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keehomania · 10 months ago

Note

nct jaehyun with big tit reader pls…

JEONG JAEHYUN (정재현) — TWISTED (18+)

✧

the apartment was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic sweep of the mop across the floor. you moved with practiced precision, your hands gliding over every surface with meticulous care. a flick of your wrist here, a light dusting there—small adjustments that hardly seemed worth noting, but they were. every movement had a purpose, even if it was hidden beneath the veneer of tidying up.

the soft afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. you wiped down the windowsill, straightened the framed photo of you and jaehyun on the shelf with a smug glint in your eyes, and smoothed out the creases in the bedsheets. the apartment, as always, was immaculate, the kind of clean that only came from constant upkeep. but today, the cleaning wasn’t really about cleanliness. it was about preparation.

you paused by the desk, fingers brushing over the cool surface. between the neatly arranged pencil holders and stacks of paperwork, you slipped in a small camera, positioning it just right. a subtle angle, nothing too obvious, but enough to capture every corner of the room. a second camera followed, this one hidden in the far corner, tucked away in the shadows where it wouldn’t be noticed. satisfied, you moved on.

under the bed, you placed a voice recorder, pressing it firmly against the wood, ensuring it was out of sight. there was no room for mistakes, not today. finally, a tiny bug nestled into the corner of the room, blending seamlessly with the décor. you stepped back to admire your work, a slight smile tugging at the corners of your lips. everything was in place.

with a slow, deliberate movement, you tightened the belt around your dress, the soft leather pulling snug against your waist. the fabric draped perfectly, as it always did, every detail considered, every piece of you in control. you reached for the bottle of perfume on the vanity, its familiar scent filling the air as you dabbed it on your wrists. not your favorite scent—his. the one that made him lean in just a little closer, his breath catching for just a second longer.

you adjusted the microphone headset over your ears, the cool metal brushing against your skin. a sip of wine followed, the rich, dark liquid swirling in the glass before you took a slow, savoring taste. the tension in your muscles melted away, replaced by something else, something darker. not stress, not weariness, not betrayal. no, none of those things. what filled you now was a quiet thrill, a heat that coiled low in your stomach, simmering beneath the surface.

without a second glance, you made your way downstairs, the soft click of your heels echoing in the hallway. the receptionist barely looked up as you approached, her hand sliding instinctively to the desk drawer. you slipped her a bundle of cash—thick, well-prepared, without a word exchanged. she nodded, her hand moving to unlock the door behind her. you stepped inside the dimly lit security room, the soft hum of the monitors filling the space around you.

you settled into the chair, your fingers tracing the edge of the wine glass as you watched the screens flicker to life. one by one, the angles of the apartment room came into view, each camera displaying its silent feed. and there he was, as you knew he would be. jaehyun, standing in the corner, his body pressed against someone else. a woman, her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms clinging to his back. their lips moved in a frantic, fevered kiss, bodies entwined as if the world outside ceased to exist.

your eyes lingered on the screen, a slow, satisfied smile creeping across your face as you sipped your wine. typical. the scent of your perfume must have hit him, because his movements stilled for just a moment, nostrils flaring as he pulled back from the kiss. but it didn’t matter. even now, with another woman in his arms, your presence haunted him. and that, more than anything, sent a wave of satisfaction through you.

he pressed her harder against the wall, his fingers tangling in her hair, lips grazing her neck. but you didn’t flinch. you didn’t feel the sting of jealousy, didn’t feel your heart shatter at the sight. instead, there was a sick, twisted pleasure in watching him repeat the same motions he did with you. It should have hurt—should have torn you apart—but it didn’t. if anything, it thrilled you.

there was something captivating in watching his desire, watching him pour himself into someone else, knowing full well that no matter how much he took from her, it would never compare to what you gave. he could try, he could chase that feeling, but it would never be the same. not without you. so you let him have his time. let him indulge. and as you sipped your wine, watching the scene unfold before you, you knew that he would always come back. because no one else would ever match what you had.

the security room was dim, the glow of the monitors casting an eerie light over jaehyun’s sharp features. he sat in the worn leather chair, eyes glued to the flickering screens before him. the scent hit him first, thick and sweet like spun sugar, relentless in its sweetness, clinging to every breath he took. your perfume. it was unmistakable, coating the air with a syrupy heaviness that curled around him like a possessive hand. he grunted softly, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair, knuckles whitening as he inhaled deeply, letting the scent overwhelm his senses.

he knew it too well. the fragrance that lingered on your skin after a night out, the same one that would pull him toward you, that made his breath hitch when he buried his face in your neck. but tonight, the thought gnawed at him. was it for him? the way it used to be? or for your lover, the one you disappeared with after slipping out of the apartment when you thought he wasn’t looking?

the lines blurred in his mind, the sharpness between you and him, between you and whoever else had stolen your time, stolen what should have been his. his jaw tightened as he leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing. you had set this up. he knew it the moment he stepped into the room, knew it from the way the cameras were positioned. it was so you—calculated, precise, cruel in a way only he could appreciate. he wanted to hate it, to hate you, but instead, a twisted admiration crawled up his spine. this was your game, and he was only too willing to play.

his eyes roamed over the grainy image as you finally appeared on the screen, your figure unmistakable even through the static. you stepped into view, your dress clinging to your body like it was made for you, and jaehyun’s breath hitched again, the scent of your perfume still assaulting his senses. his hand, almost unconsciously, moved to his lap, the tension in his body easing slightly as he spread his legs wider, trying to alleviate the growing ache. but you weren’t alone.

his teeth grazed his bottom lip as he watched, every muscle in his body going rigid as a man stepped into the frame behind you. tall, unfamiliar, hands that gripped you too familiarly, lips that ghosted over the curve of your neck with an urgency that made jaehyun’s skin prickle. the man’s mouth moved against your skin, bruising and licking, leaving marks that jaehyun knew too well—the kind that staked a claim. his pulse quickened, his body reacting before his mind could catch up, a satisfied hiss slipping from his lips. he hated it, the way he was drawn to the sight of you with someone else. hated the way his body responded, the way his fingers twitched to touch the screen, to feel connected to something—anything—that involved you.

dd it feel the same? did the man know what you liked, the way jaehyun did? the way your breath caught when lips hovered over your collarbone, the way your back arched when fingers tangled in your hair. the possessiveness that burned in his chest was primal, instinctual. you were his, even if the world around him screamed otherwise. and then, just for a second—a fleeting moment that almost slipped past him—you paused. your head tilted, and your eyes, dark and knowing, flicked upward. they locked onto the camera. jaehyun’s breath hitched. you knew.

for a moment too long, your gaze didn’t waver. that smirk—the one he had memorized, the one that had undone him more times than he cared to count—curled at the edges of your lips. you weren’t just aware of him. you were showing him. every movement was deliberate, every arch of your neck as the man kissed your skin, every glance toward the lens, every shift in your posture. it was all for him. the realization hit him with the force of a train. this wasn’t about the man with you. he was just a prop, a tool in your hands to provoke the reaction you wanted.

jaehyun exhaled slowly, the tension in his body turning into something else—something deeper, darker. his lips parted, and he muttered under his breath, barely above a whisper, “that’s my girl.” the words felt raw, scraping against his throat, filled with a kind of pride that he hadn’t realized he still held. you knew him too well. better than anyone. you played him like an instrument, each note of your performance calculated to draw out exactly what you wanted from him. and he couldn’t help but admire it, as twisted as it was.

he leaned back in the chair, legs still spread wide, his hand dragging down his face as he let out a slow, steadying breath. his eyes never left the screen, watching as the man pulled you closer, his hands disappearing into your hair, mouth claiming yours in a kiss that should have made jaehyun see red. but he didn’t. he couldn’t. because in that moment, he knew it didn’t matter. none of them mattered.

the way the man touched you, the way he kissed you, it would never come close to the way jaehyun did. he knew you in ways that no one else ever could. you might share your body with someone else, but your mind, your games—they were all his. you left breadcrumbs, and he followed them willingly, drawn into the labyrinth you’d created. another smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched you, his girl, wrapped in another man’s arms, knowing full well you’d never belong to anyone else but him. he would let you play your game, let you dance with whoever you wanted, but in the end, it would always come back to the two of you.

he adjusted his seat, the sick heat of satisfaction settling deep within him. he couldn’t look away from the screen, even if he wanted to. and why would he? you were performing for him, after all. “knows me so well,” he murmured again, his voice a low, reverent sigh as he let his hand drop to his side. his eyes darkened, pupils dilating as he watched you, watched the man touch you, watched you steal glances at the camera. always for him.

the apartment was quiet again, but this time the silence was different—thicker, charged, as if the air itself was holding its breath. you felt it in the way your pulse raced beneath your skin, in the subtle tremor in your fingers as you stood in the middle of the room. he wasn’t far behind. you could hear him, the soft sound of his footsteps growing louder, closer, until the door clicked open behind you. you didn’t turn around. you didn’t need to. you could feel him watching you, his gaze heavy and possessive, the tension between you winding tighter with every passing second.

jaehyun didn’t say a word as he moved closer, the heat of his body pressing against your back. his hands slid around your waist, fingers grazing your hips before traveling upward, the soft fabric of your dress bunching under his touch. his lips found the side of your neck, the same spot where the man’s had been just hours earlier, but jaehyun’s kiss was rougher, more demanding. he bit down lightly, eliciting a sharp gasp from your lips, and you could feel him smirk against your skin.

“you must’ve seen us, yeah?” your voice was breathless, words slipping out between shallow pants as his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him. he answered with a low, guttural groan, the sound vibrating against your neck as his mouth moved lower, assaulting your skin with hot, open-mouthed kisses. his breath was ragged, uneven, and you felt the hardness of him pressing against the back of your thighs through his boxers, straining against the fabric. the memory of what he had seen—of you with another man—was still fresh in his mind, fueling every touch, every kiss.

jaehyun’s hand slipped under your dress, fingers trailing down to your panties, and without hesitation, he pushed them aside, his fingers finding the wet heat between your legs. his thumb brushed over your clit, slow at first, teasing, before he began to rub in tight circles, his pace quickening as he leaned into your ear. “every bit of it,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “you gave it to him real good, baby.”

a smirk tugged at your lips as you twisted your fingers into his hair, yanking his head back just enough to force him to look at you. his lips were swollen, glistening with spit, and his eyes—those dark, dangerous eyes—were filled with lust and something darker, something unhinged. you’d always loved that look, the way it made your heart pound, the way it made your core ache for him.

without warning, you slapped him hard across the face, the sharp crack of skin against skin reverberating through the room. the force of it left his cheek red, and the sting of your palm lingered in the air. jaehyun’s lips parted in a shocked gasp, his pupils blown wide as the lust in his eyes deepened into something feral. his hand flexed at your waist, and for a moment, you thought he might lose control completely. instead, he groaned, a low, broken sound that made your stomach clench, and you could feel his cock twitch against you, his boxers impossibly tight. “almost like you expected less of me,” you purred, your voice dripping with satisfaction as you traced the red mark on his cheek, watching the way his breath hitched at your touch. you could feel the power shift between you, feel the way his body reacted to your every word, your every movement.

he didn’t respond with words. instead, his hands moved to your shoulders, shoving you back onto the bed with enough force to make the mattress creak. you let out a sharp moan as your body hit the sheets, your back arching as jaehyun climbed on top of you, his weight pressing you down. he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head as his lips trailed down the curve of your neck, past your collarbone, before they found their way to your breasts.

he groaned as his mouth latched onto one of your nipples, sucking hard, his tongue swirling over the sensitive bud. his other hand cupped your breast, squeezing, kneading, as if he couldn’t get enough of them. “love these so much,” he murmured against your skin, his voice muffled by the fullness of your breast in his mouth. “the other girls, they don’t have ones like this.”

your breath hitched, the praise sending a wave of heat through your body, making your knees weak. but before you could process it, jaehyun released your wrists and leaned up, his hand moving with brutal swiftness as it collided with your cheek in a stinging slap that made your head snap to the side. the sharp pain bloomed across your skin, and instead of recoiling, you moaned, the sound desperate and raw, your body arching toward him in a way that begged for more. “i don’t get to play with them like this,” he smirked, his thumb brushing over your reddened cheek before trailing back down to your chest, his hands claiming your breasts again as if they belonged to him.

your thighs clenched around his waist, hips bucking up against him, desperate for friction, for relief from the ache that had been building inside you from the moment he touched you. his name slipped from your lips in a breathless whisper, a plea that made his smirk widen as he pressed his body down against yours, his erection rubbing against your bare thigh through his boxers. he leaned down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that felt primal, unhinged. the kiss was messy, spit slicking your lips as his hands moved down your body, fingers curling around the waistband of your panties before he yanked them off in one rough motion. his fingers returned to your core, probing and rubbing, and every touch was calculated to make you squirm, to elicit the moans he’d missed on camera.

you broke the kiss to gasp for air, your head tipping back as he slid two fingers inside of you, curling them just right, hitting the spot that made you see stars. your legs trembled around him, every nerve in your body lit up with need as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, his thumb pressing against your clit in time with each thrust.

