughts of you when the weight of everything gets too fucking heavy. Ever since that first time outside the bathroom, you’ve been stuck in his head, impossible to shake.

His hand is already on the drawer handle the moment he steps into his room, fingers curling around the wood as he pulls it open—

Gone.

Satoru stills.

For a second, he just stares at the empty space where they should be. Blinking once, then twice, before rifling through the contents. Pushing things aside. Checking beneath them.

Nothing.

What the fuck?

He knows he put them here. He’s messy, sure, but he’s not careless. There’s a method to his madness, an order to the chaos. And his memory? Razor-sharp. Too sharp for something like this to slip past him.

So where the fuck are they? Did someone move them?

Then, from the next room, he hears it—the slow, rhythmic drag of fabric against carpet.

Scrubbing.

His gaze flicks toward the en-suite, the door leading to your room cracked open just enough for the scent of cleaner to seep through.

Remi.

Exhaling slowly, he schools his expression, steps forward, and slips through the bathroom. When he leans against the doorway, she’s still kneeling, still scrubbing the same goddamn spot she was working on earlier. Her movements are slow, methodical.

Satoru tilts his head. “You wouldn’t have, by chance, gone through my nightstand, would you?”

Remi freezes. It’s subtle, a small pause, barely a second, but he catches it. Then, she forces a laugh, shaking her head as she resumes scrubbing.

“What? No, of course not.”

Satoru hums, tapping his fingers against the doorframe. But he doesn’t press, doesn’t push—just watches.

Something about Remi is… off. The way she keeps her head ducked, the way her shoulders stay unnaturally stiff as she scrubs. Like if she just focuses hard enough, she can will him away.

Suspicious.

But why the hell would she take your panties? Of all things—that’s a weird fucking thing to steal.

His mind shifts, gears turning, peeling the situation apart and assessing it from a different angle. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe… it was you.

His lips twitch.

Now that seems more likely.

Pushing off the doorframe, he exhales slowly through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he turns on his heel. Fine. If it was you, he’ll just confirm it himself.

Descending the stairs, the low hum of conversation meets him before he even steps into the living room. Haru sits on the floor, brow furrowed in focus as she drags a colored pencil across a page. Meanwhile, you’re curled up on the couch, one knee tucked under the other, a throw blanket over you, watching her with a soft, easy smile.

Satoru moves behind you, slow and deliberate, dipping down just enough to thread his fingers through your hair, letting them linger.

“Hey.”

You glance up at him, brow arching at that look on his face. “Hmm?”

He studies you for a moment, letting the silence stretch just enough to make you suspicious. Then, voice smooth, he asks, “Did you take them?”

Your expression scrunches in confusion. “Take what?”

“My souvenir,” a slow smirk tugs at his lips.

Your brows knit. “Souvenir?”

“From this morning.”

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Satoru... what the fuck are you talking about?”

He sighs, dramatic and put-upon, as if this should be obvious. “Your panties.”

And there it is.

He watches, thoroughly entertained, as the realization creeps over your features. Your lips part, then press together, heat crawling up your neck, blooming across your cheeks.

“What—my panties?”

He nods, dead serious. “Gone. Missing. Vanished into thin air. They were in my nightstand.”

You scoff, pulling the throw blanket higher over you, half as a shield, half as an excuse to do something with your hands. “I… didn’t even know you had them.”

Satoru tuts, shaking his head like he’s deeply disappointed. Then, without missing a beat, he dips lower, his lips brushing against the soft curve of your neck before murmuring, “Guess I’ll just have to take a new pair… maybe right off you.”

Your breath hitches—just a fraction, barely noticeable, but he catches it. The way your shoulders stiffen, the flicker of heat that rises to your cheeks before you shove at his chest.

“Go away.”

He chuckles, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender, soaking in the way you glare at him, the way you try—and fail—to play it off. He enjoys this too much, watching you squirm, seeing how easily he can fluster you.

But even as he smirks, his mind is already miles away. Because if it wasn’t you… then who the hell took them?

The panties.

The photo of you and Haru—face down.

The off feeling in his office, the one he ignored.

The bloodstain Remi was scrubbing.

One coincidence is nothing. Two is annoying. But this? This is too many fucking things at once. It makes a slow, icy sensation creep along his spine.

Someone’s been in his house.

He lingers longer than he means to, his body still, the gears turning behind his eyes. And then—

“I thought you were gonna get cleaned up?”

He blinks, drawn back to the present. You’re watching him now—fuck, you’re too damn observant. Why is it that out of everyone, he can never hide this façade from you? Not completely—but he tries.

Because if someone has been in the house—if someone’s been bold enough to fuck around where they shouldn’t—you don’t need to know.

He’ll handle it.

This is your home. You should feel safe here.

That’s his job.

Rolling his shoulders, he schools his expression, slipping back into something effortless, easy. “Actually,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “just remembered I gotta call Suguru—something about the case.”

Your eyes narrow slightly, studying him. But you don’t press.

“Oh, okay.”

He grins, tapping his fingers against the couch as he steps back with a wink. “Don’t miss me too much.”

You scoff, shaking your head at his antics, a small grin playing on your lips.

And then, just like that, he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him as he steps into his office, and his expression shifts the second he’s alone—the playfulness evaporating.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, swiping the screen before bringing it to his ear. The line rings once—twice—before Suguru picks up.

“Didn’t think I’d hear from you again so soon,” Suguru sighs. “What’s up?”

Satoru gets right to the point.

“Someone’s been in my house.”

A pause. Then—

“What do you mean?”

Satoru moves toward his desk, dropping into the leather chair with a bit more force than necessary, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His feet prop up onto the desk, but the usual laziness in his posture isn’t there.

“I mean someone unwelcome,” he mutters, his jaw tightening. “Shit’s been moved in my office.”

Suguru exhales, unimpressed. “Satoru, your office is always a fucking mess. If something’s out of place, that’s probably on you.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow. “Not that office—this one. My study at home. It’s neat. Always.”

Suguru hums, not convinced but not dismissing it. “Alright. Go on.”

Satoru leans forward, elbows braced against the desk, rubbing his knuckles over his temple.

"The files on my desk? They were misaligned, Suguru. Barely, but I know it. My shit was touched."

“Hm.”

“And the picture.”

“What picture?”

Satoru clenches his jaw. “The one of her and Haru. It was face down on my desk.”

Silence. Then, Suguru clicks his tongue.  “Could’ve been one of the cleaners. Maybe they knocked it over when dusting.”

Satoru barely acknowledges the suggestion; his thoughts are moving faster than his mouth—his fingers tap against the desk.

“And then, the panties.”

Suguru coughs. “The what?”

“The panties I had of her,” Satoru repeats, irritation bleeding into his tone. “They were in my nightstand. But now, gone. Like they were never fucking there.”

Suguru goes completely silent for half a beat. Then—he bursts into laugher.

“Oh yeah, definitely sounds like a home invasion,” he chokes out between chuckles. “Panty theft is a serious crime, you should probably call the authorities.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling."You done?"

"No, no, go on," Suguru snickers. "This is getting good."

Satoru forces a slow breath through his nose, rubbing his temples. "Oh, go fuck yourself. You’re missing the point."

Suguru snorts, the laughter still dying in his throat. "Which is…?"

Satoru grips the phone tighter. His voice dips. “Someone was in my room. And…” his voice lowers, “there’s the last thing.”

Suguru hesitates, exhaling slowly. "What is it?"

Satoru leans back in his chair, tipping his head against the cushion as he stares at the ceiling. His fingers drum once against his thigh before stilling.

"I walked into her room earlier." A slow inhale."The nanny was scrubbing blood out of the carpet."

Suguru doesn’t say a fucking word. No snark. No sharp, witty comment. Nothing.

Just silence.

“…did she say where it came from?”

“She said she cut herself,” Satoru mutters. “But there wasn’t a scratch on her. I don’t trust her.”

The line stays quiet for another long, heavy beat.

Then, Suguru exhales. "Alright, let’s say someone was in your house,” His voice is different now—measured, calculating. “What’s your gut telling you?”

Satoru stares at the ceiling, jaw flexing.

“Nothing good.”

"Check your security feed," Suguru says. "Let’s see if your gut is right."

Satoru’s fingers tighten around his phone. Yeah… good point.

He doesn’t waste time, flicking his laptop open with a sharp movement, the cool glow of the screen casting shadows across his face. The security system interface pops up, and his fingers move with precision, clicking through menus.

“Pulling it up now,” he mutters, voice clipped.

Suguru hums on the other end, waiting as Satoru scrolls through the timestamps, looking for today’s footage. His eyes skim down the list—

Then stop. His cursor hovers over empty space.

Where the fuck are the files?

Suguru notices his pause. “Well?”

Satoru’s expression darkens.

“It’s gone.”

Suguru’s tone sharpens immediately. “What do you mean, gone?”

Satoru clicks through different dates, different times—nothing. The footage from earlier today has been wiped. His jaw locks as a slow, creeping burn curls at the back of his mind.

"Deleted," he grits out.

A slow exhale filters through the speaker. Suguru is quiet for a long moment before finally speaking. “You’re sure?”

Satoru huffs out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “You think I’m making this shit up?”

Satoru is pissed. Because this isn’t a glitch—it’s not a fucking accident. The files aren’t corrupted—they’re gone. Which means someone wiped them. Someone inside. Someone with access.

A traitor.

His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back, drumming his fingers against the armrest, his face eerily calm despite the fire simmering beneath his skin.

“I’m firing them all.”

Suguru doesn’t react immediately.

“…all?”

Satoru’s voice is cold. “Yup. Every last one of them. Only Ichiji stays.”

Suguru hums. “His loyalty’s not in question?”

“Not even a little,” Satoru mutters. “He’d rather fucking die than betray me.”

Another pause. Suguru knows better than to argue when Satoru makes up his mind. But then, his tone shifts—lighter, edged with sarcasm.

“Alright, genius… so who’s gonna watch Haru if you fire everyone?”

Satoru stills. Fuck.

His fingers tighten against the leather armrest. The daycare at Gojo Corp—his solution, his answer—wasn’t ready yet.

Which means…

Remi.

His jaw flexes, the weight of it pressing into his ribs. She can’t stay.

“I don’t fucking trust her, Suguru.”

Suguru doesn’t argue. “Yeah. I don’t either.”

That should be satisfying—should be a confirmation of what Satoru already knew. But it isn’t. Because it doesn’t change a damn thing.

Satoru drags a hand down his face. “Then what’s the move here? Because I’m not keeping her around just to get proof.”

“That proof could help us in court.” Suguru’s says, voice even. “If she’s working with the yakuza, that’s a direct link to Naoya. You get something on her, you might have what you need to—”

“I’m not putting them in danger for that.”

The words are sharp, leaving no room for debate.

Suguru exhales through his nose. “I figured you’d say that.”

“Then why the fuck did you—”

“Because I ran into Nanami the other day.”

Satoru blinks. “Nanami?”

“Yeah,” Suguru says easily. “At that bakery he loves—the fancy-ass one with the overpriced croissants. He’s back in town from Malaysia.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, rubbing his jaw.

Nanami Kento.

They went to high school together. He’s former Japan Special Defense Force. Retired. Precise, calculated, deadly when he needs to be.

And—most importantly—not a fucking traitor.

“If you’re going to wipe your entire staff, you need someone reliable to step in. Someone who can make sure your wife and kid don’t get caught in whatever the fuck this is.”

Satoru exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth. Nanami was always the first choice when shit needed to get done.

“You think he’d take the job?” Satoru mutters, “Nanami’s retired…”

“I think you should give him a call.”

ꨄ

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, they are all gone.

Every single one of them—except Ichiji and Remi (for now).

Satoru wasted no time. He never does. The second he ended his call with Suguru, he moved. Immediate terminations. No second chances. No hesitation. A single decision, executed with the same precision he applies to everything in his life.

And still—he isn’t cruel.

They all left with generous severance packages,enough to land on their feet. Because after watching you lose everything—your job, your security, your sense of stability—he decided a long time ago that he wouldn’t do the same to others. Even the ones he no longer trusts.

But that’s where his kindness stops. Because right after that, he made another call.

Nanami.

Now, after the exhaustion of handling this mayhem, Satoru finds himself drawn to the kitchen. The house is eerily quiet—emptier than it’s ever been, the usual hum of staff activity reduced to nothing. But here, in this small corner of warmth, he follows something softer.

Vanilla. Buttercream.

And you.

Standing at the counter, barefoot and at ease, piping delicate swirls of frosting onto freshly baked cupcakes. There’s a faint dusting of sugar on your wrist, the glow of the overhead light catching in your hair, casting a soft halo around you.

God you’re perfect.

It’s a picture of normalcy. And Satoru is starving for it.

It’s too easy to slip behind you—to pull you flush against him. His hands find their place at your waist while his fingers curve against the soft fabric of your shirt. Your warmth is immediate, grounding, and with a soft hum, you let yourself sink into his chest. Taking that as an invitation, Satoru’s chin drops low, brushing his nose against your neck as he inhales the faint traces of vanilla on your skin.

It settles something in him, a quiet part of his mind that’s been restless all day. For a moment, it’s almost enough to let him forget everything.

“Where’s Haru?” he murmurs lazily, lips grazing your pulse.

“In bed,” you sigh, adjusting your grip on the piping bag. “Finally. She fought it, though.”

Satoru smirks, nuzzling into you, savoring the warmth of you against him.

This is good.

She’s asleep. You’re here. And for just a moment, he allows himself to sink into this—this fragile, fleeting sense of normalcy. Until—

“Hey… um. Where is everyone?”

He stills. Just slightly. His face doesn’t change, his hands remain steady against your hips, but his mind clicks, recalibrates.

“Hm? What do you mean?” he asks—light, easy—as if he doesn’t already know exactly where this conversation is going.

You tilt your head slightly but don’t turn to face him, still focused on the cupcakes.

“I dunno.” You swipe a bit of frosting off your knuckle, licking it absently. “Just noticed when I was putting Haru to bed—the house feels kinda… empty.”

A pause.

“No one’s around,” you continue, almost offhandedly. “Didn’t hear anyone in the halls. No one cleaning. It’s weird.”

Satoru exhales through his nose. Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world—

“Oh, yeah. I fired them.”

You blink—hands freeze mid-frosting.

“…I’m sorry, you what?”

“I fired them,” he repeats, just as nonchalant as before.

There’s no hesitation. No buildup, no explanation. He just says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he didn’t just fire the entire household staff in one fucking day.

You stare at him, deadpan, before a breathless laugh slips out.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

Finally, you turn in his arms, brows raising as you set the piping bag down.

“Wait, wait—” You huff out a disbelieving laugh. “All of them? Just like that?”

Satoru shrugs, completely unbothered. “Well. Not all of them.”

Crossing your arms, your eyes narrow. “Okay… so who’s left?”

Satoru knows where this is going, so he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his grip on your waist tightens, pulling you in—and then, he starts to sway. It’s gentle, lazy—the kind of motion that isn’t about dancing at all. It’s about grounding you, keeping you close, keeping you from overthinking.

“Just Ichiji,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple. “And Remi.”

The shift in you is subtle, but he feels it—the hesitation in your breath, the slight stiffening in your shoulders. And that? That’s not what he wants.

So, before you can dwell on it, before the worry settles too deep, he smooths a hand up your back, voice dipping softer.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he coaxes, pressing another kiss to your skin. “I already took care of it.”

You don’t answer as his swaying continues—his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles along your hips, lulling the information into you.

“I hired someone new.”

You blink, momentarily distracted. “Oh… huh?”

A low hum rumbles from his chest, and he feels your tension ease just a fraction.

“I hired someone,” he repeats, soft, unhurried. “He’ll be stopping by tomorrow while I’m out.”

That catches your attention.

“Out?” Your brows knit together slightly.

“Mhm,” he says, still swaying. “Me and Suguru are meeting Naoya, remember?”

The tension creeps back in—he feels it, but he expected that. So, he counters—pressing his lips to your temple, hands firm against your waist, keeping you right where he wants you.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “You’ll stay right here. And you get to meet our newest hire. He’s a friend of mine.”

Curiosity flickers through the concern, but your hesitation lingers.

“Okay… who?”

“Nanami.”

“Nanami?”

The swaying slows, shifting closer to stillness.

“Mmhm,” he nods. “Kento Nanami. Met him back in high school. Good guy. Very serious.”

Something unreadable flickers across your face as you drag in a breath, turning back to the counter, reaching absently for the piping bag.

“…okay,” you exhale. “So… what exactly does he do?”

“Oh, you know,” he hums smoothly, slipping behind you again, looping his arm around your waist as he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “He’s just… gonna keep an eye on you when I’m not around.”

Your hands move as you resume piping the cupcakes, but your brow lifts just slightly—contemplating. It’s subtle, but Satoru catches it. Your grip tightening, your shoulders tensing, your lashes lowering—flickering with something unspoken.

You’re worried. And that? Yeah, that won’t do.

With a dramatic sigh, he slumps against you, burying his face into your neck, nuzzling into you like a lazy cat demanding attention. His breath fans the gentle curve of your throat as he whines, “Mm, don’t do that.”

Exhaling a quiet laugh, you remain focused on frosting.

“Do what?”

“That thing where you overthink.” His voice is muffled against your skin. “And make that cute little frowny face.”

You hum, amused but unfazed, continuing your work. Satoru, undeterred, nips lightly at your shoulder.

“Hey. Hey.” His voice dips, a touch more petulant. “I’m talking to you, missy.”

He catches the slow grin creep up your lips as you elbow him lightly.

“I’m frosting, Satoru.”

“Well, I’m suffering,” he huffs, tightening his hold and swaying you side to side, slow and lazy, like a child demanding attention. “Neglected. Unloved.”

A soft laugh slips through your lips as you roll your eyes fondly.

“You’re so dramatic…”

Finally setting the piping bag down again, you indulge him for a moment as he keeps swaying you—rocking you back and forth against his chest. When he speaks, his voice dips, softer—laced with a playful fondness.

“C’mon…” he whines quietly, “I need attention.”

Your sigh is utterly exasperated.

“And I need to finish these cupcakes.”

“Hhmp… frosting is not more important than me,” he grumbles, his nose nudging against your jaw, lips brushing just beneath your ear. “I’m your husband. You have obligations.”

That earns a quiet huff of laughter, finally tilting your head to glance at him.

“Oh, my deepest apologies, Mr. Gojo. Please forgive me for my negligence.”

His smirk stretches wider, smug and pleased, before spinning you to face him, hands still firm on your hips, pulling you close.

“I suppose I can forgive you…” he sighs, but there’s something playful in his expression, something scheming. “If…”

Your brows lift, suspicious. “Okay… what’s that look for?”

His grin widens. “Come with me.”

Your eyes narrow. “Where?”

“The living room,” he says, already tugging at your hand like an impatient kid. “C’mon, I set something up for us.”

And there it is—that signature Gojo glint in his eyes, the one that always means he’s up to something. You don’t budge. Instead, you fold your arms, eyeing him knowingly.

“What did you do this time?”

“No questions,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You’ll have to save those for later.”

You pause, before exhaling, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Then, turning back to the counter, you grab a plate and stack a few cupcakes onto it.

“Fine, fine.” You nudge his side as you pass him. “Lead the way, Romeo.”

And now, he’s practically dragging you along as you enter the living room, grinning.

As you round the corner, the fireplace crackles low, a gentle heat spreading into the room. There’s a small cluster of candles burning low on the coffee table, a cozy mess of blankets on the couch, a few pillows strewn at the edges. And in the background, the quiet hum of a playlist through the speakers—nothing over the top, nothing extravagant, but thoughtful.

Your steps slow, and he watches the way your gaze flickers over the setup—something unreadable in your expression before you glance at him.

“So… this is for me?” you murmur softly. “You did this?”

Satoru plops on the couch, stretching his legs out as he feigns nonchalance. “Mm.”

You arch a brow.

“I meeean,” he drawls, smirking, “I thought about going all out. Rose petals, violinists, maybe a red carpet… confetti cannons. But then I figured noooo, my wife will say that’s too much.”

Your lips twitch—just a fraction—but he catches it.

“Yeah… that would’ve been ridiculous,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He pats the space beside him on the couch. “So c’mon, sit. Enjoy the ambience. Indulge me.”

Rolling your eyes, you place the plate on the coffee table before sinking onto the couch beside him, your body settling into the mess of blankets he’d thrown. And then—just for a second—he catches it. The tiny, barely perceptible sigh when you lean back. Like you hadn’t realized how much tension you were holding until now.

His gaze lingers. But he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he lets his arm drape over the back of the couch, fingers brushing lightly against your sleeve. Then, his eyes flicker toward the plate on the table.

“Sooo,” he hums, tilting his head, “are those for me?”

You glance at the cupcakes, then back at him, brow lifting. “What?”

“The cupcakes,” he clarifies, grinning. “You made them for me, right?”

A slow smirk pulls up your lips as you pluck a cupcake from the plate.

“Mmm… nope. They’re for me.”

Satoru blinks, visibly affronted. “Uh… excuse me?”

You don’t answer. Instead, he watches as your delicate fingers move slowly, peeling back the wrapper of the cupcake. His eyes flick from your hands to your face, following every movement with an intensity he doesn’t bother to hide.

Little brat. You don’t offer him one.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, lifting the cupcake toward your lips with excruciating patience. And then—

You take the smallest, slowest bite, just barely grazing the frosting with your lips before pulling back, letting out a soft, satisfied hum.

His stomach clenches.

“Mmm…” your lashes flutter as you let the flavor settle on your tongue—exaggerated, taunting.

Satoru stares, pouting as you go in for another bite—this one just as tortuously slow. As your lips wrap around the edge of the cupcake, he doesn’t miss the way your tongue flicks out, catching a stray bit of frosting as you pull away.

His jaw flexes.

Fuck that tongue… he wants it all over his cock.

But you don’t seem to notice the way his fingers twitch against the couch, or maybe you do, and you’re just ignoring it. Either way, it’s infuriating.

“Damn,” you murmur, voice light, completely unbothered. “These are really good, if I do say so myself.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip as he watches you, his smirk sharpening. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm.” Another bite—smaller this time, more deliberate. Your gaze flickers toward him, half-lidded and knowing.

Little fucking tease.

He shifts beside you, stretching his legs out like he’s just getting comfortable, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way his fingers flex at the back of the couch, or how his free hand curls against his thigh.

“You know I don’t like being teased,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, quieter, like a warning.

You hum, licking another bit of frosting from your thumb, completely unfazed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His smirk twitches, almost a scoff, but his eyes darken.

“Sweetheart…” shifting closer, his knee brushes against yours, “you’re a terrible liar.”

As you blink at him, playing innocent, he doesn’t buy it for a fucking second.

“You did make them for me, didn’t you?” he whispers, his hand moves to your thigh, sliding up slowly. “Be honest.”

When your lips part slightly, Satoru thinks you might actually answer him—but then, just as quickly, you press them together again.

He smirks. You started this, and oh he loves a challenge.

Exhaling slowly, he hums, low and amused, his fingers spreading wider over your thigh, brushing higher, just enough to make you shift under his touch.

“Well,” he sighs, dragging it out like he’s deep in thought, “if they’re just for you, I guess I’ll have to go about my night hungry and unloved…”

Rolling your eyes, you mutter, “God you are so dramatic…”

“And yet…” his fingers wrap gently around your wrist, guiding the cupcake up, just shy of his lips. “You’re still holding out on me.”

As him thumb strokes against your pulse point, slow and lazy, those blue eyes flicker up through his snowy lashes—gleaming with something dangerous, something hungry. He leans in just a fraction more, letting the heat of his breath ghost over you hand.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” his gaze lingers on your lips before trailing back to the cupcake. “Feed me.”

A sharp exhale drags through your nose, and he can practically hear the gears turning in your head. Now you know exactly what he’s doing.

Your lips part, then press together again, before reluctantly, you give in, bringing the cupcake to his lips. And now, Satoru takes his time—brushing his lips against your fingertips, soft, teasing.

His pink tongue flicks out, dragging against the frosting before his teeth sink into the cake, deliberate and unhurried. His snowy lashes lower as he chews, savoring the taste, but more than that—savoring the way you’re watching him now.

Because two can play this game.

Your breath hitches, and for just a fraction of a second, your fingers tremble—barely noticeable, but he catches it. And oh, it does something to him, something dark and satisfied curling deep in his stomach.

Pulling back, he lets his lips brush against your fingertips again—lingering, teasing, savoring. Then, with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, he licks away a stray bit of frosting from the corner of his mouth—purposeful, knowing.

“Mmm…” he swallows, sighing in satisfaction. “That frosting is just too good…”

You’re pouting now, and that bottom lip is just too cute. He smirks, running a pad of his thumb through a dollop of frosting. As his eyes drag back to yours, his grin widens.

“I do love buttercream.”

And then, before you can react, his hand moves, his thumb dragging against that pretty bottom lip, smearing the frosting over your soft skin.

You blink, inhaling sharply as a slow smile stretches upward.

“Oops,” he exhales, tilting his head slightly. There is a heat pooling behind those endless blue eyes as he murmurs, “Look at that… you made a mess.”

And he fully intends to clean it up.

Leaning in, his breath warms your skin as his lips barely graze yours—a featherlight touch. His eyes are heavy lidded as his longue flicks out, licking the frosting from your lips—slow deliberate.

He feels your breath shudder, and a quiet hum vibrates in his throat as he savors the taste.

And suddenly he’s kissing you.

It starts soft, coaxing, lips pulling against yours in a way that makes your body react before your mind can catch up. His fingers slide to your jaw, tilting your face up, deepening the kiss, drinking in every pretty sound you make.

You melt into him.

Each drawn-out kiss quickens, moving with purpose now, making him crave more. He groans, sliding his hands to your waist as he shifts, guiding you onto his lap with effortless ease. A quiet gasp escapes you, but he drinks it in, keeping you flush against him.

Your arms loop around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

And then—you tug.

A sharp sensation ripples down his spine, a growl catching in his throat. His teeth graze your bottom lip—biting, sucking, soothing. Slow, indulgent, taking his time as he licks away the last traces of sweetness.

Fuck.

You taste like buttercream and heat—dangerously addicting—like something he could get drunk on if he let himself.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead lingers close to yours, breaths mingling. Both of you are unsteady from the weight of it. Your lips are swollen and your gaze is hazy as it meets his.

But as he drags his thumb over that plump lower lip again, his lips curl—savoring the way they are slick, and clean from his kiss.

“Hmm…” his voice is smug, husky. “I dunno… tastes like these cupcakes were for me after all.”

A breathless laugh slips past your lips, your fingers still lightly threading through his hair.

“You are so full of yourself,” you murmur, shaking your head. “When have I ever made something sweet that wasn’t for you?”

His smirk widens, victorious. “Ahh… see? You admit it.”

You roll your eyes, but the moment lingers—comfortable, unhurried. Your fingers weave through his snowy hair, slow and absentminded, while his thumbs trace lazy circles against your hips, grounding and warm.

It’s a comfortable silence, but as your gaze flickers away from his, you take in the soft glow of the candles, the careful arrangement of blankets, the way everything feels so intentional. The way he feels so intentional.

Exhaling, you tilt your head slightly. “So… can I ask what all this is about now?”

Satoru hums, his fingers stilling at your waist for just a beat before his smirk returns—though there’s something else behind it now—something quieter.

“I wanna play a game.”

You arch a brow, clearly skeptical. “A game?”

“Mhm…” His hands skim down your sides slowly, caressing your hips. “It’s simple. We take turns asking each other questions, and we have to answer honestly.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is this just an excuse for you to be dirty?”

Clicking his tongue, Satoru shakes his head with mock disappointment. “Wow. You’re the one with the filthy mind,” he muses, voice dipping lower, teasing. “Naughty girl. It’s just an innocent game of questions.”

You hum, unconvinced. “Innocent, huh?”