“god, jae,” you gasped, your fingers gripping his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan. He loved when you pulled his hair, loved the sting of pain mixed with pleasure. “yeah,” he grunted, his voice low and ragged as he looked up at you, his fingers never slowing. “you like it when i watch, don’t you? see how desperate you are for them.”

you smirked, your body arching off the bed, chasing the pleasure. “i like it when you can’t stop yourself,” you breathed, your voice thick with desire. “when you’re so addicted to me, you can’t even think straight.” his eyes darkened, the intensity of his gaze sending a shiver through you as he pulled his fingers from you, leaving you empty and aching. in one swift motion, he shoved his boxers down, his erection springing free, hard and desperate for you. he didn’t hesitate, grabbing your hips and yanking you down the bed before positioning himself between your legs.

he hovered above you for a moment, eyes locked onto yours, the air thick with tension, before he thrust into you, filling you in one hard stroke that knocked the breath from your lungs. you cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as your body adjusted to the sudden fullness, the burn of the stretch only intensifying the pleasure. he groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he set a brutal pace, his hips slamming into yours with a desperation that bordered on madness. the room was filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, of his ragged breaths and your breathless moans, of the bed creaking under the force of his thrusts.

he buried his face in your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise as he fucked you with reckless abandon, his body shaking with the force of it. you clung to him, your legs wrapped around his waist, your body moving in perfect sync with his, lost in the intensity of the moment, lost in the feeling of him inside of you. jaehyun’s hands moved down to your chest, gripping your breasts with a hunger that made your breath hitch. his fingers dug into the soft flesh, squeezing, kneading, his eyes glued to the way they moved with each hard thrust of his hips. he was obsessed, completely entranced, as if he couldn’t get enough of the way they filled his hands, the way your nipples stood hard and ready for him.

his mouth descended on one of them, his lips hot and wet as he sucked greedily, swirling his tongue around your sensitive nipple before biting down gently, just enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body. you moaned, your back arching off the bed as his teeth grazed your skin, leaving a red mark in his wake. he groaned against your breast, his hand moving to cup the other one, his thumb flicking over your nipple, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to your core.

“fuck, i love these,” he repeated between kisses, his voice thick with lust, muffled by your skin as he continued to lavish attention on your chest. “they’re so fucking perfect, baby. none of the others—” he paused, his teeth grazing your nipple again, harder this time. “—none of the other girls have tits like this.” you smirked at his words, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you threaded your fingers through his hair, yanking him up to meet your gaze. his lips were wet, spit running down his chin, his eyes wild with need, the dark desire in them so potent it made your stomach flip.

“good,” you panted, your voice breathless but teasing, “because they don’t deserve them.” his cock twitched inside you at that, and you knew you had him. he liked when you reminded him, when you made him see that no matter who he was with, no matter what he did, you were the one he couldn’t let go of. you were the one who owned him.

you ran your hands down his chest, your nails scratching lightly against his skin, leaving faint red lines in their wake. he groaned at the sensation, his hips stuttering slightly as he thrust into you harder, deeper, chasing the release he knew he’d only find with you. “i saw you, you know,” you whispered, your voice thick with a twisted kind of admiration. “you fucked her so well, jae. i was impressed.”

his breath hitched at your praise, and you could feel the way his body responded to your words, the way his cock swelled inside you, twitching with need. his grip on your breasts tightened, his hips slamming into yours with renewed force as if he was trying to prove something, trying to show you that no matter who he fucked, it was you that he belonged to. “yeah?” he groaned, his voice low and rough as he leaned down, his mouth hovering over yours. “you liked watching me fuck her?”

you moaned in response, your legs tightening around his waist as you lifted your hips to meet his thrusts. “yeah,” you breathed, your lips brushing against his, teasing him. “but you know what i like even more?” he growled, his hand slipping from your chest to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck as he pressed his lips to your ear. “what?”

“i like knowing that no matter how good it was, no matter how hard you fucked her, you always come back to me,” you whispered, your voice dripping with confidence, with satisfaction. he groaned at your words, his hand tightening around your throat just enough to make your breath catch. “fuck, baby,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. “you’re the only one. no one else feels like this.”

he leaned down, his mouth crashing against yours in a bruising kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a wet, messy tangle of spit and need. you could taste him—taste the desperation, the hunger that only you could satisfy. his lips were swollen, raw, and you kissed him harder, your fingers digging into his hair, pulling him closer. he pulled back slightly, his breath hot against your lips as he looked down at you, his eyes dark and filled with a primal kind of lust. “you like it when i fuck them, huh?” he babbled through a haze of lust, his hips slamming into yours again, his pace relentless. “you like knowing that no matter how good they are, they’ll never be you.”

you moaned in response, your nails digging into his back as your body trembled beneath him. “yes,” you panted, your voice barely more than a whisper, “because they’ll never be enough for you.” jaehyun’s hand moved from your throat to your breast again, squeezing it roughly as he leaned down, his lips trailing down your neck to your chest. he sucked on your nipple, his tongue swirling around it before pulling it between his teeth and biting down, hard enough to make you cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure.

“god, i love these tits,” he groaned, his voice muffled by your skin. “could fuck them all day.” your legs trembled, the intensity of his words and the roughness of his touch pushing you closer to the edge. you could feel the coil of pleasure tightening in your stomach, ready to snap at any moment. “then do it,” you teased, your voice breathless as you arched into him. “fuck me like you fuck them, jaehyun. show me.”

his eyes flashed with something dark and devious, and without warning, he pulled out of you, leaving you empty and aching. you barely had time to protest before he grabbed your hips, flipping you onto your stomach with a rough shove. you moaned as your body hit the mattress, your hands gripping the sheets as he positioned himself behind you. he didn’t waste time. his hands gripped your ass, spreading you open as he thrust into you from behind, the force of it making you cry out, your body jolting forward with each hard thrust. the angle was different, deeper, and you could feel every inch of him as he slammed into you, his cock hitting the spot that made you see stars.

his hand came down on your ass with a sharp slap, the sting of it sending a wave of pleasure through your body. “fuck,” you gasped, your voice muffled by the pillow as your hips bucked back against him. “harder.” he growled, his fingers digging into your hips as he fucked you harder, faster, the sound of his skin slapping against yours filling the room. “you really love this, don’t you?” he grunted, his voice low and rough. “love knowing i fuck them, but i come back to you.”

you moaned, your body trembling with pleasure as you nodded, your words coming out in broken gasps. “yes, yes, i love it.” his hand came down on your ass again, harder this time, and you cried out, the sting of it mixing with the overwhelming pleasure building inside you. “good,” he muttered, his voice thick with lust. “because this is the one thing i get to do that they can’t.”

with that, he thrust into you one last time, his body tensing as he buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he came, filling you with hot, sticky heat. you moaned at the feeling of him cumming inside you, the sensation sending you over the edge as your own orgasm ripped through you, your body convulsing with pleasure. jaehyun collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving as he pressed soft kisses to the back of your neck, his hands still gripping your hips tightly. “this,” he murmured against your skin, his voice soft but possessive, “this is mine.”

✧

a/n: i do NOT condone cheating yall

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aventurineswife · 4 months ago

Note

About Valentine's Week Special

Can you do Ratio x reader who messes up their confession to him?

Ratio found a note in his desk that says “get out of my school” and it was actually reader who wanted to ask him to go on a date with him after school but got too shy to ask and intended to write “go out with me after school” but wrote the above instead

Say It Wrong, Make It Right

Summary: In a humorous and heartwarming Valentine's Week special, you try to confess your feelings to Ratio. However, your nerves get the best of you, and your note intended to ask him out instead says, “Get out of my school.” Ratio, initially confused and offended, eventually uncovers the truth behind your accidental blunder. With a rare smile and a touch of intellectual humor, he forgives you, leading to an unexpected yet sweet first date.

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Fluff, Crack Fic, Valentine's Week Special, Humor, Confession Gone Wrong, Romance, Awkward Situations, Lighthearted.

Warnings: Mild embarrassment, Miscommunication (note mishap).

The crisp sound of a note sliding across a desk broke the silence in the grand, book-filled lecture hall of the Intelligentsia Guild. Dr. Ratio, resplendent in his signature violet hair and gilded academic attire, arched a sharp eyebrow. A folded piece of paper had been tucked neatly among his meticulously arranged lecture materials.

It wasn’t unusual for students or colleagues to slip him notes—requests for feedback, invitations to debates, or even philosophical challenges. But this one was…different. The words scrawled across the page struck him like an unsolved paradox.

"Get out of my school."

For a moment, his brilliant mind short-circuited. He read the message again, tilting the note as if a different angle might offer clarity. Ratio frowned, a rare crack in his ever-confident façade. Was this…a declaration of rivalry? A disgruntled student's rebellion? A threat to his very presence in the academic world?

“Impossible,” he muttered, crumpling the note with an uncharacteristically indignant flourish. “Who would dare suggest such an intellectually void sentiment?”

Little did he know, hidden behind a bookshelf nearby, you—his most dedicated (and nervous) admirer—were suppressing a panic attack.

You hadn’t meant to insult the man you admired most in the universe. Quite the opposite, in fact. Your original intention had been to ask Ratio—genius extraordinaire, passionate educator, and your longtime crush—on a date.

But writing the note was harder than expected. You’d rewritten it at least twenty times, the final draft intended to read:

"Go out with me after school?"

But in your anxiety-fueled haste, you’d swapped the words. Now your awkward attempt at romance looked like a straight-up expulsion notice. And Ratio? He was thoroughly unimpressed.

You peeked around the corner just in time to see him march out of the lecture hall, his alabaster headpiece under one arm, and the offending note in his other hand. His muttering grew fainter as he strode away, but you caught snippets: “Ignorant…crude…unworthy of my intellect…”

You sank to the floor, face buried in your hands. “What have I done?”

The rest of the day passed in a haze of guilt and dread. By the time the final bell rang, you’d resolved to find Ratio and explain the misunderstanding. You tracked him down in his private study—a grand, duck-adorned sanctuary filled with intricate charts and shelves overflowing with books.

He was seated at his desk, his posture immaculate, the crumpled note smoothed out before him. His eyes bore into it as if trying to extract its hidden meaning. When you entered, his gaze snapped to you.

“Ah, the instigator of this…” he gestured dramatically to the note, “intellectual atrocity. Care to explain yourself?”

You winced. “I—I didn’t mean it! I swear!”

Ratio leaned back, crossing his arms with a mixture of suspicion and intrigue. “Then what, pray tell, was the intent behind this baffling message?”