“Yup. Cross my heart.” He grins, tracing an ‘X’ over his chest with one finger. “I’d never use underhanded tactics to get you flustered.”

Pulling back slightly, you level him a knowing look.

“You literally just did.”

His smirk grows. “Semantics.”

Shaking your head, you exhale, your fingers still idly playing with his hair. After a beat, you tilt your head and whisper, “…so what kind of questions?”

For just a second, his grin softens, that cocky edge fading—just a little.

“Anything, really.”

His fingers trail absentmindedly along your hip, his gaze flickering over your face, like he’s memorizing something only he can see.

“I just… wanna know more about you.”

“You say that like I’m some kind of mystery…”

His lips curl faintly, a quiet hum slipping from him. “You are.”

You scoff lightly, shaking your head. “Not really… and we had to learn so much about each other for this fake marriage, Satoru. Favorite foods, pet peeves, how we take our coffee—hell, I know your blood type.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah… but that’s just surface-level shit. Facts, trivia—stuff you’d put on a dating profile.” His voice drops slightly, something softer curling around the edges. “I don’t just wanna know what you like… I wanna know why. I wanna know you.”

Your breath catches for a moment, something shifting in the air between you. And Satoru—he watches the way your expression flickers, the way you hesitate for half a second like you don’t know what to do with the weight of his words.

So, instead of letting it settle too long, he smirks. Tilts his head against the cushions, easy and lazy.

"Alright. Since I came up with the game, I get the first question."

You shift slightly in his lap, arching a brow.

"Mmm… is that how it works?"

"Obviously," he smirks. "Genius privilege."

You roll your eyes, but he catches the way the corner of your mouth twitches. Cute.

"Fine, go."

He hums in thought, fingers drumming idly against your side, watching the way your lips purse, waiting. Then, a slow grin spreads across his face.

"Alright, sweetheart. What's the dumbest thing you've ever spent money on?"

You scoff, lips pressing together, and Satoru already knows whatever answer you give is going to amuse him.

"Oho… I wanna know what your answer to this question is gonna be."

“Mm-mm.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You first, princess.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you lean back slightly against his hold, pressing yourself a little closer to him.

"Okay, fine," you tap your fingers against his chest like you’re thinking hard. "Mmm… probably one of those water bottles that track hydration. The kind with reminders that light up."

Satoru stares at you blankly. “Uh… really? That’s it? How is that dumb?”

“Well…” You hesitate, then shrug. “It was pointless to buy, because I ignored it. Like I do with most things I don’t wanna deal with.”

His smirk stretches wider at that, a wicked gleam sparking in his eyes.

“Wow. Even a bottle has to fight for your attention. I almost feel bad for it.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, shaking your head. "Yeah, well... it should’ve tried harder."

Satoru presses a hand to his chest, expression mockingly solemn. "Tragic. A hero, forgotten in the darkness of a cabinet. I’ll tell its story."

Rolling your eyes, you swat lightly at his arm. "Oh, shut up."

"Next time, just give me the money, and I’ll nag you to drink water personally."

You scoff. “Like you need the money, Mr. Money Bags.”

Satoru grins at that, because he walked right into it.

“True, true. But think about it—I’d be way more effective. I could send you little reminders,” he pauses, voice dipping lower, "maybe even offer incentives."

Your brows furrow slightly, catching the shift in his tone. "Incentives?"

His smirk turns downright sinful, fingers tightening at your waist just slightly.

“Mhm.” He drags his thumb in a slow arc along your side, feigning thought. “Positive reinforcement. Every time you drink water, I could… reward you.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Okay… you definitely just made that dirty.”

He laughs, tilting his head, feigning innocence. "Did I?"

"Yes."

He hums, leaning in close to you. "Or… maybe you just have a filthy mind."

You groan, pressing your palm against his face in a weak attempt to push him away, but he only laughs, fingers tightening at your waist, keeping you right where he wants you.

"Alright, enough about me," you huff, leveling him with a look that only makes him more entertained. "I need to hear your answer to this question."

Satoru hums like he’s really considering it, but then—his lips curl, amusement flashing across his face.

“A castle.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Then, slowly, your hand drops from his face.

“…I'm sorry. You own a castle?”

His grin is all confidence, completely unrepentant. “Mhm.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You stare at him, baffled, before shaking your head. “Um… okay. Where?”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “Uh, somewhere in the Alps? Or maybe Scotland—" He pauses, squinting. “Wait. No. It’s in France. I think.”

"You think?" you repeat, incredulous.

"Well, I haven't actually been there," he admits, waving a dismissive hand. “Not my fault castles are kinda inconvenient to visit.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, exhaling. "Then… why did you buy it?"

Satoru tilts his head. “You ever just scroll through luxury listings at 2 AM and think, ‘Yeah, I need that?’”

"Oh my god."

"But," he continues, ignoring you, "apparently castles require a ton of upkeep. Something about centuries-old plumbing and heating? Also, there’s a moat problem."

Your brows knit together. "Moat problem?"

"Yeah. Turns out, maintaining a functional moat is a logistical nightmare. Plus, I dunno, castles just… aren’t that practical."

“You’re ridiculous…” you groan, shoving lightly at his chest, but he only laughs, catching your wrist and pulling your hand back into his.

His fingers play idly with yours, absentminded, like he’s holding onto the moment without even realizing it. When his eyes flick back to yours, there’s a lazy kind of amusement settling there.

“And yet, here you are,” he murmurs, lips curling just slightly.

You shake your head with a wry smile, shifting, settling deeper into his lap—letting yourself relax against him, letting him hold you just a little closer.

“Alright, castle boy,” you mutter, tilting your head at him. “Next question.”

A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. “Hit me.”

Humming thoughtfully, your eyes flicker over him, considering.

“Well, since we’re on the topic of money… what’s one thing you refuse to spend money on?”

Leaning back, Satoru stretches an arm over the couch as if this answer doesn’t require a single brain cell of effort.

“Easy. Economy flights.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He levels you with a flat stare, completely deadpan. “Have you seen how long my legs are?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Mmkay… that’s fair.”

“And you?”

You consider for a second before shrugging. “Lottery tickets.”

He scoffs, lips curling in amusement. “What, you don’t believe in testing fate?”

“I know better than to test fate,” you say dryly. “I’ve always had terrible luck. And I hate spending money on something where the odds are literally against me.”

Satoru hums, twisting a strand of your hair lazily between his fingers, watching it slip through his grasp.

“Huh,” he muses, thoughtful now. “I dunno. I’d say you hit the jackpot once or twice.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please.”

“No, really.” His grin lingers, but there’s something softer beneath it now, something less teasing—more contemplative.

There’s a beat of quiet, the soft crackle of the fire in the background, the rhythmic sound of your breathing against his. His thumbs continue to ghost your sides, tracing slow absentminded circles.

Then—

“Do you think we would’ve still ended up like this if circumstances were different?”

He says it casually, smoothly, like it’s not sitting heavier in his chest than it should. Your breath catches just slightly, the weight of the question settling between you.

Tilting your head, you search his face.

“Well… would you have even given me a second glance if things weren’t the way they are?”

Satoru’s brow lifts, but instead of answering, his smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Uh-uh now. It’s my turn. I asked first.”

Exhaling, you shake your head.

“I… dunno…” your voice dips quieter now. “But the idea of never ending up here at all… that’s kind of a scary thought. So… I try not to think about it.”

His expression softens—just for a second—before he hums, gripping your waist tighter.

“I think…” He tilts his head, pausing, dragging the moment out just enough to make your brows pinch slightly. “Even if everything was different, I still would’ve wanted to know you.”

You blink, like you weren’t expecting that answer.

“…really?”

Satoru scoffs, his grin snapping back into place like it never left.

“Oh, absolutely,” he nudges his nose against yours affectionately. “But can you imagine if I hadn’t? You would’ve lived such a dull, Gojo-free life.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Wow, yes, what a tragedy.”

“It would be,” he insists, feigning offense. “Who else would’ve made it their mission to drive you up the wall every single day?”

You huff through your nose, exasperated but fond.

“You loved annoying me.”

“Still do,” he admits, shameless. “But… you were so serious. Always so focused. I had to try to get a reaction out of you.”

You hum, gaze flickering downward, fingers tracing an idle pattern against his shoulder.

“I… had to be.”

Tilting his head, Satoru watches you, waiting. His fingers still trace lazy, idle shapes at your waist. There’s a beat before you continue, your voice softer now.

“Back then… my life was kind of a mess. So… I didn’t have the luxury of being carefree. I was just… trying to hold everything together.”

Something about the way you say it pulls at Satoru’s chest, sharp and unfamiliar.

He doesn’t like it.

Doesn’t like that he wasn’t there, that he didn’t know you like this—buried under stress, struggling, holding on by the skin of your teeth.

He hates it, actually.

But he doesn’t say that. Doesn’t know how. So instead, he moves.

Exhaling, he leans back, stretching his arms with a lazy groan before tugging you down with him. You let out a small sound of protest, but it’s weak, breathless—because you don’t really fight it. And he grins because, yeah, he knew you wouldn’t.

The couch shifts beneath his weight as he sprawls out, adjusting until you’re right where he wants you—resting against his chest, tucked into him.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, warm, grounding. His fingers skate lazily up and down your spine—slow, unhurried, absentminded.

“…comfy?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.

“um… yeah,” you admit softly.

Satoru smirks, eyes slipping closed, his grip settling more firmly around you.

“Alright,” he hums, vibrating against you. “What’s one memory you hold onto when things get tough?”

You still slightly, like you weren’t expecting the question. For a moment, you just lie there, listening to the crackle of the fireplace, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing beneath you as his fingers trace lazy circles along your spine.

Then, you exhale, closing your eyes.

“Hmm… that’s a good question.”

As you hesitate, your fingers trace an idle, mindless pattern against his chest, until finally, you find your words.

"There was this one night… after everything with Naoya, when I finally got my own place,” you begin. “It was tiny, barely more than a shoebox… but it was mine. I remember sitting on the floor with a bottle of cheap wine, eating takeout straight from the container, just thinking… I did this. I got myself here. No one handed it to me, no one saved me—I made it happen. That night, I felt like I could breathe again… for the first time in years."

The words linger between you, quiet and honest, and Satoru doesn’t speak right away, but you feel the way his fingers continue to trail up in down your back.

He hates it.

Not the part where you made it on your own—no, that part is impressive as hell, that part makes his chest tighten with admiration. He’s always loved your strength, your resilience.

It’s the other part.

The fact that you were alone when it happened. That no one was there to see it, to celebrate it, to tell you that you fucking did it. That he couldn’t be there.

“You… really went through a lot all on your own, huh?”

You nod subtly against his chest. “…yeah.”

There’s something in his throat—something thick, something he doesn’t know what to do with. So he swallows it down, exhales softly—then presses his lips into your hair.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs.

He feels it when you still slightly. When the words settle, sinking deep. You don’t say anything at first, but your fingers tighten against his shirt, just for a second, just enough to let him know you heard him.

“…what about you?” your whisper, head still resting against him. “What’s a memory you hold onto?”

Satoru hums, sorting through the years.

“Hmm… there’s one,” he finally says, voice distant, like he’s pulling it from somewhere deep.  “It’s nothing big, but… when I was a kid, my dad would always throw these extravagant birthday parties for me. Like, ridiculously over the top—huge cakes, fireworks, even once had a live tiger.”

You lift your head slightly, blinking. “A tiger?”

He grins. “Yeah, it was cool—until it got loose and almost took out half the catering staff.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.” He snickers at the memory, but then, his expression shifts. The amusement is still there, lingering, but something else creeps in at the edges.

“Anyway…” he continues, “the parties were never really for me. They were more for appearances—big shows for the business partners, other rich families. But there was this one year where Suguru—” He pauses for a beat, then continues, voice softer. “He convinced me to skip my own party. We ran off to this little ramen shop instead, just the two of us.”

Your breath stills slightly, sensing the shift in his tone.

“I… remember sitting there in this tiny hole-in-the-wall place, still in my stupid fancy suit, just eating ramen and laughing about dumb shit. No cameras, no expectations, no pressure. It was just… nice.” He exhales, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes, when things get overwhelming, I think about that night. Just the simplicity of it.”

There’s another lingering quiet, stretching between the steady crackle of the fire. Your fingers twitch slightly against his chest, and as you speak again, your voice is softer, tinged with a sleepiness.

“Suguru… really sounds like a great friend.”

Satoru hums, his fingers trailing lazy circles against your back. “Yeah… he is.”

Tilting his head slightly, Satoru looks down at you. Your eyes are still open, but only just. Heavy-lidded, hazy, like sleep is already tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

“You tired?” he murmurs.

You hum sleepfully. “Mm-mm. Just… comfortable.”

“Mmkay… well it’s your turn.”

As your lips pull into a drowsy smile, you allow your eyes to slip shut as you think. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, warmth lulling you further into the haze of slumber.

“What’s… one thing you’d never change about your life?”

Satoru exhales, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes slipping shut. He could say a million things. His freedom, his wealth, his power—things people assume matter most to him. But none of it feels right. None of it feels true.

Instead, his arms tighten slightly around you, his hand pressing a little firmer at your waist, like he’s anchoring himself to this moment.

“This… right here. You, in my arms.”

“Mmm… yeah?” you hum, voice slipping somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. Shifting slightly, you burrow deeper against him before you whisper, “…why’s that?”

His breath hitches.

You say it so simply, so easily, like you don’t know what you’re asking of him. Like you don’t realize you’ve just cracked open something inside him that he’s never let anyone see.

Because the words are there, sitting right at the edge of his tongue, but he’s never said them before. Not like this. Not to anyone.

He swallows.

And then, for once, he doesn’t overthink it.

“Because… I love you.”

The weight of the words settle, heavy, irreversible, and Satoru holds still, waiting for—something. For you to react, for the moment to shift, for the world to feel different now that he’s let those words exist outside of himself.

But there’s nothing. No reaction.

Your breathing has already evened out, slow and soft against his skin.

He looks down—you’re asleep.