Your face turned crimson as you fumbled for words. “I, um… I was trying to ask if…if you’d go out with me after school…”

Ratio blinked, his formidable intellect apparently momentarily unable to process your words. “…Go out? With me?”

You nodded frantically, every fiber of your being screaming for the floor to swallow you whole. “Yes! I wanted to ask you on a date, but I—I panicked, and I messed up the note…”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, to your utter disbelief, Ratio threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t a mocking laugh but rather a genuine, amused chuckle that softened the sharp edges of his usual demeanor.

“By the Aeons,” he said, still smiling, “you managed to turn a simple confession into what I assumed was an eviction notice. Fascinating. Truly, you may be the only person alive capable of such…creative phrasing.”

You stared at him, mortified. “I’m so sorry. I understand if you think I’m ridiculous—”

Ratio stood abruptly, his imposing presence suddenly a little less intimidating. “Ridiculous? Hardly. Your error was unique, if nothing else. And as someone who values ingenuity…” He offered you a small, rare smile. “I suppose I can forgive it.”

Your heart soared. “Does that mean…you’ll go out with me?”

He studied you for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. But only under one condition.”

“What is it?”

He leaned in slightly, his eyes gleaming with intellectual mischief. “You must promise never to write me another note unsupervised.”

You burst out laughing, relief washing over you. “Deal.”

As the two of you left his study together, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, your disastrous confession had been the start of something extraordinary.

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spinn-virus · 30 days ago

Note

My brother in Primus, you sure worked quick! Your art, once again, kicked up the serotonin level in my energon stream (very hinged and normal thing to say to a person).

Have a snippet! [and I will work on a small doodle and other dumb prompts and tiny conversations to send to you.]

Usually, Rodimus does not like one-sided speech from mechs, any mech really – it’s not that he only likes the voice of himself.

Okay, maybe a little bit of that, but he did win the “No Talent Talent Show” by doing voiceovers in one of those settlement colonies many lunar cycles ago. It’s definitely NOT a telling thing about his personality, if he can’t even remember the name of the colony, or the event host, or why they have been hosting that event in the first place.

Wars tore them all apart, and they took what happiness they can still have and feel as it comes. It’s much less about happiness or being gaudy, more so a necessary anesthetic – because what else do they have really?

Rodimus likes to listen to Drift talk though. Yeah, yeah, that surprised him too. Something about Drift always made him feel like “a small piece of metal hovering in energon stream, floating down the ancient canal of Primus till it reached an active hot spot to be melt apart and forged in something new.” And no matter how far Rodimus’s thoughts wandered, he could always come back to Drift.

“… You should always use the strength of your larger hydraulic groups to swing the weapon, without shifting your center of gravity. It’s important to remain nimble, and yet firm on your pedes during parry, or any other form of combats. Now, Rodimus, if you’re serious about receiving the training, we should work more on your stances – you rush in too much and throw your whole weight. If you did not land the blow on first try, it will leave you wide-open and very vulnerable.”

Rodimus just stared at Drift’s faceplate. He always liked to imagine how it would feel if he gently covered Drift’s mouthpiece with his intake – wait hold on, that doesn’t sound right, okay okay, with his servo then. Will the sentio metallico keep shifting? Touching different parts as Drift kept speaking. Or will Drift freeze up.

Piercing through a hazy cloud of thoughts, most of which about Rodimus poking at Drift from different angles, came Drift’s question.

“Rodimus, do you understand the training itinerary for today?” Drift seemed so expecting and happy when he turned to ask Rodimus. Rodimus never pretended to listen to avoid hurting any mech’s feelings, but he’d hated to keep Drift hanging, so he quickly run through the instant audio recording he had been capturing this whole time, and said, a bit dumbly.

“I sure hope so? We will train the hydraulic groups in isolation to build strength, right? That, and then pede-work practice.”

Drift almost beamed at that. Rodimus felt his spark begin pulsating at a weird rate.

Com’on now, stop acting weird, stupid spark. Rodimus would yank out his spark and have a serious one-sided conversation with it if he could.

But he can’t. So he just sat there, a bit confused about why he wanted to make Drift happy and keep him that way.

Must be this friendship thing I kept hearing so much about. He thought.

This was living rent free in my head through my entire shift and I couldn't do anything about it!! So unfair because this is great. This is perfect! Oooough I live for the silly sweet interactions between Drift and Rodimus. The vibes are immaculate. The potential is incredible. Like. The soft inexperienced pining ahahhaahaha I'm normal

I support him. I hope he figures it out soon.

Thank you for sharing. It's wonderful. I hope you know that I am eating this for breakfast lunch and dinner

#spinn dot png #transformers #maccadam #transformers fanart #rodimus #drift #driftrod #mtmte

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lulublack90 · 7 months ago

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Prompt 16 - Book

@jegulus-microfic November 16, Word count 590

Previous part First part

James could very easily get used to having Regulus sprawled on top of him fast asleep. He really hoped that he’d never have to give this up. Regulus made a soft snorting noise as he shuffled in his sleep, his hands grasping the front of James’s t-shirt tightly. James cooed quietly to him, stroking his back until he settled down again.

James’s eyes started wandering around the room, taking in all the little differences Regulus had made to make the room his. When Sirius lived here, it had been a bomb site. He was allergic to putting clothes away. James had caught him more than once doing the sniff test on multiple pieces of clothing to check if they were clean or not. Sometimes, his mum would come over and tidy everything up and clean all of Sirius’s dirty washing for him, and the room would look immaculate, but it never lasted long. James knew Remus wouldn’t stand for it. He’d seen their room, just on the other side of the wall. While it was a bit messy, it was nowhere near as bad as it would be if only Sirius was in it. But Regulus’s room was the complete opposite, neatly ordered. All his clothes were away, the drawers fully shut with nothing poking out, and even his art supplies were organised so he could easily find what he needed. The only messy part of his room was his bedside table. It was piled with scraps of paper with hastily written notes on them. A half-drunk cup of tea, his laptop and a small pile of books stacked haphazardly on top of each other. James plucked the top book from the pile and flipped it over to read the title, ‘Wuthering Heights’. James had heard of it but had never read it. He looked at the spines of the other books, ‘Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Jane Eyre, Tess of the D’Urbervilles,’ Oh, Regulus liked regency romance novels. James chuckled to himself quietly, trying not to disturb Regulus. He opened the book and began reading.

“Hey,” Regulus’s sleepy voice startled him a little while later. He’d been completely caught up in the antics of Cathy and Heathcliff and hadn’t noticed Regulus stirring.

“Hey, love,” He said, smiling down at Regulus’s sleepy face.

“Enjoying it are you?” Regulus asked, nodding towards the book.

“Yes, actually. Can I borrow it?” James really wanted to find out what happened. A small, sweet smile spread across Regulus’s mouth, curling the corners of his mouth. James wanted so badly to lean down and capture that smile with his lips, but he held himself back. They hadn’t actually kissed on the lips yet. Just little pecks to the cheeks. He wanted to kiss him so badly.

“Of course, you can,” Regulus said in answer to James’s question, and James, who had been so wrapped up in his thoughts about kissing Regulus properly for the first time, thought Regulus was giving him permission and leant forward, pressing his lips against Regulus’s soft smile.

They both froze, James’s eyes widening dramatically as he tried to pull away, apologising. But Regulus reached up, held his head firmly between his hands and pulled James’s lips back to his, sinking back into his pillow and taking James with him. James gasped as delicate fingers found their way under his shirt and brushed against his bare skin. He groaned and rose above Regulus, getting a better angle and deepening their kiss. He’d started, and now he didn’t ever want to stop.

Next part

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kataswyq · 19 days ago

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A NOBLE MASQUERADE

main pairings :: maomao x jinshi, xiaolan x basen

genre :: mystery, romance, fluff, angst, denial // dense protagonists !

PROLOGUE : In the empire’s quieter provinces, noble houses rise and fall with curious speed, their fortunes tied to marriages that seem too convenient, too well-timed. When strange rumors reach the palace, Maomao is sent under a false name, part of a small, disguised household led by the ever-unsettling “Master Enji.” What begins as a simple favor soon pulls them into the quiet rot beneath polite society—where nothing is quite what it seems.

༶•┈┈┈┈┈┈୨♡୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•༶

Chapter Four — Incense and Inquisition

The ink dried slowly in the cold morning air.

Jinshi sat alone at the writing desk in the far wing of their assigned guest quarters, where the sunlight was dim, filtered through high lattice windows carved with floral shapes. The low flame in the brazier beside him snapped and hissed, warming his ankles through the folds of his plain outer robe. His posture was immaculate, spine straight, brush held at the perfect angle. The letter on the table before him, however, was anything but ordinary.

There, nestled in the simple bed, Maomao slept—her chest rising and falling with quiet steadiness, her brows relaxed, far from the tension that usually clouded her expression. The faint moonlight filtering through the window painted gentle shadows on her face, lending her an almost fragile serenity. He couldn’t help but think how all the investigation, the long days piecing together puzzles, the hidden dangers lurking in every corner, must be weighing heavily on her. She never complained, never faltered in front of him, but here, in the stillness of the early morning, her weariness was palpable.

Jinshi tightened his grip on the floorboards beneath him and made a silent vow—not to disturb her rest, not now. She needed this peace, no matter how brief, if she was to face the coming days with the sharp mind and steady heart he so depended on. He looks down at his writing, using a style he hadn’t used in months. Clean, decisive brushstrokes. Measured spacing. His real identity glaring back at him in his writing. There were few who could recognize the Emperor’s younger brother’s seal, and fewer still who would dare question it. The estate they were infiltrating was corrupt, but not suicidal. At least, that was the calculation. He placed the brush back into its holder with a soft clink and examined the characters again:

To Master Enji and Lady Enji,

As representatives of the capital, your presence must be acknowledged appropriately. You are hereby ordered to host a banquet honoring the arrival of Bakin, Heir Apparent to the Ma Clan Head and Chue, Lady of the Ma Clan’s Heir, who shall arrive shortly to visit the provinces. Let this banquet serve as a gesture of goodwill and an opportunity for bonding with the local community and noble households.

Signed. Sealed.

Stamped with an imperial sigil in vermilion.

No one could know Jinshi himself had penned it. That was the point. He folded the parchment into its silk-lined envelope and pressed the seal closed with the flat of his ring finger. The heat of the wax seeped briefly into his skin. Then he stood and stepped into his shoes. Outside the study, the corridor was quiet. The household hadn’t yet started their full rounds—still that strange in-between hour, when only birds and dust moved. Maomao and Xiaolan would be off in town, with a sleepy Chou-u and a list of dried goods to shop for. Basen was still at the stables, checking on the outer guards. Jinshi had ensured it.

He wanted no witnesses for this part. The courier was a boy barely out of adolescence, summoned under the guise of delivering a receipt for estate goods. Jinshi offered the letter with a mild smile. “This is for the outpost. It will find its way.” The boy bowed deeply. “Yes, my lord.” “Handle it carefully.” “Of course.” The boy took it in both hands and sprinted off, sandals slapping the dirt. Jinshi stood for a long moment in the garden afterward, watching the sky. The plum trees were bare, their buds just beginning to form. Behind him, servants passed without looking at him too directly. The air was still sweet with incense—the household continued burning floral blends to mask the medicinal smell that seeped from behind locked rooms.

That smell lingered, always. By the time Jinshi stepped into town, the square was already gathering a small crowd. He had changed back into the full Master Enji disguise—face subtly powdered, lashes less darkened, posture adjusted. Just another refined nobleman, not the Emperor’s kin. He watched from beneath a parasol, carried lightly by a local hireling, as the uniformed rider entered through the south gate. The man wore standard courier armor but bore a sash trimmed in gold. His horse was lathered, as if it had run too hard for a letter that wasn’t urgent. But it was urgent. It only pretended not to be. The rider dismounted with a flourish. In the middle of the market, he raised the scroll.

“An imperial directive!” he called out. “From the Inner Court of the Western Palace!” The square stilled. Even the hawkers quieted. Jinshi let his eyes flick toward Maomao and Xiaolan, who had just emerged from the spice merchant’s alley. Maomao's gaze snapped toward the rider. Xiaolan blinked, still holding a skewer of roasted yams. The rider read: “To Master Enji and Lady Enji, residents of the southern manor estate. By directive of the Inner Palace, you are to host a formal banquet in celebration of your recent appointment and in recognition of the noble houses of the western provinces…” Gasps from a cluster of women across the square. Qixiong ruqun fluttered as they stepped closer, whispers spreading like smoke. “…To be attended by a representative of Lord Gaoshun’s house, whose arrival will be imminent. Preparations are to begin immediately.” The scroll was sealed.

Jinshi didn’t move. He only exhaled softly, like someone hearing news for the first time.

Maomao played her part well—feigning surprise, then adjusting her expression to one of mild, obligatory politeness. Xiaolan whispered something behind her sleeve, her face pink. It worked. All across the square, the shift was immediate. Townswomen stood straighter. Vendors bowed more deeply. A maid in soft lavender robes turned on her heel and fled the scene entirely. The information would reach the estate in under half an hour. Jinshi turned and walked toward the carriage waiting on the far edge of the plaza. He climbed inside without a word. The effect back at the estate was swift. When they returned that afternoon, the steward was already waiting, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly touched his knees. “Lord Enji, Lady Enji—please allow us to offer congratulations. We are honored by your recognition from the Inner Court.”

Maomao demurred. “It came as a surprise.” “Nonetheless, we will begin preparations for the banquet immediately. I shall assign our best kitchen staff and instruct the seamstresses to begin drafting suitable garments.” “That won’t be necessary,” Jinshi said with a smile. “We brought our own tailors from the capital. They’ll arrive shortly. After all we are merchants.”

The steward paled, then forced a nod. “Of course. Of course.” Behind him, several maids had stopped walking. One whispered to another. Two of the older ladies-in-waiting turned their faces, hiding expressions that didn’t match their words. Jinshi walked past them all. Back in the guest quarters, Maomao peeled off her outer robe and sat on the edge of the low table. Her expression was unreadable. “You mailed that to yourself,” she said. “Naturally.” “While I was out buying plum paste.” “Seemed a good time.” She stared at him. He busied himself sipping tea.

“And what do you expect to gain from this?” Jinshi handed her a cup. “Pressure. Disarray. Mistakes.” Maomao sipped. The steam curled around her lashes. “Someone’s going to panic.” He met her gaze. “That’s the idea.” Outside, footsteps began to rush in new directions. Doors shut more harshly. Rooms were locked, and drawers were moved. The house had begun to shift. Exactly as planned.

Maomao tilted her head. “Who do you think they’ll send to warn her?” “The woman who barged into our room when I stepped out?” he asked. She nodded. “If she’s giving the orders,” Jinshi said, “she already knows.” Maomao turned to the window. She heard quiet voices from somewhere down the corridor—strained, uncertain. The order of the estate was unraveling at the edges. “They’re already panicking,” she murmured. “Good,” Jinshi said. “Let’s make them panic harder.” He moved to the desk again and began preparing a new sheet of parchment. Maomao raised a brow. “Another letter?” “No. This one’s a guest list.” Her mouth twitched. “And what will that do?” “We’ll request people who know too much.” He smiled faintly. “Some of whom we’ve already ‘met’ in town.” Maomao folded her arms. “You’re starting to enjoy this.” “Not at all.” Jinshi dipped his brush again. “But I do appreciate a well-played game.” There was a knock at the door—too soft to be urgent, but too precisely timed to be chance. Neither of them moved to answer it. Jinshi smiled without warmth.“Let’s see which piece they sacrifice first.” Jinshi softly tells the knocker that the door is open. The knock didn’t come again. Silence returned, thick and watchful, wrapping around them like a held breath. Jinshi didn’t rise. Maomao didn’t speak. Whatever move had been made, it would have to wait. Eventually, the night carried them forward, hour by slow hour, until nothing stirred but the quiet creak of old wood settling into darkness.

Eventually, the night carried them forward, hour by slow hour, until nothing stirred but the quiet creak of old wood settling into darkness. Maomao rose from her seat, stretching her arms with a muted sigh. Without needing to be asked, she moved toward the corner where Jinshi’s bedding had been laid out on the floor earlier. The mat had shifted slightly, and she crouched to smooth it back into place. Her movements were unceremonious, efficient—but still gentle. “You haven’t been sleeping well,” Jinshi said, watching her as she straightened the corner of the quilt. “Neither have you,” she replied, brushing dust from the edge of his pillow. “Is this your way of apologizing?” he asked, dry amusement threading his tone.“For what? Not giving you the nicer blanket?” He said nothing. When she finished adjusting the futon, she turned and found him standing just behind her. She didn’t flinch.

Jinshi reached down and plucked a loose strand of hair from her sleeve. His fingers grazed her forearm, slow and deliberate. “It’s not poison,” she muttered, straightening again. “Pity,” he said softly. “I was hoping you’d accuse me of testing you again.” A smile ghosted across her lips—brief, reluctant. She shifted, tugging her sleeves higher as she moved back toward the window. “You’re not that reckless.” Jinshi followed her with his gaze. “I’ve done more reckless things than that.” She turned to him, half-shadowed in the lamplight. “Don’t start.” “I’m not starting,” he murmured. “I’m just… not stopping.” The silence that followed was heavy, but not cold. It hummed faintly with something unspoken. Maomao crossed her arms, looking away again. “You should go to bed.” “So should you.” She didn’t answer. Neither of them moved.

By the time morning fully unfurled its pale light over the estate, the air already crackled with quiet urgency. Footsteps echoed through corridors that had been still just the day before. Maids in matching garments—none of them familiar—hurried with bundles of bedding. Furniture scraped across floorboards. Behind the sliding doors of the servants’ quarters, hushed voices erupted in sudden flurries, only to be silenced by sharp glances from older housekeepers. From his seat in the side hall, Jinshi sipped tea with a blank expression, his robes neatly arranged, his posture relaxed. Anyone who glanced at him would see only a minor official in quiet contemplation. But his eyes, ever so slightly narrowed, tracked each new servant who passed by—each unfamiliar face, each anxious step.

“Rooms are being reassigned,” Maomao muttered from beside him, her arms tucked into her sleeves. She looked as if she were watching koi in a garden pond, but Jinshi knew that casual air masked a mind already tallying details. “They’re shuffling the staff,” he said lightly, feigning boredom. “Or the pawns,” she murmured. Indeed, the household’s configuration was changing with such precision it couldn’t be mere coincidence. The guest wing to the north, where they had previously stayed, was now “under maintenance.” Several outer chambers were sealed. The kitchen staff had been halved. And the courtyard where Chou-u used to play was suddenly off-limits—“too close to the family shrine,” someone had said.

Jinshi hummed in acknowledgment. “They suspect something.” “They’re not certain of what. That’s the most useful state to keep them in.” Maomao rose, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve, and offered no more explanation. Jinshi watched her go. He knew that gait—measured but light-footed. She was already setting something into motion. Maomao did not confront a hornet’s nest by striking it. She preferred to circle it, draw lines in the dust, tilt mirrors toward its entrances and wait for the heat to rise.

As the commotion died down and staff redistributed throughout the house, Maomao began her own silent preparations. She started with incense. From her personal collection, she prepared three distinct blends — each faint, subtle enough not to draw notice. One with a slight metallic tang, one with a cloying floral trace, and one with a compound that reacted to mildew and organic rot, its scent shifting if exposed to sickness or neglect. She placed them carefully in different corners of the estate — one in the kitchen, one in the bathhouse, and one discreetly tucked into a clay vent niche near the restricted wing. They weren’t meant to soothe or perfume. They were tests. Next came food. She adjusted their household order: requesting certain herbs she suspected might be restricted, and casually asking for delicacies that would require sourcing from locked storerooms. She monitored the responses from the kitchen — delays, denials, overcompensations. Each one she jotted down in a notebook she kept folded in her sash, beside a hollowed-out charcoal stick used for secret notations. She made note of what was missing from the usual deliveries. Salted lotus root. Pickled fish. Dried osmanthus petals. Ingredients that should have arrived with the morning cart — but hadn’t.

Finally came medicine. Feigning concern over a light cough — real or not was irrelevant — she requested access to the estate’s medical supplies. She asked for familiar remedies: powdered licorice root, cinnabar throat lozenges, dried chrysanthemum. The head of the storage rooms, an elderly woman with eyes like frostbitten plums, offered excuses. The storeroom had been inventoried. The usual racks were locked. She would need to return later. Maomao smiled, bowed, and left. She wrote that down too. By the third day, she had compiled a growing ledger of inconsistencies: locked doors that were once open, servants she’d seen in unfamiliar wings, the smell of antiseptic drifting from a corridor supposedly “under renovation.” Her traps were beginning to trigger — not loudly, not all at once, but enough to paint a pattern. That night, as dusk fell and the house settled into its uneasy quiet, she met Jinshi under the outer eaves, where the scent of her metallic incense still lingered.

“The house is tightening,” she said without preamble. “And not because of any visitor.” Jinshi nodded slowly. “I know.” He was holding something — a slip of folded parchment. A note had arrived earlier, sealed with the crest of the Inner Palace. It was fake, of course — a decoy they had planted. He hadn’t even broken the seal. Just left it in full view on the lacquered desk of their shared sitting room. Already, the effect was visible. One of the steward’s aides had attempted to sneak in that morning. Jinshi had pretended not to notice, had kept his back turned as the man tiptoed away. “They’re spooked,” Jinshi murmured. “They’re undoubtedly suspecting we know more than we’re letting on.” “Good.” Maomao crouched beside the incense dish and prodded the ash with a bamboo stick. “Let’s see how much more we can make them show us.”

In the following days, more strange things occurred. A junior maid was suddenly dismissed — packed up in the night and sent off without notice. A guardsman appeared at the rear courtyard, his presence supposedly part of a routine patrol, yet he lingered oddly near the servant’s quarters. The steward who had greeted them upon their arrival seemed to vanish entirely, replaced by a new figure — a sharp-eyed woman who spoke softly and bowed often, but whose gaze tracked Maomao too closely. One morning, Maomao awoke to find that her incense dish near the west wing had been overturned. The clay was still warm, but the ash had been scattered, the base scrubbed clean. Someone had found it. She told Jinshi that evening.

“They’re trying to erase trails,” she said. “They know someone’s watching.” “And they don’t know who,” Jinshi replied. He leaned back on his hands, his expression thoughtful. “Which means they’ll start making mistakes.” They would have to. Maomao folded her arms beneath her sleeves, glancing out toward the now-shuttered wing. The air there had changed. Even without incense, she could smell it — the faint sourness of fear beginning to rise. She didn’t yet know what exactly was being hidden — a person, a truth, a buried crime — but the house itself was beginning to betray its secrets. Doors once left ajar now slammed shut. Smiles were too practiced. Excuses were too abundant. And she was patient. She would keep laying her traps. They would snap shut in time.