A breath of laughter slips past his lips—quiet, a little incredulous. Of course. Of course the first time he ever says it, the first time he ever means it—you don’t even hear him.

His chest tightens, but there’s no frustration there. Just warmth.

Shaking his head slightly, he tugs you closer, pressing one more lingering kiss to your hair before reaching for the throw blanket resting over the back of the couch. He pulls it over both of you, tucking you in against him, letting himself just exist in this moment.

And as his grip settles at your waist, his body melting into the cushions as the fire crackles low in the background, Satoru exhales slowly, eyes slipping shut.

"Yeah," he murmurs, just for himself. "I really do love you."

And this time, he’s okay with you not hearing it. Because he’ll say it again.

And next time, you will.

a/n. awww... i hope ya'll enjoyed this chapter. i know the first half is mostly setting up plot, but we have a lot to come... hehe. writing this chapter was a big change up from my usual, and i definitely had a lot of fun with it. naoya is a creep, and not in a sexy way 😅 and the panties are an actual plot point?! whaaaa, betcha didn't see that coming 😂 excited to bring nanami in this storyyyy. and i'm excited for suguru and satoru's meet up with naoya. oh man, i can't wait for all the pieces to fall into place 💕 satoru finally said those three words 🤧 my heart. as always, would love to hear your thoughts. thanks for reading 🥹🫶🏻 -aly → you are currently all caught upꨄ

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@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

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[heartfullofleeches]

Male Secretary Darling is required by company policy to wear a sweater only when he has genuinely important business to go over with his demonic coworkers because otherwise they're too busy sharing at his tits to retain an information he gives-

"Forecast details a blood moon this evening. Its wise to expect a summoning from those cultist.... I have aspirin at my desk if you require it afterwards."

"Okay."

"There's also the matter of that young groom who wants out of his pact with you for he has fallen for his bride to be. He claims you may have his mistress as penance."

"Fascinating."

"A human soul has possessed one of our printers. Would you like me to-"

"Okay."

"....Sir? Not to be offend you or anything, but you are aware you have more than two parts of eyes, yes? Must you use all of them to stare at my chest?"

".....As your employer, I have no need to answer such ridiculous questions."

[ozzgin]

I decided to make a separate list for all my monster works so that they're all in one place.

Folklore/Mythology/Urban Legends

Yandere!Werewolf x GN!Reader

Yandere!Werewolf x Fem!Reader Headcanons

Short: Werewolf mate who marks you before leaving

Yandere!Vampire x GN!Reader

Yandere!Shapeshifter x Fem!Reader

Yandere!Shapeshifter x Fem!Reader 2

Yandere!Aka Manto x GN!Reader

Yandere!Devil x Fem!Reader

Yandere!Merman x GN!Reader

Monster Short: The Wolf x Fem!Reader

Yandere!Orc Siblings x GN!Reader [Prompt + Doodle]

Short: Orc Stepbrother (GN Reader) + Orc Stepdad

Short: Orc!Secretary (GN Reader)

Short: Mothman x Crybaby!GN!Reader

Naga x Smartass!GN!Reader

Short: Fae x GN!Reader

Delinquent!Fairy x GN!Reader

Short: Delinquent Fairy and Children

Short: Delinquent!Fairy Pollen

Short: Biblically Accurate Angels (GN Reader)

Asks: [Shapeshifter] Daily life, [Werewolf] Character Info, [Shapeshifter] Dog similarities, [Shapeshifter] Reveal

Hybrids

Yandere!Hybrid x Phobic!GN!Reader

Yandere!Bear!Hybrid x GN!Reader

Lion!Hybrid & Tiger!Hybrid x GN!Reader

Cow!Hybrids x Bull!Hybrids x GN!Reader

Hucow Husband flavors

Yandere!Octopus!Hybrid x GN!Reader

Yandere!Fem!Cow Barista x GN!Reader

Carnotaurus (Dinosaur Pack) x GN!Reader

Hammerhead Shark!Hybrid x GN!Reader

Various!Hybrids x Reader on period

Short: Wolf!Hybrid x Fem!Reader

Short: Lizard!Hybrid

Short: Puppy!Hybrid and Adult Channels + cont.

Short: Puppy!Hybrid and mating

Short: Puppy!Hybrid's first Christmas

Short: Duck!Hybrid

Monster OCs

Yandere!Asylum Spider x GN!Reader

Yandere!Asylum Spider Character Info

Yandere!Demon x Gloomy!Fem!Reader [Zzy]

Yandere!Demon x Gloomy!Fem!Reader 2

Yandere!Demon King x Hero!GN!Reader

Yandere!Demon King x Hero!GN!Reader 2

Yandere!Demon King x Fem!Reader Christmas Special

Yandere!Demon King x Old!Reader

The Yandere OCs and their jealousy: Monster Edition

Midnight Kiss with the Monster OCs

Asks: [Asylum Spider] Cleanliness, [Asylum Spider] Baths together, Shark loan Shark (Intro), Shark loan blurb, Public coitus scenario, [Zzy] Reader flirting back

Generic Monsters

All misc monsters have been moved here

Monster Doodles

All of my monster-related art is now here

Monster Series

All recurring stories have been moved here

Chat with them: Monster Husband, Zzy, Daos

[komelliko]

manipulative!boss!sunday x timid!secretary!reader

summary: Sunday wants to invite you to dinner. ...Correction: Sunday will invite you to dinner. Even if there are a few loopholes to get through first. wc: 1.1k

part 1 / part 2

---

Sunday finds it quite unfortunate that the salvation of the world must sometimes be assured through cruelty. It wounds him when he must be cutthroat, must be stern in his ways, but he does it all the same. Even the gravest of sins shall be absolved in the eternity of the dream he chases, and Sunday knows no man to enact this sin besides himself.

...In short, manipulation is no stranger to the head of the Oak Family.

You're nearly tripping on your heels again when your boss runs into you, lighting up at your presence in a way you have to decidedly ignore. It's unprofessional to dwell on it—You hate even the notion of being unprofessional. After all you've worked towards, every hour you've busted your ass off to get to work as secretary for one of the most important people in Penacony, the thought of ruining it by being unprofessional makes you want to fill a bathtub with SoulGlad and let yourself drown in it.

"Good morning, Mr. Oak," you greet him, once he's within speaking range. There's a million papers and manila folders in your arms, all cobbled together with clips and staples, and you hold them at your chest almost like a sort of shield. Hours upon hours of your work rests within this stack of papers, thousands of words worth of reports and number-crunching and printed out messages between Family Heads. Sunday makes a point to look you right in the eye, and it's a gaze you swear you'll never get used to.

You don't know what the look in his eyes mean—Sunday takes great pleasure in keeping the meaning from you.

There's a plenty good amount of things he prefers to keep to himself (as is only proper for someone of his responsibility), and the images his mind likes to conjure only flip past like cards in a rolodex as he sneaks a glance at the body hiding behind the papers. He smiles, but not any bigger than he would smile to anyone else. Not yet.

"Good morning, [Y/N]," Sunday coos. "Working out of the office as usual, I see? Please, if there's any reason for you to avoid it I must know."

Flush with embarrassment, you shake your head. It's just easier to make sure everything gets done when you're always walking, you find. You hate being kept places, being forced to sit and hear the second-hand of a clock constantly chatter behind your back. When you're walking, your heels set the pace instead, at whatever you need it to be. You're only indebted to your own ethic, which you hold in high regard.

"Oh, the office is perfectly fine, Mr. Oak," you stammer out, fingers drumming on the stack of papers. "I just like the stained glass on some of the third floor hallways of Dewlight. The, uh— The fountains add a nice atmosphere, too." You panic, adding "It's a really wonderful building, sir. I'm honored to work here."

Sunday nods. He'll have to order for new windows and a fountain to be put in his office the second the moment arrives. A meeting with Whittaker Nightingale was in order, clearly—He'd understand the situation.

"Please, dear, if anyone here should be honoured it's me," Sunday smiles. He passes to stand beside you rather than in front of, catching a glimpse of the way your hair falls over your shoulders. "Can I discuss something with you for a moment, if you'll allow?"

Sunday takes the initiative to place one hand on the small of your back, the other clasped behind his own. The touch makes you flinch—You grab tight onto your papers, hoping they won't spill out in a burst from the way you nearly jumped in place. "Gosh, Mr. Oak, I don't really think this is necessary—" On the outside, his face is stern, perhaps even disappointed with your tendencies to act like a stickler. Internally, he's more concerned with how often you spurn his affections: At his core, however? He wants to hold his hand against you until he dies.

"Please," he whispers, almost commanding you. "Walk with me." Sunlight streams in through the windows of the Dewlight Pavilion, pockets of gold dancing on the marble floors.

"You've gotten in touch with the Alfalfa family, as I requested?"

Panicking, you leaf through the papers you had kept clutched to your chest to search for any notes or documents relating to that. Unfortunately, your anxieties are valid: You did not. Sunday doesn't let on that he's lying to you. He asked you to reach out to some bureaucrat working for SoulGlad, but nothing to do with Oti or any of the Alfafas. But you're forgetful, and he loves that about you. Not as much as he values your eagerness to please, though.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Oak. It must've slipped my mind." You spent the whole day organizing the catering for the Charmony Festival, and your papers corroborate this.

"Please, I could never fault you," he smiles. "It'll be taken care of tomorrow."

Sunday bites his lip as he feels the back of your shirt brush against his hand. If he was any less of a man with any less of a reputation to uphold, he'd have it comfortably in the back pocket of your pants. He goes on, to get to the real purpose of this informal meeting with you.

"Would you be interested in discussing things over dinner?"

Your breath stalls for a moment.

"I— I'm sure sending today's report electronically should be just fine, sir."

Sir. It's a word he's been addressed by many lips, but every utterance pales in comparison to this singular moment.

"It would be my pleasure."

"I'm not sure I even have anything that would suit the occasion," you confess.

"I can arrange for something to be sent to you."

A particular nausea pools in your gut: a feeling so light, so painlessly ignorable that even worrying that it's gas feels like an overreaction. Meetings over dinner are professional, and at a rank like Sunday's, it's entirely reasonable that you conform to a certain dress code—one that he knows much better than you, no doubt. Sending something for you to wear would only be logical if it meant preserving that image of his.

(And he had been peculiar about dress in the past: No heels could be too tall or too short, pants were preferred but knee-length skirts were permissible, Oak insignia patches visible on every blazer, such and the like. Surely, this was nothing new.)

"If you find that to be within your purview, Mr. Oak," is what you manage to respond with. "...I'll make myself presentable."

"Don't fret too much over it, [Y/N]," Sunday smiles. "I fully trust in your abilities to uphold our reputations." 'Our'.

You force yourself to not dwell on it.

---

A/N: If anyone has feedback, please share it with me!! Obviously some artistic license has to be made for the premise to work but hopefully it's nothing too egregious :,)

[crepezinhos]

The Lion and The Fox

POV: Sunday has always had high expectations of you, his dear secretary, and his lovesick obsession for you has only made his trust on you increase uncontrollably. But now, he felt like his world was crumbling right in front of him when he learned that you were pregnant, and the father was the man he most despised, that he wish he could deport from Penacony, Aventurine.

⚠️ WARNINGS:

— This is a Yandere and Suggestive SFW Oneshot

— Reader is FEMALE and uses SHE/HER pronouns

— Contains: A lot of dirty-talking and racially-motivated talking, accidental pregnancy, bloody fighting, attempted murder, violent language and obsessive/possessive behavior.

— Yandere!Boss!Sunday x Pregnant!Reader x Yandere!Aventurine

— AU is: In-Game

“Ah, Y/N. You’re here.” Sunday turned his gaze away from the windowed wall of his office with a little grin growing in the edges of his lips to look at you, who was entering the room with embarrassment already taking you over.

“Hi… Mr. Oak.” You didn’t even dare ignoring his greet as you pushed the door back to its place from behind, especially considering how much he personally respected you.

But you immediately sighed in defeat as you realized how obviously awkward your tone accidentally came out of your throat, which you knew would alarm his attentive ears in a blink.

“Is everything okay?” And his speed to figure someone’s head out, or at least yours in particular, made you even less confident to keeping making eye contact at those mesmerizing amber eyes of his. “You seem very disturbed, dear.”

“Mr. Oak, I—” At the same you desperately wanted to vomit those words out of your chest, your logical thinking warned you that the conversation you were about to have with him right now would not be easy work, perhaps even heartbreaking.

Sunday begun silently walking away from his spot and going towards you, as if he was trying to avoid any explosive reaction out of you or comfort you. But unfortunately, his elegant apparent d and tall figure completely triggered the opposite out of you.

“I need to take a break.” You threw your head to the left as you confessed your intentions to him without any further context, paralyzing the Halovian. “Like… a few days or a whole week…”

“A whole week?” Sunday’s tone did not change, though, and after a few seconds waiting for a response, he finally figured you were too uncomfortable to speak any more without his leadership. “May I ask why?” He continued walking, a little more faster this time, cornering you against the wall even if his hands remained behind his back as usual.

“I’m not feeling quite well, Mr. Oak—”

“Please, address me as Sunday, dear.” You suddenly felt something wooly reach your left cheek and begin to caress it gently, figuring it was Sunday’s fingers after successfully cornering you against the door. “My apologies… I won’t interrupt you again.”

“I’m just feeling sick. That’s all…” You awkwardly finished yourself while trying to ignore his intimate demonstration of care.

“And you need a whole week to recover from it?” His tone shifted to a more serious one while that hand of his spread itself around your whole jaw and slightly pulled it upwards, forcing you to look at him again, and your silence made it obvious to him that you were either lying or hiding something from him. “Let’s sit down, dear.” His hypnotizing grin almost made you vomit the truth right there out of guilt.

Sunday released you and begun stepping towards where his office desk and fancy chair were, without acknowledging how quickly he had convinced you to speak the truth to him. That distressing nod in your throat was already unbearable on its own, but that you were being forced to tell such disappointing news to such a sweet and caring boss like Sunday, that truly admires you and trusts you deeply, just couldn’t be postponed anymore.