By the third morning after the letter’s arrival, the estate had settled into an unnatural rhythm—a hush that felt pressed into the walls, forced between footsteps. Maomao could tell the house was reacting. And not in any clever way. The kind of quiet she moved through now wasn’t discretion. It was panic with a polished face. She walked with deliberate ease, sleeves folded, a small cloth pouch tucked into her sash. The tiled corridors looked cleaner than they had the day before—freshly scrubbed, with the scent of soap and floral incense clinging like smoke. Too strong. As if to cover something. Or several somethings. She passed by a clay incense vent, one she had placed a metallic blend in two days prior. It was empty. Wiped clean, as if it had never been used. The faint perfume that replaced it was too heavy, too sweet. Artificial. “Someone noticed,” she whispered. Maomao continued toward the kitchen, where the trail led next. She had made sure to alter the household's usual food orders the day before. Requested ingredients that should have been common, but were suddenly missing: salted lotus root, dried osmanthus, even powdered licorice. Her goal wasn’t to inconvenience. It was to test how the staff responded. Who lied. Who stalled. Who overcompensated.

The kitchen was too quiet when she entered. Steam wafted gently from a single clay kettle at the back. The chopping boards were damp, but the air was still. Four kitchen maids stood at their stations, faces lifted with brittle politeness the moment she stepped in. “Lady Enji,” said the freckled girl Maomao had met before. She bowed smartly, hands clasped before her apron. Maomao returned the gesture with a measured smile. “I was wondering about our lotus root. I noticed it wasn’t served yesterday.” The girl didn’t flinch. “The root was deemed unsuitable. The supplier brought subpar quality. We sent it back.” “And the pickled plums?” “Spoiled during transport, I believe.” “The osmanthus?” “Used in tea. We ran out.” Three lies. Delivered swiftly, confidently. This one was trained. Maomao hummed thoughtfully. Her eyes drifted to the back wall, where she’d once glimpsed a locked pantry door. It now stood slightly open, revealing nothing of interest at first glance. Just stacked baskets, sealed crocks of oil, and rice sacks. But it was too tidy. Sanitized.

A fifth girl dropped a bundle of leeks a little too loudly onto the prep table. Her hands fumbled. “We should’ve stocked up before the patient—” she muttered. The silence was immediate. The freckled girl stiffened. She turned with such suddenness that even Maomao raised an eyebrow. “Go fetch the ginger,” she said sharply. The younger maid blanched. She bowed low and all but fled into the side corridor. Maomao tilted her head. “Before the patient… what?” “She misunderstood,” the freckled girl said quickly. “We meant patient… cooking timing. A kitchen term." “Of course.” Maomao let her voice drip with feigned simplicity. She moved past them, letting her fingers skim over a polished table surface. There were faint burn marks on one corner, barely visible unless you looked close. An old scorch from a pan left too long—or something harsher.

The pantry caught her attention again. Maomao walked over. The scent of vinegar was strong, but beneath it, she detected a ghost of something acrid—smoke, ash, and perhaps the faintest trace of aconite. The freckled girl followed, hovering too close.Maomao didn’t push. She just smiled and let her eyes wander. She spotted something on the floor: a pin, gold-toned and delicate. It didn’t match the kitchen uniforms. She pocketed it. “Thank you for your time,” Maomao said at last. “Please let us know if you need anything,” the girl replied, bowing again. Maomao didn’t answer. She turned and walked out.

Instead of returning to her quarters, she went to the medicinal storeroom. She expected to see the frost-eyed matron who had denied her access before. But someone new stood behind the counter—a younger woman, unfamiliar and clearly uneasy. “Lady Enji,” she stammered. “May I help you?” Maomao nodded politely. “I came to check on the inventory. The previous steward mentioned the remedy racks were locked for inspection. Have they been updated?” The woman blinked. “Locked? No, the racks haven’t been inventoried in at least three weeks. They should be open now.” Maomao gave her a soft smile. “I see.” So the other woman had lied. Clearly. “Would you mind letting me review the logbook?” “Of course, my lady. I’ll fetch it.”

The woman scurried to the back, and Maomao took the moment to observe. The racks weren’t just unlocked—they had been rifled through. Several drawers were left slightly ajar. A few labels had been rewritten recently. Too much disturbance for a supposedly untouched storeroom. The logbook arrived in a hurry. Maomao flipped through it swiftly. There were consistent entries until about fifteen days prior. Then, nothing. The ink stopped cold. No record of tonic distribution. No herbal stock lists. No signatures. Just blank paper. “Thank you,” Maomao said, snapping it closed. She left the storeroom without another word.

She found Jinshi seated in their private courtyard, sipping something pale and steaming. A few mock invitations lay spread beside him. Maomao sat across from him. She didn’t bother with greetings. “The traps worked.” He set down his cup. “Tell me.” She relayed everything: the vanished incense, the false stories from the kitchen, the girl’s accidental mention of “the patient,” the freckled leader’s overreaction, and the lie about the medical inventory. She handed him the brass pin from her sleeve. “Found in the pantry floor. Doesn’t belong to the kitchen staff.” Jinshi turned it in his fingers. “Too ornate. Lady-in-waiting?" “Likely. It suggests access where they shouldn’t be.” He tapped the edge of the pin on the table. “And the patient?” “Someone is or was being treated in secret,” she said. “Long-term. The medicine logs go dark at the same time the food requests started changing." Jinshi leaned back. “The steward vanished two nights ago. A stable hand said a closed carriage left the estate before sunrise.” “No one asked for clearance?” “None." “So either the patient was moved… or buried.” Jinshi let the thought hang. She folded her arms. “They’re trying to cover their tracks.” “They’re trying and failing,” he murmured. “Which makes them desperate.”

Maomao nodded. “The freckled girl is well-trained, but she’s scared. The others are starting to slip.” Jinshi tilted his head toward her. “Do you want her isolated?” “Not yet. If she feels alone, she’ll close up. Let her think she’s managing things.” “You’re good at this.” “Don’t flatter me. You forged an imperial seal." “Touché.” They sat in silence for a moment, the murmurs of the estate fading behind them. A bird called once from the roof, then went quiet. Maomao reached into her sleeve, drew out her charcoal stick, and marked a quick notation in the margin of her folded notebook. Jinshi watched her. “What now?” “We let them worry. If we pressure them now, they’ll go to ground. I want them to sweat.” He exhaled through his nose. “The banquet is two days away. That should do it.” She looked toward the shuttered sick wing. A curtain fluttered, just briefly. There was no breeze.

That night, as the moon swelled pale above the estate, Maomao sat alone near the open lattice window. She lit a neutral stick of sandalwood and placed it gently in the burner as she nawed on a piece of dried fish. The scent was ordinary. Safe. Nothing to provoke. She opened her notebook again, reviewing her notations. Entries were lining up. Names. Faces. Changes in routine. A pattern was forming. She waited. Across the garden, she saw it again—the faintest twitch of fabric behind the curtain of the sick wing. No figure. No candlelight. Just movement, as if someone had looked out and then stepped back. Someone was still there. And Maomao wasn’t done watching.

The estate’s back gardens were a step removed from the bustle of the main wing, all curving stone paths and moss-covered alcoves tucked behind weeping willows and fragrant loquat trees. It was quiet this time of day—late afternoon, when the air began to cool and the shadows of the eaves stretched long and blue. Basen stood alone at the garden's edge, near an old lantern post whose paper panels had long since yellowed from sun and weather. He looked, for all the world, like a junior guard taking his break—posture straight, arms crossed behind his back, but his gaze moved subtly, noting every open window and every breeze-disturbed curtain. Footsteps approached from the other end. Light. Quick. Xiaolan appeared, weaving through the path with a slight bounce in her step. Her hair was tied up loosely with a ribbon, and her cheeks were slightly pink from the sun.

“Sorry I’m late,” she whispered as she reached him, panting lightly. “I got cornered by that older maid—the one who smells like sesame oil. She wanted to lecture me about towel folding for fifteen whole minutes.” Basen offered the smallest smile. “You’re not late.” She tilted her head, grinning. “Did you wait long?” “Long enough to learn the difference between bamboo rustling and dry reeds.” Xiaolan giggled, clasping her hands behind her back. “You’re poetic today.” “Not on purpose.” They stood together at the edge of the garden path, close enough to talk quietly, far enough to look casual. To any onlooker, they might have appeared to be two junior staff on an idle stroll between tasks. “I picked up a few things,” Xiaolan said, still catching her breath. “It’s mostly whispers—but everyone’s definitely on edge. That letter did something.” Basen nodded. “I’m listening.” She glanced over her shoulder, then leaned in slightly. “Three of the ladies-in-waiting from the southern house were whispering near the laundry racks. One asked, ‘Why so soon?’ And another said, ‘They’re trying to get ahead of the announcement.’” Basen frowned. “Did they say what the announcement was?” “No,” Xiaolan replied. “But they looked nervous. Like they weren’t talking about the banquet. One even kept peeking toward the steward’s quarters.” He absorbed the information silently. She went on.

“Another thing—I passed two women arguing in the hall. I couldn’t see what they were holding, but one hissed, ‘That seal doesn’t belong in this house,’ and the other said, ‘Burn it then.’ The moment they saw me, they went dead quiet.” “The seal,” Basen murmured. “It must’ve been Jinshi’s.” “Master Enji’s fake letter,” Xiaolan corrected with a faint grin. They shared a brief, knowing look. “And one of the older seamstresses,” she added, “called the new steward ‘the crow in the window.’ Said she watches without blinking.” Basen raised a brow. “Not a glowing endorsement.” “Nope,” Xiaolan agreed cheerfully. “But accurate.” Basen shifted, his tone lowering. “My turn. One of the guards asked me if I’d served in the Inner Palace.” Xiaolan blinked. “You?” “Said I ‘walk like someone used to polished floors.’” She stifled a laugh behind her hand. “That’s… kind of a compliment?” “I didn’t take it that way,” he said flatly. She gave him a sidelong smile. “You do walk very straight.” Basen looked away. “I was also mistaken for a permanent guard here by one of the delivery boys.” “That’s great!” Xiaolan beamed. “It means they’re starting to believe we belong.” “Exactly,” he said. “They’re getting comfortable. Letting things slip.”

“I got asked if I wanted to move my bedding to the warmer side of the hall for winter,” she added. “By one of the nicer stewards.” Basen turned to look at her. “So they think you’re staying too.” “Yep,” she said. “Feels kind of nice, honestly.” He didn’t say anything. She tilted her head, noticing. “It’s okay to like being liked, Basen,” she teased. “I don’t mind,” he said, quietly. “I’m just glad they’re talking to you.” Xiaolan smiled softly. “They think I’m harmless.” “They’re wrong,” he said. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, then softened. “Thanks.” They began to walk along the path, letting the quiet settle over them. The wind brushed gently through the garden, rustling the leaves like silk. “I’m a little worried,” Xiaolan said. “There’s something underneath all this. It’s not just a banquet. Or even a hidden patient.” Basen nodded. “The lies are too layered. Like they’ve been doing this a long time.” “Do you think Maomao and Jinshi-sama are in danger?” she asked. “I think everyone here is,” he replied. “Which is why we need to tell them.”

She looked up at him, the light catching in her eyes. “Promise we’ll be careful?” “I promise.” She reached out and touched his sleeve lightly. Just a brush of fingers. It wasn’t romantic—it was steadying. A moment of quiet faith. “You’re a good listener,” she said with a bright, cheery smile. “I’m not sure I’ve said much.” “You don’t need to.” They passed under a hanging willow branch and returned to the side corridor near the guest wing. As they rounded the final bend, lanterns flickered into life one by one behind the paper screens. A curtain twitched near the sick wing. Neither of them turned. They didn’t need to. This time, they were the ones carrying the secrets.

The small room was dimly lit by a single flickering candle, the shadows dancing along the wooden beams overhead. Maomao sat cross-legged on the floor, a worn scroll spread before her, while Jinshi leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes sharp and calculating. Between them lay the latest reports brought by Basen and Xiaolan — details pulled from whispered conversations, cautious observations, and stolen moments. Maomao’s fingers traced the characters slowly. “Basen says the servants are on edge. There’s more arguing over room assignments and duties. The kitchen staff are fracturing, no longer united like before. Xiaolan found a cluster of lady-in-waiting types wearing the Qixiong ruqun again — early pregnancies, probably. But some of those women looked sickly, withdrawn.” Jinshi nodded, his gaze never leaving the scroll. “That aligns with what I’ve sensed. The house is beginning to crack, but cracks alone won’t bring it down. We need to accelerate.”

Maomao folded the scroll, her eyes steady. “We can’t just watch anymore. The rot spreads too fast. It’s time to fumigate.” Jinshi’s smile was a slow, cold curve. “Good. Let’s stir the pot. I’ll drop hints about the banquet. Say an imperial relative will be attending—someone important, maybe even from the Inner Palace itself.” He tapped the floor with a finger. “They’ll tighten their lips, watch their steps, but more importantly, they’ll watch each other. Paranoia will do more damage than suspicion.” Maomao reached into her satchel, pulling out several small bundles of incense tied with thin red cords. She held one up. “I’ve been adjusting the blends. The scent is sharper now — pungent, unmistakable. They won’t be able to pretend it’s just smoke. Someone will notice. Someone will react.” Jinshi’s eyes gleamed. “Perfect. We want them to choke on their own fear, but keep them guessing who lit the fire.”

Maomao placed the incense carefully on a carved wooden stand. “I’ll scatter these in the main hall and kitchen. The servants will have no choice but to acknowledge the terrible aftertaste.” Jinshi stretched his arms overhead and exhaled. “Then we watch closely. Every whispered conversation, every furtive glance. The walls have ears, and soon, so will we.” Maomao’s fingers tapped the floor lightly, a silent vow. “No more hesitation. It’s time to act.” The candle flickered again, casting long shadows on their faces — two quiet predators ready to turn the tide.

Maomao stepped lightly through the wooden doorway into the kitchen, the scent of simmering broth and freshly chopped herbs filling her nose. But beneath the usual hum of activity was a restless undercurrent, like a tightly coiled spring ready to snap. The room felt smaller somehow, the air thick with nervous energy. The freckled girl who had once steadied this place with quiet competence was nowhere to be seen. In her place stood a younger maid, her face pale and eyes darting nervously at every passing shadow. Her hands trembled as she set down a tray, bumping it slightly against the edge of a counter. Whispers rose and fell like waves, hushed voices exchanged behind backs and between hurried footsteps. Maomao caught fragments — sharp, broken pieces of gossip and fear.

“Did you hear? An imperial guest will attend the banquet.” “If they’re really sending someone from the Inner Palace, it means serious trouble.” “Someone’s been moving things in the medicine room… strange orders for herbs no one recognizes.” Faces turned away as Maomao’s gaze swept the room. A few servants lowered their eyes to the floor, avoiding direct contact. Others stiffened, clutching utensils as if they could somehow defend themselves. Maomao’s presence was no longer a comfort to this household; it was a threat. She moved through the room with deliberate calm, nodding slightly at those brave enough to meet her eyes. Her expression was unreadable, but inside her mind, the pieces clicked together, painting a picture of a house on the verge of collapse. Outside, Jinshi’s footsteps echoed boldly down hallways he’d once skirted with caution. His deliberate presence unsettled even the highest-ranking servants, those accustomed to command and control. Doors creaked open at his approach, and hushed conversations faltered into silence.

He stopped briefly at a group of ladies-in-waiting, their fine robes marked with the distinctive Qixiong ruqun, tied just below the chest — a subtle sign of early pregnancy that seemed far too common among the staff. Their eyes flicked nervously between Jinshi and each other. A whispered exchange reached his ears: “The banquet... the imperial guest... what does it mean?” He gave nothing away, but the ripple of fear was evident. Back in the storage room, Maomao’s stomach tightened when she approached her medicine ledger. The heavy tome lay open on the worktable, pages splayed beneath the soft glow of a lantern. Her eyes immediately caught the jagged edges of ink strokes that didn’t match her handwriting — entries altered, doses changed, entire lines erased and rewritten with chilling precision.

Her breath hitched ever so slightly, but she kept silent. Her mind raced through the list of those with access — the apprentices, the senior attendants, even the mysterious maid who seemed to appear and disappear at will. This wasn’t a careless mistake; it was a message. Someone was trying to undermine her, erase her proof, and steer suspicion away from themselves. Maomao closed the ledger gently, her fingers brushing the altered page. She made a mental note of the likely suspects, cataloging their movements and opportunities. Her gaze hardened with resolve. No more passive watching. The house was shifting beneath their feet, and the coming days would decide who would stand and who would fall.

The kitchen had fallen into an unnatural quiet. Pots clanked too sharply. Footsteps echoed. No one dared make a noise louder than a breath unless Maomao told them to. Earlier that afternoon, she had stood with her arms crossed and her voice cold and clipped, reciting a meticulous list of dishes that had to be started immediately for the banquet. Braised venison with snow fungus. Pickled lily bulbs. Carp with chrysanthemum sauce. Each required delicate preparation, specific herbal combinations—and every single one of them used ingredients whose records had been tampered with in her ledger. “You’ll prepare them as instructed,” she had said to the kitchen staff, her tone flat, almost dispassionate. “If you don’t know how, I suggest you learn very quickly.”

When the trembling apprentice cook had dared to mutter, “But we don’t have the—” Maomao had snapped around so fast her sleeves fluttered. Her voice had cracked across the room like a whip. “Then where did they go? Who signed them out?” No one had answered. The room had gone still as a mausoleum. Since then, every servant had looked at Maomao like she was a ghost walking among them. Even now, hours later, the tension lingered like smoke in the halls. Outside, the manor seemed to curl inward with unease. Whispering servants darted out of her path. Jinshi, too, walked unhindered now, striding through wings that had once bristled at his presence. Even senior staff bowed low or disappeared entirely when he passed.

Rumors spread faster than fever: that Lady Enji was a favored envoy of the Inner Palace, that she had killed someone with a single scent packet, that she and the handsome young master were there to purge the estate on imperial orders. In the waning light, Xiaolan rushed down the corridor to find them. Her face was flushed, breath caught in her throat. “There’s something strange by the west wall near the storage rooms,” she panted. “One of the maids is always loitering there, cleaning the same patch of wall. But the wall—it has a hole in it. Or did. I think it’s been covered with paper and paste.” Maomao’s eyes sharpened. “You’re sure?” Xiaolan nodded. “I checked it when no one was looking. The sound it makes—hollow, not like the other walls.”

Jinshi was already moving. “Basen’s at the back gate. If someone’s trying to flee, they’ll go through there.” It happened just as they feared. A slim shadow darted across the yard in the dark—barefoot, clutching a sack, hair hastily pinned. The junior maid from the linen wing, the one who had stumbled days ago under Maomao’s gaze, now sprinted toward the rear gate. Basen stepped out from the shadows. She tried to twist away, but Jinshi blocked her path with infuriating calm. “No one is to leave the grounds until the banquet concludes,” he said smoothly. “Surely you were told?” The girl’s shoulders trembled violently. “I didn’t—I didn’t do anything. I just wanted to go home!” “To your family? Or to whoever’s protecting you?” Jinshi’s voice was harsh, the implication cut deep. “I never touched the medicine!” she sobbed. “I—I only wiped the tables, I never meant to be involved!”

Maomao stepped closer. Her expression was unreadable. “You forged my ledger. You removed herbs. Who are you protecting?” The girl shook her head frantically. “I can’t—I can’t say. If they find out I talked to the children—” She froze, lips clamped shut, realization hitting too late. “Which children?” Maomao asked, voice lowering. But the girl said nothing more. Her eyes darted wildly, like a trapped animal. Jinshi turned to Basen. “She’s not to leave the estate. But she’s to go about her duties as if nothing happened. Post someone to watch her, but keep them distant.” Basen bowed. “Understood.” Jinshi regarded the girl one last time. “Tell us what you know after the banquet ends. If you stay silent, you won’t go down with the rest.” She didn’t nod. But she didn’t run again, either. As she was led away, Maomao stood in the quiet darkness, her hands curled at her sides. She could feel the rot quivering now, just beneath the plastered surface.

Tomorrow, the guests would arrive. Silk-clad nobles, wives of wealthy bureaucrats, and now, perhaps… someone from the imperial family itself. The bait was laid. The fear was thick enough to taste. And still, the real enemy had not yet shown their face. She looked toward Jinshi. He met her eyes without speaking.

Tomorrow, the real storm was coming.

༶•┈┈┈┈┈┈୨♡୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•༶

author notes :: promise the next chapter is super duper juicy!! this took me so long to write and publish so i made it a little longer because i honestly don't know the next time i'll post next chapter is. these chapters take me like 1.5 weeks on a good week but honestly i think i might have too much free time so it might come sooner lol. might write some drabbles in my free time thoo. also publishing this on ao3 !!! my user is katawyq !!! ✧.*

JOIN MY TAG LIST POOKIES 🙏💔

@that-random-fangirl@theyfinallymademecave@boytoycatroy@mnemehoshiko@mariana-souza-soares@icarus-b1tch@lovefoolheart@bunnychiffon@rin-link@creaturesinsidemyhead@dramatic-thespian

#the apothecary diaries #kusuriya no hitorigoto #apothecary diaries #maomao #jinshi #jinshi x maomao #xiaolan x basen #jinmao #xiaolan #basen

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distant--shadow · 8 months ago

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As Imogen turns over hay she wonders if it would have the satisfaction and payoff were it not to be done by her hands, if she would lose the lean muscles that define her forearms and biceps, if her shoulders and the base of her spine wouldn’t ache, if she could lift every painting and mirror and carved relief cameo from the manor walls and relieve them from between an opened stained glass window one by one in the night, build an extension piece by piece made of stretched canvas frames and reflective window panes and moulding lining the ceiling made of mosaicked shards of Lords’ and Ladies’ profiles, aquiline noses corner detailing.

Would she set up her bedroll in the patchwork extension? Allow herself the right angle of view that is not one from a stable pigeonhole to see the Lady’s silhouette and track its movements?

She must have sensed the Lady’s presence, hence why Imogen thought of her, thought of watching her, as she closes the gate behind herself and steps into the paddock, polite, attentive, limp mostly abated.

Someone who would drape her dried clothes over the back of a guest room chair whilst she slept, would extinguish the lamp lights to excuse herself whilst Imogen pants over her kitchen maid’s back.

Did the Lady have to leave her bed to extinguish the lights? Could she do it with her mind’s hand, was it her handmaid?

Why did she struggle with the dead weight she draped over the horse? Her hands could remain clean of blood-

“Imogen-”

Imogen straightens, resting the pitchfork at her side.

“M’lady-”

The morning sun rises over the Lady’s shoulder, makes a shadow puppet of her as if at her window.

She can only focus on her teeth as they appear.

“Imogen, would you go to Fairfield shortly? Our delivery is not due for a couple more weeks and so we must have a few bags to tide us over.” She smiles; her hands laced and resting one over the other, dress pleats immaculate, demeanour prim and proper.

Imogen is aware that it is not really a question, but appreciates the guise of choice.

“Certainly M’lady.”

She could ask her in return whether she slept well last night-

“Take whichever horse you desire.”

Maid or mare?

Could she take whichever saddle she desires? She knows which one she would choose.

She daren’t ask - and besides - maybe the Lady would like to take her own outing whilst Imogen is away,

make a maid of herself as she lays a clean tablecloth in the cave.

“Thank you.”

“This will cover four bags. I assume you know the way, correct?” The Lady reaches behind herself and appears to materialise a coin purse from between one of her dresses many pleats.

“I’m familiar, yes.”