“I’m pregnant!” As soon as the distance between you and him was comfortable to you, when Sunday’s hand was about to reach his chair’s arm support, you let the beast out of its cage. “I am feeling sick indeed, but it’s because I’m pregnant and I have no idea what to do about it yet!” Your voice cracked a few times as you bowed your head down, tears barely glistening your eyes, but you did your best to hold them back and not stress Sunday, who had fully paralyzed in his spot.

…

…

…

“I beg your pardon?” Sunday slowly turned his head to you, the rest of his body immobile in its place.

“You heard me, Mr. O—… Sunday… I’m pregnant.” You crossed your arms and legs, leaning against the wall vulnerably.

And once again, Sunday didn’t say anything again some awkward seconds, causing your heart to beat even faster than it already was.

…

…

“P-Pregnant..?” This was one of the first times you’ve ever heard Sunday’s voice crack and stutter.

“Yes, sir.” You quickly nodded.

…

…

…

“Like… pregnant pregnant?” Sunday repeated himself again, a little more desperate.

“Yes, sir.” And you nodded to him again, a little more desperate too.

“When did you…” He didn’t know what to ask you due to the unprocessed shock. “For how long have you known this?” Sunday sounded a little madder as you expected, but at the same time you could feel some worry and anxiety coming from him as you saw him move a hand to his collar and start fidgeting his own tie.

“I took the test a few days ago, Mr. Oak.” Although you noticed how you referred to him in the wrong manner, Sunday didn’t seem to notice it, or at least preferred to not scold you again.

“How many people know about it yet?” Sunday finally turned his full body to you. After all, that question mattered a lot.

“None of my friends know about it yet, only the father and you, sir.” At this moment, it felt like all of your friendship with Sunday never existed in the first place, considering how incredibly negative his reaction was.

“Ah, yes… the father.” Sunday spat the word like a curse, scoffing at it right afterwards before pausing for a moment. “Who is the lucky man, Y/N?” Sunday decided to speak in a warmer tone, hoping it would help appeasing the suspense between you two, but it wasn’t quite useful to you.

“Sunday, I… I don’t think I should—”

“I have to know who the father is, Y/N.” He immediately shut you off with a shaky, anxious voice before you could fully reject him. “I don’t think it would be beneficial for us if the people of Penacony were to learn that the secretary of the Head of the Family… my secretary… is pregnant of someone of bad influence, especially if I was not aware of it or consenting to it. Don’t you agree?” Sunday’s voice cracked a few more times with his growing anger as his fingers became more aggressive with his tie.

You weakly nodded, feeling more tears rise up to your eyes. You were expecting Sunday to have a negative reaction indeed, but you did not expect him to be this bold. It even made you question your non-professional friendship with him. Was he not as attached to you like you thought? Was his kindness to you just a souvenir for your hard work? Have you two ever developed a friendship in the first place? If not, were you really just a secretary to him? If yes, how intimate are you two?

“This seriously endangers your job, Y/N, so if you don’t wish me to take extreme measures with you, tell me, dear, who is the father..?!” Despite his self-control, you noticed a pattern of how he was simply unable to hold all his anger when he mentioned the ‘father’.

You breathed in and out, preparing yourself for the bomb you were about to drop on him. After all, losing your job to this did not seem to be the smartest choice to be done, although the answer itself could still make you lose your job anyway.

“I believe the father is Aventurine, sir.” You closed your eyes as you told your version of the story, trying to make it more broad by stating as a theory rather than a fact, but you were certain that the baby was Aventurine’s.

…

…

…

Sunday scoffed.

…

…

…

“Aventurine?” Sunday’s tone deepened, almost falling into pure madness. “The Sigonian from the IPC?”

“…Yes, sir.” You weakly nodded again, finally finding some courage to open your eyes and look up to him.

“You’ve been going out with him?” Sunday’s tie wasn’t tucked under his white tuxedo anymore, and he was barely blinking his widened eyes.

“I believe you’re crossing a line of privacy, sir. I won’t be answering that.” You felt blood rush to your cheeks as you remembered your last date with the gambler, specifically when the baby was being made, speaking a little bit more annoyed.

“Why? He didn’t assault you or anything of the sort, did he, dear?” Sunday’s hands crossed around each other.

“No, sir.” Your tone went back to its previous shy one.

Sunday’s eyes finally dropped and stopped violently staring at you, looking around in confusion as he breathed in and out harshly. It did help you and your body to calm down, though.

“You know you can always trust me if there’s any danger going on in your life, right?” Sunday looked at you again with curiosity, which made your body stiffen again.

“Absolutely, sir.” You nodded more confidently. That statement reassured you about your previous thoughts about Sunday.

He really isn’t that bold. He never was. Today was just a minimal and reasonable exception.

“Good.” Sunday’s eyes got distracted again as he thought about all the facts that have been told, and you decided to contribute with your own silence.

…

…

…

…

…

“You know what? I must apologize to you, dear. What kind of man treats a pregnant lady like this? Only some uneducated punk… It was very childish of me, Y/N, I’m truly sorry.” Sunday suddenly relaxed in a blink, his hands going behind his back as usual while a cute grin took over his lips again as if he hadn’t almost gone mad in front of you.

After all, self-control is a really important aspect in this sort of job.

“No, it’s ok… I understand. I would be very worried too if I found out my secretary suddenly got pregnant.” Sunday hummed a giggle at your comment as you shrugged your shoulders.

“Go home, dear.” Sunday walked to you again, his hands landing on both your shoulders. “Go take a good rest. I’ve made you work enough this week.” His thumbs gently brushed your skin like wet porcelain, even raising them a few times to push some strands of your hair behind your ear.

“You’re… you’re not mad?” Deep down, you found his sudden change of behavior weird, and you weren’t exactly comfortable with it.

“Mad? Why would I be mad at you, dear? I trust you to make a smart choice about this.” And now that you were closely staring at his fine face, that smile, no matter how warm it was, it seemed to be betraying whatever was going through his mind. “Make sure to keep your commitment with the Family in mind, ok?” Sunday suddenly leaned his face to the right side of your face, his mouth hanging inches away from your ear as his voice suddenly turned serious.

“Of course, boss.” You nodded to Sunday, who patted your head in appreciation for a few seconds before finally letting you go.

.

SLAM!

All the human bodies in the casino were attracted by the loud bang of the double doors being against the walls as they were brutally pushed open, whispers beginning to accumulate onto each other as they realized it was Sunday Oak who walked in.

“Is that Sunday Oak?”

“I thought he condemned gambling…”

“What is he doing here?”

“Sunday Oak?”

“Should I ask for an autograph?”

“Isn’t he Robin’s older brother?”

Sunday couldn’t care less about any of those comments or the glances landing on him as he walked inside the flashy halls of the casino. He was entirely interested and focused on his hunt, and his hunt only.

After all, it didn’t take him more than 5 seconds to identify what he was searching for.

Aventurine.

The slim, blonde man sitting down lazily on a chair with spread legs and a pack of cards in his hands, accompanied by two other men playing with him, sitting in the opposite corners of the table, all of them shaping the form of a triangle where Aventurine was directly facing Sunday. The table was full of cards and chips thrown around it, even a few real credits too, showing that they weren’t just playing casually, and three cups of alcohol being the only objects standing still.

“Ah, the Head of the Family himself, Sunday Oak! What an honor it is to have you in my casino! What brings you here tonight?” The gambler put his cards facing down in the table to open his arms to Sunday in a warm greeting.

His purple eyes still managed to shine through the dark pair of sunglasses he was wearing and the whole dark ambient around them.

But Sunday’s murderous face didn’t appease a bit with his warm greeting.

“Leave.” He glanced down at the two other gamblers, who simply shared confused looks with each other and Aventurine when they heard his order. “NOW!” Both men immediately flinched upwards hearing his scream, fleeing from their seats as if they were fleeing for their lives.

After all, who would be insane enough to challenge the Head of the Family?

As soon as the steps of the coward men started to become faint murmurs in the ambient, Aventurine finally started taking advantage of their privacy to speak again.

“See… when I say that you’re always welcome in here, Mr. Oak, that doesn’t necessarily mean you have the right to interrupt any of the games—”

“You got Y/N pregnant..?!” Aventurine’s smirk grew as he realized what was Sunday’s objective in his casino and how angry he was due to it, even if he had been interrupted.

“Ah… so you’ve heard the news…” Aventurine proceeded to grab the glass of liquor sitting closest to him and took a sip of it. “It is also an honor to have being the first person to congratulate me…”

“Congratulate you..?” Sunday’s eyes widened in audacity at his words. “Congratulate you?! For what? For making such an absurdly irresponsible decision?!” Sunday finally dragged one of the empty chairs closer to him and sat himself down at on it, both his hands slamming the table while Aventurine simply mired down at the liquor in the glass. “You’re a gambler, and you’re completely addicted to it! What is wrong with you?! What kind of man sustains his family by gambling?!” Aventurine couldn’t help but scoff at his words as his eyes finally looked up to meet his again, starting a war of eye contact.

“Oh, please, we both know that you’re not mad at the fact that I’m a gambler about to become a father.” The gambler finally placed the glass back to the table, his arms crossing as he leaned against the chair.

Sunday refused to answer him although both men had a lot of privacy to discuss such an intimate topic.

“You’re mad that it’s not going to be a beautiful and cute Halovian baby growing inside her with cute little wings on his head and a shiny golden halo that will grow to be the Family’s next prodigy..! And instead, it’s going to be a little Sigonian trash with cursed fortune.” Aventurine used his hands to point at Sunday’s features and his owns, but it didn’t trigger Sunday to answer him, despite his boiling annoyance. “Not that? No? Then it might be that… you’re mad at the fact that it wasn’t you who made the path inside her womb first?” Aventurine uncrossed him arms and set them on table while leaning his body a little closer to his to challenge him, finally causing Sunday to slightly snap.

After all, an obsessed man like him could not handle the imagination of his perfect pure darling being bred by the man who directly competes with him for her, all twirled around his figure and showing him your nudity.

“You little shit…” Sunday fisted his own hands as his eyebrows to frown in the table’s cloth as he tried avoiding those sinful thoughts.

“Me?” Aventurine’s eyes widened with Sunday’s hypocrisy. “Imagine you’re constantly trying to hang out with this marvelous, jaw-dropping and inspiring woman, but she’s always rejecting you because she was either working in a Saturday night, or too exhausted from it on Sunday, hum? You feeling me now?” Aventurine tried waiting for an answer, but Sunday refused to let himself downgrade to the gambler’s level and backed down again. “I think I should actually thank you for making her exhausted and home-alone during her precious weekends. You’ve surely left that woman touch-starved, and I certainly took advantage of that whenever I insisted in visiting her in her home… She’s actually extra tight when she’s stressed.” Aventurine winked at him, intentionally ignoring Sunday’s unblinking, widening eyes. “Just to think about my cock suffocating inside that tiiight pussy of hers while she begs for me to keep ravishing it nonstop makes me so hard…” Aventurine was rubbing his legs together under the table to avoid his slight erection to grow any further under his pants while his cheeks slightly reddened.

“You hell-sent maniac…” That was all Sunday could mumble without exploding. “Do you even listen to yourself? Is this the poor vocabulary that poor kid would learn from their father? You have absolutely no conditions of being a father. I know it, you know it, Y/N knows it. Do you have any idea how worried she was when she was talking to me about this mess? Do you think she’d be that worried about it if I was the father of her child, hum? Do you think she’s happy to be pregnant of you?” Sunday finally decided to take some dominance in the conversation and leaned closer to Aventurine.

“Do you think she’d be any happier to pregnant of you, Mr. Oak? Her manipulative boss that takes advantage of her every free second to keep her revolving around you, yet, refuses to take a single step forward with your relationship with her and keeps edging her pleasure in you?” Aventurine sounded a little angrier as he described Y/N’s work ambient.

“You know nothing about me and Y/N…” Sunday hissed at him. Deep down he knew he had a fair point and that he had to change his relationship with her if he wanted to conquer her heart.

“Well, I certainly know all of this would’ve probably been avoided if you weren’t the coward that you are, and asked her out before I did. Now, even if you did manage to make her fall in love with you and make her your wife, you’d never be able to get rid of the shape of her insides, forever prepared to receive me inside her instead of you because she knows who introduced her the magic of paradisiacal pleasure.” Aventurine twirled his fingers together and set his chin on top of them, his face proudly hanging on it.

“You do realize Y/N is most likely going to abort that cursed baby, right?” Sunday finally found an opportunity to counter Aventurine, smirking in victory after all those sexual comments of you Aventurine has been doing to frustrate him.

“Good for her.” Aventurine shrugged his shoulders, dumbfounding Sunday, who allowed his smirk to die for a moment.

Sunday didn’t understand. Wasn’t he cheerful about her pregnancy? Wasn’t he happy about claiming her womb first and making her a mother before him? Wasn’t he initially arguing with Sunday about being a father?

“You’re just bluffing. I know you’re disappointed.” Sunday brought his grin back before Aventurine could take dominance again, trying to convince him to let that guilt out of his mind.

“I don’t think you’ve understood it yet, Mr. Oak… I don’t intend to be a father. Never intended to be.” Aventurine spoke with a straight face, very relaxed as he confessed his feelings, unlike Sunday.

“I beg your pardon?” Finally, Sunday felt challenged again, so his smirk died again and never rose again.

“Sure, it would be disappointing if she did decide to abort the baby. After all, the idea of repopulating my clan back to this world sounds good to me… but I got her pregnant simply because I want to get her away from you, and that pregnancy is going to force her to take a break from you, and maybe eternally. I already heard you did let her go home today, so it’s already working! Thank you, Mr. Oak!” Sunday was entirely speechless at Aventurine’s confession, not a single full phrase managing to form in his head as the gambler paused again to take another sip of his liquor.

And Sunday knew he had more to add onto that confession, seeing how he swallowed the liquor quickly.

“It surprised me how all it takes to impregnate a woman is a single little puncture in a condom… Make sure to double-check your condoms before sex, Sunday! Protection isn’t a joke!” Sunday couldn’t believe all he had to add to his confession was a joke.