Imogen’s hand is (also – possibly, verdict pending) not clean; sweat and mud and honestly-still sex lingering on its surface, despite morning’s washing and the barrier of her glove, arguably allowing her own flesh to stew in the broth of it all, so she cups her hand extended in waiting, dares not to touch the lacing around the Lady’s, to contaminate (any evidence)

Though now she is aware that what does it matter? If her hands are long and delicate and flawlessly alabaster, if a hand is not even needed-

No, she lifted the dead weight with her own.

#imodna #critical role #imogen temult #laudna #bells hells #browz writes #recommended reading

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alienglowgarden · 2 months ago

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Watching endless movies on the projector, the two of you develop an inside joke- Tarkovsky must have secretly been a gardener too. The first time Sol shows him their namesake, Solaris, he is struck by the immaculate beauty, pinnacle of aesthetic composition the world of Tarkovsky's film is. It sets an impossible standard that in a real three dimensional space Sym cannot reach. For a good decade all he can think of is Stalker. By year 6 Vertigo Valley skews more green than fuchsia. For months his work barely moves a single square meter, as he works every angle into mise en place.

I was so funny for this [drabbles and quick idea scrawlings I never posted]

nother sym sol bit. Never wrote out how they come to the conclusion but rest assured there was a path I followed here. It makes sense ok. Philosophy is cool. similar line of thought as that one tumblr post that extrapolates "The default way for something to taste is good. When something tastes good we say "tasty" reinforcing that connection," and what that means for our understanding of morals. From that which is in abundance on vertumna, in the values the gardeners hold, one can make a comparative moral good and evil, which would differ from one borne of human culture. And Sym unfortunately falls squarely on the bad side. Lucky for the brand new invasive species tho.

“You're Evil.” You conclude chuckling as you speak out loud the logic of Gardener morality. “By their standards, you're immoral.” Sym doesn't seem to take it as lightly. “Let’s not talk about this, sugarbug.” That takes you aback. Its the first time something has truly been off the table like this. He’d always said it in a playful tone, directed the conversation to another topic. Here, his eyes were pleading with you to drop it. You delight in this, knowing his cursed existence mirrors yours so neatly. But it seems you are the only one to see it as such. You find the idea funny in that self-deprecating, ironic kind of way. That "All you can do is laugh, right?" way. But maybe you're alone in this. Maybe you're the wicked dolphin in a sea of beautiful, morally upright sharks with no higher brain function to be capable of intentional cruelty. You think you are this on some cosmic scale, because your brains dipped halfway into another dimension of reality, while all the others still exist in just the three.

Oh I found the bit abt the green!

When Sym announces that Sol has stopped wearing green, Sol's mothers face tightens, her eyes narrowed, Marz hms indignantly and puts a finger to her chin, Tangent cocks her head to the side and Anemone has no idea what this statement is supposed to evoke in her. Amidst the group of Sols closest friends, she feels stupid for not knowing the answer. Weren't they close once? Weren't they like brothers? It wasn't even so long ago that Anemone still felt close to Sol. She knew them where it mattered, she had thought. Sol, just like Anemone, meant to keep their colony safe at any cost. It wasn't so long ago that they stood side by side with their rifles drawn, watching each others backs. More than anything, the hurt inside Anemone was from the simple fact that she could not protect Sol from this now. Whatever this was. Was green a good sign or a bad one?

the idea being Sol -in line w stuff like insisting people call the xenos "animals" and reminding people that this planet is their home and not some hostile alien prison- very publicly expunges green from their wardrobe to further drive that same point: Vertumna is their home, not the Earth they never experienced. Against their mothers aggressive hostility toward the native plants, they shed what she has stubbornly held onto, they let it go and embrace what is around them. The things that wish to grow. Bit of a political performance piece to make the people around them think abt it. Which also unfortunately Flulu takes as a grave personal insult <3

This works in concert with the drabble of Sols self-exile to the sea, something predating that slightly, perhaps.

---

heres a gushy one. solsym ofc.

Sol admits love is a terrifying concept. There is a fear that among their own kind, it will never be enough. Will they be able to finish their work, be capable of carrying out the work that must be done? How will it change them, them for whom the worst part is the change. The unknowable them, a variable they don't have an answer for. It makes their anxiety spike. They often think it is the wrong choice to love someone. To love Sym. Sym hums, quiet and contemplative for a moment, then murmurs 'I know how you feel." He has embraced all the same follies for Sol. Had to grapple with the same thoughts of how it changed who he was fundamentally, beginning with this body. "Sol, you are such a magnificent human being. I have never met anyone quite like you. When I am with you, it feels… Like I'm witnessing history. Just the movement of your hand captivates and stills my heart, for it might usher in something never before seen. You alone possess such a unique understanding of the vision. For all my fear of how you cloud my judgement, I am dazzled several magnitudes more by what you bring to my life. Be glad, my love, for I trust you implicitly. Do not fear change inside yourself. Think of yourself as an experience, not a hard defined point of identity. It is the truest name for it I have come to know in all of my time as Gardener. Come, experience it with me," he extends his hand to them, a gentle smile opening up his whole face as he looks to Sol with such utter devotion, it stops their brain in its tracks. As if in a daze, they reach forward and intertwine their fingers with his, only conscious of the sound of friction as their palms graze against each other. Only the physical sensations at the forefront of their brain, overwhelming the whole of their thoughts.

Also had this ol thing w Sol post saving Tammy n always trying to raise her confidence route.

Sometimes you think maybe Tammy knows something. Wrapped up in her sad unsure speeches there is an inkling of understanding. Does she know? Does she feel it too? On some smaller scale, but... Does she know she shouldn't be alive? You wonder if being saved by you changes them somehow. You spend your childhood talking more to the adults than to your own peers in an effort to deduce some sort of tell, a connection, wondering if you've made them "stuck" too. You think this is the most callous version of yourself. This burning question has hardened you to trivial experiences. To the simplicity of joy. Its just like Tagent said- You're in the swamp, calculating in your head once again if Vace is more useful to the colony alive or dead. You think you see him, here and there: Sym. It had hurt, but you'd stayed away for as long as you could. Tammy, you should have been fearless, you should have realized you had cheated death and nothing could ever touch you again. Not as long as Sol lived.

#i was a teenage exocolonist #hi fandom huge edgy nerd has logged on to make references to russian auteurs of yore and wax poetic #sol centric stuff #w a Nem bit n a Tammy bit n Sym stuff #my writins #drabbles are in the indents u dont have to read my ramblings I just like to yap n feel self important #I always forget I had this fun thought of Sol suspecting Tammy of being somehow sensitive to the wormhole too or being fundamentally change #somehow. maybe being the way that she is because of sols actions in saving her. her anxiousness n augment r a perfect blend to suspect her #of knowing more than she lets on #or something like that. most of these I wrote way back at the beginning lol #I have a few more.... theres some dys n sol drama but itd need some edits n like idk who care about that #I just cant live w myself when I have unposted things. so Im finally letting it out into the wild.

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itssovero · 6 months ago

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07. Final Fantasy XIV Online: Dawntrail (Square Enix Creative Studio III, 2024)

I'm far from an MMO-focused gamer (I won't be talking about hardcore raiding as I haven't yet worked up the courage to take the leap into that content), but FFXIV absolutely stole my heart back in 2020 with its rich worldbuilding, incredible life-affirming storytelling, immaculate vibes and soundtrack, satisfying cooperative gameplay, and generally welcoming in-game community. With prior expansion Endwalker wrapping up a 10-year narrative saga spanning the game's entire history up to that point, this new adventure is poised to be the start of a whole new phase of the game, and in my opinion, Dawntrail absolutely starts that journey on the right foot (despite what media literacy-devoid outrage merchants on social media would have you believe).

The narrative revolves around themes of community, collaboration, and understanding, with the player character taking on a mentor role to the empathetic and sociable but inexperienced Wuk Lamat as she participates in a rite of succession to become the leader of her nation while coming to truly know the hearts of the people she would serve. She's not running unopposed, however; her journey pits her against a host of other claimants, including her elder brother, who harbors warmongering, expansionist intentions for the nation. With the legend of a fabled city of gold at the heart of this continent-spanning contest, thrilling adventure, heartwarming character interactions, and manmade horrors beyond your comprehension delicious-looking local cuisine are abound.

Without spoiling the twists and turns the story throws at the player as it wends on, Dawntrail in typical FFXIV fashion tells a fundamentally prosocial story that really made me want to connect with my fellow human beings. The story actually positions itself as a sort of companion piece to the critically acclaimed Shadowbringers, both expansions tackling the premise of making the world a better place for those who follow in our footsteps, but each from a different angle, with Shadowbringers focusing on taking back the world from oppressive forces while Dawntrail focuses on preventing such oppression from materializing during times of peace. The setting of Tural is a character unto itself, its lands lush and beautiful, and its peoples and cultures endearing. The revelations throughout also help further expand the scope of FFXIV's universe in ways that will almost certainly be relevant in future stories.

The dungeon and trial design is tight and streamlined, hitting upon what I feel is the perfect level of challenge for normal duties. The two new DPS jobs, Viper and Pictomancer, are both fluid and satisfying to play, the former focusing on pure selfish damage with a busy fast-paced attack rotation, and the latter requiring strategic timing of skills with longer cast times in exchange for absurdly high burst damage and strong party buffs.

The slate of announced patch content is massive, as well, with a large-scale Field Operation, a new roguelike Deep Dungeon, a new wave of multi-path Variant Dungeons, some new form of lifestyle content, and a new unique Limited Job gameplay style all being promised in addition to the usual 8-Player and Alliance Raids. We've seen a lot of these types of content before, but never all at the same time. Combine that with the start of a new story and the currently-ongoing graphical overhaul, and this new phase of FFXIV almost feels more like the start of a sequel than an average expansion release.

#Vero's Game Thread 2024 #Vero's Game Shelf #FFXIV #Final Fantasy XIV #Final Fantasy 14 #FF14 #ff14 dawntrail #dawntrail #ffxiv dawntrail #Final Fantasy XIV Online

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wildbeingwild · 1 year ago

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LiveBlogging DunMeshi:

Ep 1 & 2 (anime)

So far i'm already so in love with everyone holy shit like, dang.

I'm probably affected because 1. i came in with a lot of expectations on it since there are people that recommended it to me and have talked very well about it and 2. i kinda sorta know some spoilers from things i've seen thru fanart and such so.

Anyways, I think i already have somewhat of a grasp in the main cast's personalities like.

(under the readmore cuz i'mma ramble about the characters for a hot second)

Laios is a practical guy that cares a lot about the team, he's an older brother thru and thru. You can see that in how he treats Marcille, trying to make the experience bearable to her despite her very vocally hating eating monsters, or how in chapter one one of the first things he does is tell them that he'll go alone and then, when they say they want to go in with him, he seriously asks them again to make sure.

From that second instance you can also see that he trusts them a lot, something that only gets reinforced during chapter 2 as he just passes his sword, arguably his most important tool in the deadly dungeon, to Chilchuck no questions asked.

And that scene after the mandrake with Marcille just outing herself and her insecurities and Laios comforting her and being understanding!!! I love Laios so much he's a cutiepie.

As with Marcille, she's so fucking cute too, her expressions are immaculate meme material (and that moment where she's hit in the forehead by her falling staff is gold) and, again with the same scene after the mandrake, she's so desperate to help her peers, she loves her team and it shows a lot, even before she outright said it (which would have been the catharsis of other animes' entire arcs or even premises).

(Also, maybe i'm biased because of how much Marcille x Falin i've seen in fanart, but i really love how she literally says "daisuki" lmao, in the manga translation i saw (i only read the first two chapters) she says "A mi también me gusta mucho Falin", which tled to eng would be "I also like Falin a lot" and just, them).

I was also pleasantly surprised by the carnivore plant scene, no pantyshots, no lewd angles, no nothing! That was cool (dang the bar is on the floor, but DunMeshi i think cleared it with a few metres spare).