“You..! You did it on purpose?!” Sunday hissed as if he wanted to squeeze the gambler’s head until it crushed into a gory mess.

“Congratulations, Mr. Oak! We can finally have a man-to-man conversation!” Aventurine threw his hands in the air cheerfully as if he was celebrating his birthday.

“Do you have shit in your head instead of a functional brain?! Do you realize you’re putting the life of a child on stake and even her trust on you?! You’re a monster! You had no right to fool Y/N like that!” Sunday was finally finding out how little power of you he had on his hands, his anger finally spilling from its chamber.

“Oh? But you have the right to keep overworking her with the stupidest tasks ever? Making her bring you breakfast and lunch from the cafe with the stupidest exigences ever?! Like ‘No veggies, only keep the onions’, ‘Diet raspberry juice’ and ‘Strawberry cupcakes for desert with no sprinkles or extra frosting’? To make her rearrange your whole calendar for the month because you suddenly have a doctor’s appointment in the middle of month? Knowing she’s not intelligent or bossy enough to tell you’re just taking advantage of her position and her trust on you? That you’re a very busy man and genuinely can’t deal with fucking calendars on your own?” Aventurine also dropped his smirk, speaking in a more angered one as well.

“It’s her job, and I’m her boss. And don’t you worry about it because Y/N gets some good money for all her hard work and she loves me for it.” Sunday defended himself a little proudly. It was a good reason to keep her busy with him.

“And I’m just a great fucking friend! See? We’re both playing dirty here…” Aventurine giggled at his own pun, which made Sunday’s wings to twitch.

“Don’t imagine it… Don’t picture it…” Sunday thought to himself, and Aventurine took advantage of his silence.

“And, think about it, what is the worth in all the money you apparently give her if she can’t find herself some time to spend it because her boss can’t let her enjoy her weekends, hum?” Aventurine crossed his arms, settling them on the table to keep himself still leaning close to Sunday’s face.

“As soon as I get you out of my way, I’ll make sure she’ll have a lot of time to enjoy her life with me as her company.” Sunday threatened him with a mean smirk in his face, finding joy in Aventurine’s struggle.

“I don’t think you’ve realized it yet, Sunday. Y/N is already mine. All, all mine. She’s been mine for a long time now and will always be mine. Your little tricks to imprison her with you are clever, but you know how gambling with me works. I’ll always find my way out of risk and become the winner. And if Y/N is clever enough to remember this little fact, you might face a serious danger of her deciding to keep the baby.” Aventurine’s irises were trembling with excitement and hatred for Sunday as he talked about his possession over you.

“We both know she won’t.” Sunday hissed, still keeping his smirk, although he was doing a great effort to not punch the gambler’s face.

“How do you know, hum? Y/N is the kindest soul in this planet! I don’t think she’d opt to interrupt that growing life inside her so easily like you think. Maybe she’ll start sympathizing with it and decide to accept the duty of raising it with me as the father and provider. And if that happens, what are you going to do, huh? Shove your hand inside her womb and abort the baby yourself? You can’t do anything!” Aventurine cackled at the thought of Sunday trying to get rid of the baby inside you or convincing you to do it and pathetically being defeated.

“Maybe I’ll fire her. I can’t afford to have a secretary who’s going to birth a disgusting Avgin nor can she afford her life without the salary I give her… It’s a fair trade!” Sunday threatened enthusiastically, although in his mind he knew he’d never do that to you.

“Oh, really? And make her hate you forever? What a stupid way to give me the opportunity to finally imprison her with me, Sunday! Maybe she’ll learn how great it is to have me as her sugar daddy…” Aventurine threw himself in the chair and I’m his arms in the arm as if he was receiving a gift from Sunday.

“Or maybe I’ll take the matter to my own hands and marry her with me before you. And trust me, gambler, I’ll make sure you have the lowest share of custody, or maybe even none. I’m the head of the Family Oak. I own this whole planet in the palm of my hand.” Sunday also rose his hands in the air and inflated his chest, trying to demonstrate the size of the power he owns.

“Yet, you can’t stop the woman you love from fucking with other men.” Aventurine hummed some giggles while Sunday had to stop himself again to impede his brain from picturing that scenario. “I would rather die than let a baby of my blood to be raised by you. To be raised like a mere annoyance in the house… forever incapable of making his daddy proud of him because he’s not his real son… destined to be overshadowed by his future siblings… Both Y/N and the baby would be happier to have me taking care of them instead of you.” Aventurine’s tone deepened again, his arms lowering sown to his knees and gripping them to control himself.

“I will not lose Y/N to you, gambler. I don’t care if that baby would not be the happiest one in the world. I refuse to let you have her for another single minute of your life with those dirty hands of yours.” Sunday spat his prejudice for the gambler with no remorse.

“Oh-ho? Are you afraid I’m a better womanizer than you, Mr. Head of the Family? That my ‘dirty hands’ are capable to make Y/N moan my name in a volume you’ll never be able to get out of her?” Aventurine stared at the deepest corners of Sunday’s eyes.

“Quiet.” Sunday hissed barely above a whisper.

“That my fingers will penetrate that wet pussy of hers while I devour her throbbing clit with my dirty Avgin mouth? Oh, yeah, I’ve already done that!” Aventurine brought a hand closer to Sunday, only to thrust the air with his ring-finger and middle-finger a few times, pretending it was your pussy.

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” Sunday made sure to pronounce every syllable of his order slowly, exciting Aventurine to keep teasing him even further.

Sunday’s cheeks were reddening with arousal as he couldn’t hold back the few pictures his brain illustrated for him of Y/N’s naked body being touched by Aventurine, meanwhile the gambler moved his hands to his body and started brushing his own body in a suggestive way.

“Ohh~… Aventurine..! You feel sooo good around me~… Oh, right there..! Fuck me right there, Aven..!” Sunday’s fingers gripped on the table’s cloth as if that was the only thing keeping him from having a boner on his own, trying to force himself to focus on the gambler’s threat rather than his pathetic teasing. “Ah, yes~! Touch me, Aventurine! Touch me!” Aventurine put his own palms on his own breasts and gently fondled them, which made Sunday feel so disgusted he slightly backed away from the pervert in front of him.

“Do you seriously think acting like this is going to annoy me?” Sunday bluffed, betraying his own mindset. “I must thank you for the spoilers, though.” He shrugged his shoulders, pretending there wasn’t a noticeable tent growing in his pants.

“See? Even you recognize you’ll never be her first in anything because I’ve been there first!” Aventurine dropped his act, jumping back to the table, leaning over to challenge Sunday with a creepy expression and a proud smile. “Every Saturday night, when you decided to send her a ‘Goodnight’ message and ask how she was doing, I was already pining her down on her own bed and taming her pussy.” Sunday’s mind was unfortunately too attracted to that scenario, forcing himself to think about it.

Thinking about your insides being stretched by the gambler, your breasts fondled by the gambler, your pretty moans being listened by the gambler, your mouth kissing the gambler, your clothes being taken off by the gambler…

All by that stupid gambler, and not him.

“Focus, Sunday. Focus. Focus on the gambler.” Sunday thought to himself.

“Sometimes I even answered you for her, y’know? Sending you a ‘Goodnight’ with cute a heart sticker, pretending to be your dear woman while the real one was gagging on my cock.” Sunday’s eyes widened as he heard that disgusting confession.

Every time you talked to him at nighttime, Sunday would think about what were you possibly doing while texting him. Maybe you were changing yourself into your pijamas, specifically a beautiful nightgown of his favorite kind. Maybe you were kicking your feet and your cheeks were red because you were talking so intimately with your sweet and handsome boss.

How did you even save his contact as? Most likely ‘Mr. Oak’ or maybe ‘Mr. Sunday’ because of your professional relationship with him, but maybe it is something more friendly like ‘Sunday’ or ‘Sunday ❤️’.

But now all those fantasies that made fall in love with you even harder, were crushed by the gambler’s words, and he was really hoping the man was just bluffing to annoy him.

“You disgusting piece of crap..! You had no right to do that!” He hissed as his mind pictured more and more dirty illustrations.

“Seeing you smirk at me every time I passed her to you, thinking you were in charge of her and that I was losing precious time with her, made me want to laugh. Poor you..! You had absolutely no idea! You could’ve died without knowing!” Aventurine started cackling as he saw Sunday’s destroyed ego.

Sunday couldn’t believe it either. The gambler was right, and he did not plan on ever admitting it. To think that he has been interpreting you so wrongly all along and that that Aventurine was taking advantage of his foolishness was making him ache in need for revenge.

It was embarrassing to see a man of his level of money, power and intelligence to commit such a rookie mistake, of letting your weekends free of his obsessiveness and stalking, and find himself in the edge of losing to someone so weaker than him.

But Aventurine didn’t notice Sunday’s breathing becoming louder and louder.

“That’s why I had to show you the truth. To show you who is truly in the lead.” Aventurine unexpectedly leaned closer to Sunday until he was a few centimeters away from his right ear, invading his personal space. “That’s why I made a little hole in my condom before going to her home and ejaculated a lot of sperm inside that pussy when we were having sex. Thousands of my little spermatozoids… finding a way out of that rubber barrier and swimming their way inside her womb, claiming ‘your’ territory…” Sunday shit his eyes, trying to control his painfully quick heartbeats while Aventurine kept enjoying the mental torture. “And trust me, Sunday, despite her not knowing what I had planned for her, she was the one that kept begging for me to keep fucking her and to cum inside her again. Not a single cell of her body wants you—” Sunday unexpectedly unchained himself from the chair, violently grabbing Aventurine’s collar by his green uniform and fisting his knuckles across his cheek.

Sunday just couldn’t deal with his own imaginations anymore.

It hurt him to imagine you not desiring for him to touch you that way. The same way you’ve allowing the gambler to do. It couldn’t be true. He knew he could make you feel as good as the gambler did. All that he was missing was courage to ask you out. To think of Aventurine having the privilege to watch you during sex, giggling about Sunday’s obnoxiousness. To think of the gambler fucking you right in front of him, conquering your heart, and you enjoying it rather than asking him to stop and to saves by Sunday.

Even if it was just a dark fantasy. A horror one. One that would never come to be true, if it depended on you at least, he smacked Aventurine’s face as if he wanted to avoid that possibility as much as he could. He did not want that scum making someone like you fall in love with it anymore.

Although the punch itself wasn’t hard enough to make Aventurine drop his smirk, it was surely made him roll down from the table and vulnerably land on the floor along with a few cards, chips and one of the wine glasses, that broke as soon as it touched the ground, and Sunday throwing himself on top of him.

“YOU WRETCHED DOG!” Sunday kept attempting to spank Aventurine, who allowed himself to receive every single punch like a masochist while laughing at how Sunday snapped. “YOU HAD NO RIGHTS TO DO THAT TO Y/N!” Everyone in the casino already had their bodies turned to both men, some had even stood up to have a better view of the scene going on, all the whispers accumulating onto each other again.

“What’s going on?!”

“Are they fighting?!”

“Why are they fighting?!”

“Did Sunday Oak lose a bet?!”

“Who is Y/N?”

“They know each other?!”

“Punching me… won’t undo what has been done, Sunday! She’s pregnant! 100% pregnant!” Finally, Aventurine got bored of Sunday’s amateur boxing and rose his hands from the floor, clutched them around Sunday’s cranial wings, squeezing them hard to almost break its bones, and launched his forehead against Sunday’s.

“Who is pregnant?”

“This Y/N person is pregnant?”

“For God’s sake, who’s Y/N?!”

Sunday moaned loud in pain, accidentally weakening his weight on top of Aventurine, who quickly pushed him away from the top and reverted the positions.

“She’s mine… all mine!” Despite the few blood drops running down his nostrils and red marks in his cheeks, Aventurine kept smirking as if he was having the biggest thrill of his life. “And I’ll make sure to keep impregnating her every time I need to remember you who is in the lead! Over and over again!” Aventurine made sure to whisper his words about you and guarantee that nobody would gossip about their conflict, or at least gossip it with all the context behind it.

Aventurine’s punches were way more painful compared to Sunday’s, which was causing him to become so pained and desperate that he couldn’t even react to it, nor hold the gambler back. He doesn’t really tell people that he’s quite stronger than he looks. Although his slim body and smaller height sell the contrary image, all the years he spent being a slave strengthened his muscles forever, unlike Sunday, who has never quite invested in giving himself a buffer body. And the many rings hanging in his fingers, made of multiple gems, were making it only worse.

Sunday started to panic. So many people were witnessing the worst side of him, the Head of the Family, the representative of their planet, being in a casino and initiating a fight on it, one that he was also pathetically losing. After he’s given so many speeches about the importance of peace and the abolishment of violence, he was the first one to opt for violence when the stakes of a fight got too high? Even if he found a way to avoid the situation to escape everyone’s mouth, it still wouldn’t hide the multiple bruises in his face, and that would immediately denounce that he got involved in a fight, whether being who started it or not. Injuries like hematomas and cuts can take weeks to fully heal depending on their depth. How would he hide that from his public? His dear little sister? Gopher? Or… you?

“Oh, fuck.” Sunday thought.

Had he just made a bad decision? Had he embraced his instincts rather than his critical thinking?

He couldn’t let himself lose his reputation or influence so easily. He’d be willing to beg for Aventurine’s mercy as long as his face remained intact. So, that’s why he did his best to turn his face to the side while his arms and cranial wings crossed on top of it to create a barrier between him and Aventurine.

“What is it, birdie? Are you scared?! Come on, punch me again, I dare you!” Aventurine teased as he started digging his hands under his protection and undo it.

But Sunday was way more focused on the miracle laying in the floor by his side. The cup that had previously fallen in the floor and was ignored by them had broken into many big shards of glass, all beautifully laying down by his side and going unnoticed by the gambler.

How fun would it be to stab the foul gambler?

One of Sunday’s arms slowly reached out to the glass, but it wasn’t long enough to grab it, his fingers slightly touching the pointy tip of the glass. And unfortunately, a single arm on its own wasn’t enough to impede Aventurine from breaking through his barrier and curl his both hands around his neck.

“Bye-bye, Mr. Oak…” Aventurine’s eyes only widened in pure joy the more he suffocated Sunday’s throat.

Sunday grunted and gasped, trying to salvage the remaining oxygen in his body while his single hand kept helplessly trying to fight him back and pull at least one of Aventurine’s arms away of his neck.

Aventurine was so invested in his own sadism, watching Sunday’s face contort and crumble, that he still didn’t realize what was his other arm doing, slowly pulling the glass closer to his palm bit by bit.

And when Sunday’s fingers were finally able to pull that piece of glass close enough to him, with a swift movement, Sunday was finally able to—

“ENOUGH!” Aventurine was suddenly pushed away from Sunday by a security guard, immediately making Sunday’s lungs fill themselves with the oxygen he had lost while the glass stabbed nothing but the air.

And with the assistance of incoming men, Aventurine was quickly struck on the floor with his belly turned down and his hand locked together behind his back.

“Smart move, birdie! But, don’t you see..? You don’t stand a chance against my luck!” Aventurine cackled while he was momentarily being cuffed while Sunday was still recovering from the murder attempt.

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU!” Sunday couldn’t stand seeing that smirky face of his anymore and quickly stood up again, getting up on his feet again just to launch himself on the gambler again, the shard of glass already prepared to stab him.

But Sunday was immediately held back by even more guards that arrived in the scene, every muscle of his arms being held back while his legs desperately kicked the air.

“N-No!” He grunted in agony while one of the guards that cuffed Aventurine begun moving to Sunday and undoing his grip on the shard, pulling it away from him after a few seconds.

Aventurine kept cackling at the scene he watching, loving to see Sunday losing all his power and dignity in front of so many people.

“I PROMISE YOU I’M GONNA KILL YOU WITH MY OWN HANDS ONE DAY, YOU MANIAC!” Sunday spat his violent threat while still trying to launch himself towards Aventurine.

“Lets settle the bet, then! Whoever kills each other first gets to keep Y/N forever! Fair trade, ain’t it?” The gambler rose his head to talk to Sunday more confidently.

“AND I’LL MAKE SURE YOUR DIRTY CLAN WILL BE ERASED FROM HISTORY!” Slowly, both men were dragged afar away from each other, Aventurine being set in a sofa while Sunday was kicked out of the casino, rolling down a few staircases before finally finding himself wormed on the floor.

“Oh, wanna raise the stakes?! If I’m the one who kills you, then… your little sister will be punished too~…” Sunday fumed in anger as he thought of the murder of his little sister.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE PUT ROBIN INTO THIS, YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Aventurine rolled his eyes in boredom with Sunday denying to raise the stakes of their bet.

“Get him out of my sight.” Aventurine looked at the guards and spoke more seriously, a smirk still displayed in his lips.

Sunday gasped when he begun being pulled away from his prey.

“YOU’RE DEAD, GAMBLER! DEAD!” Sunday made sure to state his final words before he was thrown in the streets.

Sunday rolled a few stairs down, ruining the perfect white color of his suit, but unfortunately he couldn’t stop to relax, ease the pain and fix himself because of the people that could be around him. So, he quickly got up from the floor and fled to a narrow corner between two tall buildings, surrounded by dark and trash and isolated him from anyone’s sight.

Meanwhile he fixed his suit, hair and face, while calling a cab to pick him up, Sunday kept insulting the gambler and even himself.

Sunday knew he should’ve asked you out long before all this situation, but he didn’t believe he had to do it since he didn’t think Aventurine’s competition was that dangerous. So, he preferred to wait until he believed you and him had developed a better friendship, and possibly sparked you to like him more than as a friend, a colleague or a boss.

But now, the race for your hand in marriage has started and Sunday is ready to cheat to win.

It doesn’t matter if he suffocates you with work.

It doesn’t matter if he has to kill Aventurine or the baby.

It doesn’t matter if he’ll not raise the baby without a lot of love and care.

It doesn’t even mattter if you don’t want to marry him in the first place.

He’ll win this bet.

Taglist: @komelliko @gaboplaydespacito

Don’t forget to like and comment if you liked it! <3

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Introducing…The Yandere Secretary…Student Council

Gill Hunter, the stoic beauty of the student council, is known for his unbothered disposition and unrelenting devotion to his boyfriend: the historian. Only known to smile when nuzzling against his boyfriend’s blonde head of hair, the student body regards him as an untouchable beauty. Something to look at but never to pursue. 

So imagine their surprise when he interrupts the class looking for someone in particular.

“(Y/n) (L/n). Come.”

He’s not one for social graces or beating around the bush in any capacity. He loves you. Like a lot. But unfortunately his beloved, playful as ever, has challenged him to keep his affections quiet for now, saying ‘It’ll be more entertaining this way!’ Ultimately it falls to him to lure you into their clutches which so happens to be Student Council. Which works perfectly. 

"If you want the stamp, you'll do what I say. Thursday at 12:00 be here."

Now you might make the claim that no one has had to work this hard to get a schedule change. But when he looks at you straight-faced and silent you gather pretty quickly you’re being ignored. More like the topic itself. 

This is the way he deals with a lot of things others don’t like. Complaints about a lack of effort? Ignored. Confusion over his general silence? Ignored. Your suspicions about his involvement in the missing student's case? Ignored.  

"Gill this isn't funny! You have to tell me, if you know anything okay?"

"..."

"Seriously?! You're not going to say anything?"

"..."

"Fine. Then I guess we can talk about something else then."

"What did you think of the lunch I made for you?"

It irritates a lot of people, it’ll probably irritate you but he’s found that most will make their own conclusions by simply not reacting. Of course, it's a matter of understanding his actions more than his words, which you’ll get pretty decent at with how much time you’ll be spending around him. 

But no one knows him as well as June….so if there’s anyone to speak to about interpreting Gill best it’d be The Historian. 

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Cop More than a Feel

Kinktober Day 10: Spitroasting Two DILF Cop Alpha Yanderes x Gender Neutral Omega Reader CW: Noncon, omega discrimination, bigotry, a/b/o dynamics, musk, pheromones, abuse of authority, spitroasting, oral sex, threesome, knotting, general yandere behavior, reader fucked big stupid Word Count: 2k (Hope you guys enjoy this!)

You were in your car, a quiet moment of dread before going into work. It had become something of a daily tradition. You knew it would be another day of being belittled and harassed but if you gave up now it would be like admitting to all the people who told you you couldn’t amount to anything that they were right. You were an omega who had put themselves through the rigorous training to be a police officer, and you had managed to land a job in a short staffed department.

But no matter what you did or how many times you had proved yourself, you were still treated as a glorified secretary. The most dangerous thing you had ever been allowed to do was to go and get doughnuts and coffee by yourself.

It was humiliating. But it was not the worst thing that you had to put up with.

The worst of it were the snide remarks you could hear them make. Not even out of earshot, they didn't care if you heard. Awful comments about how you should be happy to even be a secretary around this kind of work. Comments about whose knot you should wind up bouncing on. Comments about what they thought your pheromones were like without your suppressants making them nearly undetectable. Comments about what your slick tasted like.

Those remarks made you angry, frustrated, and depressed. You wanted to scream and cry, but neither of those were options, lest you validate the emotional omega stereotype. It was pure gaslighting. But as ugly and bigoted as those remarks had been, they still weren't the end of things. It wasn't uncommon for a wandering hand to slide up your thigh when you had to sit by one of the alpha officers or grab your ass when you bent over.

The only time they didn't make any crude comments or get touchy with you were the times when the chief of police or the captain were around. You thought this was a hopeful sign that some of your superiors were open to the idea of an omega on the force and that they had told your other coworkers to treat you as an equal. At the very least, their commanding presence brought you some relief. They were ex-military, after all. This was not a just world, though, and you could not have been more wrong.

When you eventually mustered up the mental fortitude and could avoid it no longer, you went into the building.

For the most part, it was a standard and uneventful day, or at least what could be considered uneventful relative to what you normally suffered through. There were still comments and lecherous hands. Just not to the extent that there could have been. Though your day was fated to get much worse as right after lunch you were called into the chief's office.

Were you finally going to be given a chance to do some real police work?

No.

You entered to find both Chief Markey and Captain Nelson were present, and for some reason, the desk had been cleared. They did not look happy at all. It was a surprise performance review. This was not the first review that you had failed, but it was the one they were most negative with.

They said that while you clearly wanted to succeed and put in effort that it simply wasn't good enough. You were constantly jumpy and distracted, on edge constantly. Not to mention emotional. No major outbursts per se, but you were constantly glaring at your fellow coworkers. You tried to point out that your behavior reflected a hostile work environment.

Chief Markey raised his voice as he replied while Captain Nelson smirked.

"That proves you aren't meant for this job, you cannot even take responsibility for your own mistakes! Furthermore..."

He then went into great detail about how you made the men uncomfortable and then laid out accusations of you purposefully putting pheromones out to seduce or entice your fellow officers. Combined with your glaring, it was basically sexual harassment.

"This is insane! They get to grope and comment about me, but if I complain, it is my responsibility? But they get to just make up random bullshit about me, and I get admonished without proof!?"

"Calm down!"

"Yeah, you're being hysterical! Proving everyone completely right. It is obvious an omega can't be an officer."

Chief Markey scratched his well-groomed beard before smirking.

"But we have thought up a position for you..."

The position they had thought of was any that involved taking their knots.

Apparently, they were completely obsessed with you. A strong omega that would produce healthy babies, so resilient. But your place was riding one of their cocks, not in a dangerous job. It's why the other officers stopped harassing you when they were around. Markey and Nelson had marked you as theirs. They didn't like the others touching you, but thought it was a useful way to get you to break down, so they had an excuse to give you bad evaluations. Of course, they knew such a prideful omega would never just go along with being "reassigned," so they made sure you couldn't refuse.

They said that they'd plant evidence on you, get you fired from any new job, and track you down to the ends of the earth. No matter what, they'd ruin your life if you didn't submit.

"But don't worry, we'll let you wear the uniform and even keep the word "officer" in your title."

Nelson stroked your cheek and wiped away your tears with a rugged calloused hand.

"Yeah, you'll be our personal morale officer and take our knots every day when not working as our personal secretary."

Markey closed the blinds that hung in front of the large windows that overlooked the rest of the department and then locked the door.

"And look on the bright side. None of the other officers will give you any trouble after this."

You wanted to scream, to fight back, to run. Do anything, but take it. But that was all you could do. Well, that and cry. They had finally won. Captain Nelson wiped away your tears and pressed his lips to yours as you held back ugly sobs.

"Typical omega, so emotional. You'll feel better after you've had some good breeding."

Chief Markey made his way behind you and attended to the task of removing your uniform.

"No... no ple-"

You had started to protest somewhat loudly but were cut off by more unwanted kisses before Nelson spoke smugly.

"Now. Now. Don't want to protest too loudly and have all your coworkers hear, do you?"

You were shivering in fear.

"Don't be scared, it will all be over soon."

Markey rubbed a teasing finger around your hole.

"Oh, you're much too dry."

"We can fix that, though."

They each nibbled and gnawed a side of your neck, The Chief from behind and The Captain from the front. Your trembling in fear became involuntary quivers of pleasure.

They could tell the difference. Smell it easily. And then feel it as slick leaked from your hole and onto Markey's fingers. He left your neck to lick his thumb.

"Tastes ripe," he chuckled.

You were in such shock by the circumstances and physical stimulation that you didn't even notice when they had pulled down their pants and underwear, large throbbing cocks on full display and eager to be buried inside of you. One of them pulled out a thick blanket from beneath the desk and spread it out on top of it. They picked you up and laid you down carefully on the desk.

Ah... so that's why the desk had been cleared.

Chief Markey groped your ass while Captain Nelson held his cock in his hand and lightly smacked your face with it, smearing your face with its scent as you tightly closed your eyes. You gasped as Markey dipped his dick into you, your open mouth taken as an invitation for Nelson to slip his prick in. It tasted salty, probably from sweat and the near comical amount of precum he was producing. There was no choice but to swallow it  as he flooded your mouth.

Markey smacked your ass hard, causing you to jolt in surprise.

"Careful! I don't want them to bite my cock!"

"Sorry..."

They started out moving in tandem, Markey's thrusts pushing you onto Nelson's cock and Nelson pushing you onto Markey. But that didn't last as they began to lose themselves and go a bit feral. It only spurred them onward when you started twitching and convulsing in the pleasure that had been forced upon you, betrayed by your own body.

Deep anxiety and dread bubbled within you, but even as it did, another instinctual part of you was demanding that you submit and let your alpha mates breed you deeply. As the small room began to fill with the pheromones of two alphas and their cocks continued to plow into you, you felt your body slowly relax and become pliant to their touch.

You flinched in slight discomfort as Markey's knot swelled inside you and throbbed as he filled you with his cum. Nelson followed suit, filling your throat with his seed, but careful not to knot your mouth and risk choking you. Though that didn't stop you from gagging a bit as his nuts emptied into you.

"Oh, you haven't gotten your release yet... can't have that. What kind of mates would we be if we didn't make you feel good?"

Markey rolled his hips, moving his knot inside you until you convulsed and moaned out softly. Once his knot deflated and unbound the two of you he and Nelson swapped positions until you were brought to climax and knotted by Nelson while Markey made you suck his cock, slick with your mingled juices.

They played with you in a few other positions for over an hour until you were just a limp little sex doll. They took you on the floor, against the wall, on the desk some more, on the chairs. Your hair, face, thighs, crotch, and butt were covered in musky alpha seed. It oozed out of your hole. You were left slouched in the chair and too fucked out of your mind to do anything but mumble and drool. You were the very picture of someone who was utterly debauched.

"So quiet and well behaved. Will definitely pass a new performance review."

"Just proves that omegas need knots and not a high stress job."

To complete your new look were twin claiming bites on each side of your sensitive neck. They wiped you clean as best they could but you still absolutely reeked of cum and musk, though they didn't want their scent removed from you anyway. Nelson clothed you and covered you up with his jacket, feeling that if you were in your right mind, you wouldn't want to be seen in this state. And while he was proud of fucking you into such a stupor, the sight was for his and Markey's eyes only.

To be honest, he hadn't really wanted to share you, even with Markey. But the two of them had been old military buddies, so they decided not to let an omega come between them.

Except for when they literally had you between them.

They had come to the agreement that they would switch who you lived with weekly and share you on weekends. And of course they'd have you at work as their assistant/secretary... and as their cumdump on slow days... Captain Nelson was given the rest of the day off to get you situated and inform you of your happy new homes. You were in no state to take in new information, poor dear, but you'd be better in an hour or so.

[darkbluekies]

Cannot take what was never meant to leave

Yandere!king OC x fem!fairy!reader

Summary: Edmund walks out in the forest and finds something he never seen before: a tree fairy. Upon learning that he can't take her as long as her tree is there, he does the only thing he can think of.

Warnings: Edmund is a bit more insane than usual, reader is in a lot of pain, kidnapping, basically killing, use of an ax

Word count: 2.5k

A/N: this is HEAVILY inspired by Erutan's song "The Willow Maid"!! I have absolutely loved that song for ages, and after seeing PurestarMedia's music video of it on YouTube, I had to write something!! Edmund felt like the perfect fit for it!!

Summer is almost over. He can tell by a slight shift in the winds that colder times are approaching, even though barely any of the trees show any signs of autumn. He can't wait until he can bring out his thicker coat. He likes the colors of it much more.

Ten men he brought with him on his hunt for rabbits. They've decided to go into another part of the forest in hopes of finding anything.

Suddenly. A sound.

“Shh!” Edmund hushes and holds up a hand, signaling the others to stop.

He listens closely. It sounds like humming. It's a tune he has never heard before, but one that feels weirdly familiar — as if he has heard it in a dream or past life.

Quietly, they follow the sound until they reach a field full of small, white flowers. In the middle of the white field stands a tree with dark leaves. A scene taken straight out of one of the paintings hanging on the castle walls. Edmund notices someone sitting by the foot of the tree, resting among the roots. A woman?

The group of men creep closer. The woman is lying on the tree roots, leaning her head against the tree trunk, having a root under her knees for support. She's dressed in a long, white gown reminding Edmund of the small flowers. On her head rests a flower crown made of the very flowers. Her eyes are shut. Her mouth hums. 

A fairy.

One of Edmund’s men steps onto a branch on the floor, which snaps in half and pulls the fairy out of her thoughts. Her eyes snap open, revealing them to be deep and dark — and full of fear. She shoots up from her root and stumbles backwards, hiding behind her tree.

“Who are you?” she asks quickly. “What do you want?”

“You are a fairy”, Edmund says, still in disbelief.

“Yes … what do you want?”

“Have you seen any rabbits around here?”

She peeks out from behind the tree.

“What do you want them?” she asks and seems to notice the rifles hanging over their shoulders. “I'm not assisting you in killing harmless creatures.”

Edmund meets her dark eyes. They're hypnotic.

“You humans are despicable sometimes”, she says. “Killing innocent creatures who haven't done anything to you.”

“If I wouldn't, someone else would — man or animal.”

“I want you to leave.”

“Yeah, we should move on. We have rabbits to hunt.”

He can feel her eyes burn through his back as he walks back over the field of white flowers. He hopes that she will watch him until he disappears into the forest.

“Did you have a good hunt, your majesty?” his secretary asks as Edmund and his ten men come back to the castle.

“Caught a few rabbits”, he answers and smiles, thinking of the memory. “We encountered a fairy.”

They start to walk inside. 

“A fairy?” the secretary asks and holds the door into the castle open for the young king.

“What do you know about fairies?” Edmund asks. 

They walk down the large hall.

“I know that, like humans, there are different types of fairies”, the secretary says. “You found her in the woods, you said?”

Edmund nods. 

“She’s probably a tree fairy”, the secretary continues. 

“Yeah, she was sitting by a tree … almost like it was holding her”, Edmund says, furrowing his dark brows as he thinks about it. 

He holds out his arms as if he was carrying a woman, imagining her knees bending over his right arm and her back supported by his left … her head resting on his shoulder — like she had done to the tree bark. 

They walk into Edmund’s office, closing the door behind them. 

“What do you know about tree fairies?” Edmund asks and throws himself in his chair. 

“I know that they live in the woods and that they are connected to a particular tree. They feed off of sap from the tree and flower nectar — and if their tree bears fruit they eat that too.”

“What happens if they eat something else? Like meat? Or potatoes?”

“I don’t know, your majesty.”

“Would it kill them, do you think?”

“Perhaps. What I do know kills a tree fairy is killing their tree.”

Edmund looks up at him. “What?” 

“Their life source is connected to their tree. They live as long as their tree does.”

“So you’re saying that a fairy can become hundreds of years? Thousands even?”

“Could be.”

“Interesting.” He sighs and throws his head back. “You should have seen that thing. Before she noticed us she looked so … peaceful. She was resting and humming a tune. When she realized that we were there she flew up and hid behind her tree. All of that seemed so young and naive. Her tree wasn’t that large either. I think I’ve found myself a young fairy.”

“The fairy seems to interest you.”

“I’ve always wanted to meet a fairy. I didn’t believe that they actually existed. But now, I’ve found one. I think that I’m going to make her my wife.”

The next day, he returns with his ten men and his secretary, dressed in his autumn coat. On the way to the glade, Edmund picks a few flowers with the biggest nectars he can find, hoping that they will be a good enough gift. He is going to ask her to marry him. 

She is walking around the white flowers, picking up a few and putting them in her flower crown. She looks up as they come. This time she doesn’t look as startled, but there’s something wary in her eyes. 

She’s beautiful and delicate, there’s no denying. Edmund needs her. Every fiber of his body needs her. She needs to be his wife, to be the mother to his children. He refuses to leave without her. 

“What brings you back?” she asks as Edmund gets close enough, but doesn’t sound like she wants to know. 

He can tell that she wants to get back to her tree. She gives it quick glimpses and takes small steps back towards it. 

Edmund holds out the flowers towards her. She hesitates before taking them out of his hand. Her fingertips barely graces his skin. Her touch is humanlike, kind and delicate. 

“Thank you”, she says and smells them softly. 

He smiles. He wants nothing more than to hug her, to hold what belongs to him in his arms, but he has to ask the question first.

“I want you to marry me”, Edmund says. 

The fairy drops the flowers in shock. They disappear underneath the small, white ones. Edmund furrows his brows.

“Marry you?” the fairy repeats, shocked. “How could I possibly-? No, no, I shall not.”

Edmund stares at her, eyes darkening, unable to understand how anyone could turn down his proposal. Women would travel far and wide to hear those words come from his mouth, and this fairy — who does she think she is — doesn’t even think twice before rejecting him. It should crush him, but instead it has the opposite effect. He will not leave without his fairy. 

He looks over his shoulder, at his ten men. “Seize her.”

Just as the ten men are about to grab the fleeing girl, his secretary grabs his shoulder. 

“Your majesty, don’t”, he says quickly. “That won’t be possible. She can’t leave the glade.”

“What do you mean?” Edmund scoffs.

“She’s connected to that tree.” He nods towards the tree in the middle of the field. “She can’t leave it.”

Edmund glares at the tree. That damn tree. The woman runs through the flowers towards her tree, hugging it tightly. Edmund finds it humorous how she thinks a simple tree could protect her. He could do it a hundred times better, will do it a hundred times better. 

He sees how she sinks down by the tree, huddled up by the tree bark, crying. Soon, she will search for comfort in him, not a damn tree. 

“We can’t take her”, the secretary says. “I don’t know what would happen if we tried, but as long as that tree is there, we can’t remove her.”

Edmund doesn’t answer as he walks back into the forest. The ten men follow him. His secretary keeps a distance. Edmund feels like he could explode with anger. He had pictured himself leaving the forest with his new fiance hand in hand. But he will not give up. He will get his fairy. 

He returns a third time the next day. This time he’s by himself … and this time, he’s brought an ax. Determined to take her with him. She will be his wife. This time, he’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer. He will not walk away empty handed. The thought consumes him as he marches through the forest, towards the glade. 

He can see her lying in the same spot he had seen her the first time. This time, she’s not humming. She opens her eyes as he gets nearer and jumps to her feet as her eyes fall on the sharp edge of the ax. 

“No!” she screams in pure panic. “No, what are you doing?! Don’t!”

Edmund lifts his hands and lands a blow on the bark, cutting away a piece. To his right, the fairy screams in agonizing pain and clutches her heart. He continues to hit the tree. The woman continues to scream. She cries in pain. 

It takes longer than he expects. He takes his eyes off the deep cut in the tree and turns them towards her. She’s lying between the roots, curled up with her hands pressed against her heart, crying and screaming. 

“Please stop!” she screams and sobs so that her entire body trembles. “Y-You’ll kill me! Please s-stop, please! I’m begging y-you!”

If he continues to hit the tree, she will die. 

Edmund will have to bring a piece of the tree with him and replant it in his castle’s garden so that it doesn’t die — so that she doesn’t die. He continues to chop. She continues to scream, cry and plead for him to stop. 

A loud creaking echoes through the air. He watches as the tree bends in half and falls. The fairy stumbles upon weak legs and hugs her fallen tree, sobbing. 

With the ax, Edmund manages to dig up root systems of the tree. He holds it in his left hand and grabs the fairy’s wrist tightly with his right. He yanks her up on her feet. 

“You belong to me now”, he says. 

She only sobs for an answer. She tries reaching out for her tree, but Edmund pulls her with him. She stumbles. He drags her into the forest. 

“Please …”, she sobs. “Please …”

He doesn’t know what she begs for. The tree is fallen, he can’t undo what he has done. 

“Please, I’m in so much pain”, she pants. 

He doesn’t listen, doesn’t have time for it. He has to get her to the castle, where he can lock her in, so that she can’t escape out to the forest again. 

He can feel her collapse. Edmund gasps and watches her lie lifeless on the ground. He shoves the tree roots in his pocket and hurries to check her pulse. She’s still living, for now. Edmund stresses to pick her up. Her limp body rests in his arms as he runs out of the forest, towards the castle. 

He runs into the castle yard, into the hallways and out to the garden. He lays the fairy down on the grass and hurried to dig a hole with his hands. Oh, how he hates the feeling of dirt under his nails. He can’t think about that now. 

He places the root in the hole and covers it with the soil. Edmund runs over to the fountain, cups his hands and fills it with water. He runs back and forth until enough water has been poured over it. He feels for a pulse on the fairy’s neck. There’s still a faint pulsation underneath his fingers. He removes his coat and places it on the ground beside the tree root before lifting the fairy onto it. He caresses her face. 

“You actually got her.”

He looks over his shoulder at his secretary. He stands there, looking at them in disbelief and horror. 

“Is she dead?” he asks. 

“No, not yet”, Edmund replies  breathlessly. “I brought a piece of the tree here and I have replanted it. She should survive. But we need flowers — lots of flowers. And anything else a fairy might eat. We need to nurture her back to life.”

“I’ll prepare some honey water, I think that should be drinkable.”

Edmund sits by the fairy, waiting patiently. 

Hours go by. She doesn’t move. Barely breathing. Edmund wonders if he she has fallen into some kind of limbo, where the tree is barely alive, and so is she. If the tree doesn’t survive, neither will she. He has to nurture both. 

He feeds the tree water and nutrient dense soil and tries to pour droplets of honey water into the fairy’s mouth. Sometimes she responds by swallowing softly, and sometimes let it drip out of her mouth. 

Hours turn to days. Days to weeks. As the tree slowly grows roots in Edmund’s soil and become stronger, so does the fairy. Edmund doubts that she will ever become as strong as she was before. The tree will never be in its full glory again, and neither will she. She can’t walk, her body is too weak to move more than a few minutes. He lets her rest by her short stub. When he can’t stay with her, he watches from afar, from one of the windows. She’s always curled up, hugging her stomach as if she’s got cramps. The poor thing never smiles anymore. 

He holds a glass of warm honey water in his hands as he walks out to the petty excuse of a tree. It'll take years to become as big as it originally was, but it will never be the original tree.

“Hi”, Edmund says softly and sits down beside the fairy, holding the cup to her dry lips.

She doesn't seem to care what she gets fed anymore. Maybe she hopes that it will kill her.

In a sense, Edmund has killed the fairy.

She drinks slowly.

“I don't know what to feed you when winter comes”, he says. “I have harvested a lot of nectar and sap, but I don't know how long that will be good for.”

A tear runs down her cheek. Edmund wipes it carefully.

“My fairy, don't worry”, he whispers reassuringly. “I will figure it out.”

He wishes that she could respond, but he hasn't heard her voice since that day she screams in pain — when he killed her.

He stands up, gives her forehead one last kiss before walking back inside. In the beginning, he used to have guards watch over the garden to make sure that she wouldn't run off, but he realized that as long as that tree is there, she isn't going anywhere.

[banj0possum]

OK HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME O-

Yandere knight thats all stoic and stuff but is very open about loving royal!reader

Like this bitch will scold you for leaving his side for 5 minutes, you need to stay near him! Not wander around carelessly!

Hes brutal and ruthless but you bring out that spark of kindness in him

Yan CEO is back on the table, either secretary darling who he denies all feelings for even though he shows a l o t of favoritism towards them or rival ceo darling who he wants to hate but THEYRE SOooOO hOt!!!

Yan emperor and concubine reader? Idk whether i should make him utterly bratty an whiny or zesty✨ like its either “please please please marry me i promise ill give you anything you want plea-“ or the embodiment of the word tease

Yan villain OH MY GOD HES SO SKBDWBJDSNJSB BUT LIKE idk if i want the reader to be a villain as well or a superhero

OHMYGOD ALSO yandere gang x reader where darling finds themself somehow saving a gang of thugs and they instantly fall for them and want to make them their boss, they are on their hands and knees to serve you! You can rule half of the city with them!! Theyre kinda dumb but theyre very very sweet

Also thinking of making a multi yan fic with a neko reader just because <3