And another thing, i'm so curious about how she mentions "Dying" a few times, same with the adventurers in ep2, but since the plot is about rescuing Falin i'll guess that second one is a mistl. So i'm really curious about what this means.

Chilchuk meanwhile i'm sure i haven't seen enough of, same with the others but especially with him (and Senshi obv) but so far my read on him is similar to the others, a very genuine person that takes a lot of pride in his specialty, especially because he's the only one standing between his party and deadly traps.

And Senshi, the one and only waifu of dunmeshi, if i were to sum him up i'd say "An older folk that's way too into monster cooking and is excited about others also taking interest" and, same as the rest, he's so very earnest and genuine about everything he does, and his moment with Chilchuck in ep2 is just *chef's kiss*

He's so far, together with Chilchuck, the one i'm most curious about, why has he studied dungeon cooking so much? We were told in ep1 that only criminals go down and eat monsters, so i wonder what's the deal with that? There's also a detail, a piece of dialogue i can't remember but that i was curious about...

Didn't think much of the worldbuilding, it's cool though, that the author went through and narrated the recipes almost in their entirety, it's very complete so far so i'm enjoying it a lot. I'm expecting it to get wilder though.

Also, love the name the translators put there "tragones y mazmorras", which tls to "gluttons and dungeons" and sounds so much like "dragones y mazmorras" which is "Dungeons and Dragons" in spanish, that's gold.

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #tragones y mazmorras #liveblogging dunmeshi #rambles #dunmeshi anime #dunmeshi laios #dunmeshi marcille #dunmeshi senshi #dunmeshi chilchuck #chilchuck #laios #marcille

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sewersidoll · 2 months ago

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˗ˏˋ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝ ˎˊ˗

u have the prettiest, sweetest, most angelic doll face ever, ur facial features are super soft, feminine and youthful, ur facial structure is incredibly soft, delicate and dainty, ur face is literally so freaking cute, pouty, pretty nd squishable(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

ur skin is insanely clear, youthful, flawless nd healthy, ur skin is so pretty, bright nd even toned ! ur skin is incredibly plump, smooth, soft like a cream puff🥯, squishy and bouncy like a delicious pudding 🍮

ur eyes are super duper cute nd huge, taking most of the space on ur face, ur lashes are very long, dark nd full, ur irises are freakishly large, gigantic nd sparkly, ur irises naturally look like 18mm circle lenses⊹ ࣪ ˖, ur nose is extremely dainty nd petite, ur lips are super vibrant, soft, plump nd adorably pouty 🎀

ur hair is super silky smooth, soft, healthy, strong nd pretty all the time⋆˚࿔

easily pass an audition as a jpop idol, become the most famous, successful jpop idol in the entire universe!

u are a born star, a natural talent, ur voice is addictive, it's sweet and smooth like honey nd absolutely heavenly 𝄞 when u sing, ppl feel like they enter a realm of eternal peacefulness, ur skills are immaculate, wether if it's singing, dancing, performing, writing, composing, etc, u are executing all of those things perfectly ^-^ !

u are a literal, international sensation, a worldwide sweetheart, ur stage presence is mesmerizing nd captivating, no one can resist ur beauty nd nobody is capable of looking away when u're performing, it's like u've cast a magic spell on them, u have a magical girl aura, a glittery pink aura that sparkles so intensely that even the aliens on other planets can see, u effortlessly bring happiness 2 everyone! just looking at u makes ppl's heart melt⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ u make ppl feel better, happier, loved and healed (:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅) humans look at u nd fall in luv, as if they were struck in their heart by જ⁀➴ cupid

u are the definition of perfection, it's actually frustrating how flawless u are, unbelievably photogenic, heavenly nd beautiful from every single angle, u make ppl get nosebleeds from ur overwhelming adorableness nd fan service moments ଘ(∩^o^)⊃━☆゜

have a concerningly obsessive fanbase that worships u, ur fans will literally jump anyone who talks bad abt u nd justify all of ur actions, ur fans will start a literal cult for u disguised as an aesthetic /ref, ur fans will literally protect u w their whole life if they need to(crazy twt stans type shi), going out of their way nd beyond to make sure u'll remain their perfect idol, an untouchable porcelain doll they cherish the most ʚଓ

u have the cutest wardrobe in the whole entire world, ur closet is literally bigger than barbie's.ᐟ.ᐟ all of ur clothes are super duper cute nd pretty, they fit u perfectly, like they were tailored specifically for ur measurements, manifest so many cute jpop idol coded clothes, like pretty, pastel dresses nd matching head pieces˚ ༘⋆🛍️｡˚

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ live ur ultimate dream life! ּ ֶָ֢.

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fourseasonsfigs · 11 months ago

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Painting Plum Blossoms

We're jumping from yesterday's Episode 36 Armory figures all the way back to Episode 1.

You'll recall this striking scene:

Here we have Zhou Zishu before he was A-Xu, painting his last fallen brother out of his generation's picture.

This scene is so visually stunning. We have the immaculate profile of the jianghu's most jaded civil servant, dressed in a gorgeously rich, weighty imperial uniform, painting what is quite literally one step away from the last nail for his coffin.

The almost tangible aura of heartsick despair in this scene as he drops his brush is so well done.

I missed this fig entirely. It wasn't even that my hand speed was too slow to snatch it up on release day - I had no idea this figure even existed. I saw it one day when browsing Xianyu and was like, what the what is going on here. The fig maker apparently released this and another one, Flying Aspara Wen, at the same time:

PRETTY cute, don't you think (she says, not bitterly at all)? I have not managed to track this one down yet, but I'm gonna, mark my words.

Right. Anyway, I did manage to find this Painting Plum Blossoms one on Xianyu, and I was really happy about it.

This little man is letting the weight of the world drag him down - his boots were a bit uneven and made him tilt quite a bit to the back.

The brush fit beautifully in his hand - I literally just slid it between his fingers. I didn't even have to glue it or anything, and it didn't move around at all as I moved the fig around to take pics. I was quite surprised.

You can see he's leaning quite a bit to the back. This is a nice angle to see some of the detailing on his Tianchuang uniform, which really is a gorgeous costume. It's actually my second favorite Zhou Zishu costume, after his pale lavender Four Seasons Manor one.

My goodness, what a backwards lean! It makes me laugh. Sorry Zhehan, your gorgeously regal perfect posture is not being well represented in resin here!

I love the detailing on the back of his leather guan here, as well as the strings of his hair tie. I know it looks in the picture like the hair tie is part of his head, but it's actually a totally separate piece. It can move a little back and forth.

I like that the fig maker did some pleating on the back of the outfit. It's a very nice touch. I also like how they did his painting arm, with the wider blue sleeves, the detailing on his bracer, and the modeling on the hand. Look at that delicate blushing on the fingers! Proportions can easily get skewed on the limbs for these figs, but this works beautifully.

Oops, this isn't quite the full side view, I over-rotated him a bit. Anyway, this is a great view of that delicately modeled hand.

Even the brush is well done. This is a good angle to see all the pleating on the front of his uniform and the detail on his belt. I'm really happy with this fig.

I love the detail on the bracers, it looks so good. The guan is rendered well too.

The shadows are a little too thick here, but you can barely see he has blue pants tucked into his black boots. This is a great angle to see all the pleating around the entire outfit.

You'll notice the brush is still being held in his hand! It slid back a bit, but it's still hanging in there.

Similarly, the brush slid out a bit to park against the paper, but it didn't fall right out when I turned him over. You can see a little more (blurry though) of the texture in his hair ties.

The modeling is quite nice on the guan here. I'll also just take a moment to say how grateful I am that the paintbrush was so easy and painless to slide into his hand. I know I always call back to my travails with Han Ye with Sword, but that fig is always in my mind when I see a small piece that needs assembly!

More of the lacing on the guan. So nice! You can see a little bit of the groove in his hair on the bottom right of his head there, where the hair tie piece rests in.

I'm always happy when I get a box card, especially when I have to buy a fig on the secondary market. It got a little bent in shipping but otherwise is in great shape.

Material: Resin and a whole lot of despair

Fig Count: (+1) 524

Scene Count: 38

Rating: Only 35.5 more episodes to go until happiness!

[link to the Master Post Index]

#word of honor #Episode 1 #zhou zishu #zhang zhehan #figthusiast #wen kexing #wen kexing kinda tangentially

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msbigredmachine · 2 years ago

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TARGETS - 33 - Armageddon

Roman Reigns is an agent in the secret organization The Authority and one of the world’s deadliest assassins. When he crosses paths with a mysterious woman during an assignment, he makes a life-changing decision that switches his role from the hunter to the hunted. (AU Espionage Story)

TARGETS MASTERLIST

Thick, putrid black smoke clouded over the entire vicinity in record time thanks to the fast-burning whiskey, providing precious cover for Jasmine and Roman. Several of the agents zoomed in frantically for any sight of the two rogue agents, but it was difficult to see through the smoke and Lily's burning body. On closer inspection, they spotted Jasmine and Roman's jackets laying on the floor. Throwing caution to the wind, the fully armed team began to open fire.

Having ducked behind a Five Guys counter, Roman aimed at a man shooting at him and blew him backwards off his feet. Jasmine found her first target, Lotus, and swiftly put a bullet between her former colleague's eyes. As they ducked out of the restaurant, she managed to rid the dead woman of her grenade belt. From there, Jasmine and Roman smashed through the Dulux store, toppling over a large pyramid stack of paint cans and hiding behind a massive shelving unit to reload ammunition. Jasmine spotted the duffel bag full of money that Lily had given her. With a regrettable sigh, she tucked Lotus's grenade into the bag just as assassins swarmed the area. The grenade went off with a flash and a loud BANG, taking out the four nearest guys and spraying hundred dollar bills in the air like confetti.

Roman and Jasmine were now inside the shelving unit, crouch-running behind the paint cans as the shots rained in, spattering both of them with multiple colors of paint. Rolling out into the aisle across from them, Roman skidded across the floor on his back, firing continuously. Two Authority agents with rifles dropped to the ground, dead. Jasmine seized both of the rifles, tossing one to Roman before turning around and covering his back, shooting at multiple targets pouring into her own end of the aisle. Luckily, the aisles worked in their favor as they only had two directions to cover. With their backs to each other, the couple blasted their way through an oak wardrobe into another shelving unit where they fluidly reloaded their weapons, spinning into the next aisle simultaneously. The swap of directions was just as graceful as the couple covered opposite angles, their fingers on the trigger the whole time.

Assassins filed into each end of the aisle and realized too late that they had no cover of their own. Jasmine and Roman worked through them methodically, their weapons spewing hot lead and brass casings. They stayed observant, reacting to the smallest movements. Quickly realizing that they were at a disadvantage, the agents hung back, taking more caution. Jasmine and Roman seized on that little slip and refused to slow down their rhythm for a second – covering each other, reloading under shelves, crossing into aisle after aisle, covering each other again and again; working perfectly together.

They burst out of the shelving units and into a showroom. They glided through mock-ups of living rooms, kitchens, stalking through studies and immaculate bedrooms like a maze. Rounding corner after corner, they intercepted Agents that fired at them from their vantage points. Still, they came pouring in. It almost seemed as though all of the Authority and F.L.O.R.A. had gathered at this shopping mall. Jasmine and Roman's progress was slowed by the antique furniture, each one blown to pieces by bullets, the fragments cutting into their skin. The shoot-out was relentless, and it wasn't long before they were running out of ammunition. Two Agents advanced towards the blonde woman from the left. Roman went low, grabbing a cable wire from the ground and whipped it out, sweeping the Agents off their feet. As they fell, he snatched their AR-15s in midair and tossed the reinforcements to Jasmine.

He suddenly grunted with pain when a bullet tore through his right leg. He stumbled to the ground, and Jasmine went down with him.

"Roman!"

"Fuck!" he shouted, clutching his leg. Jasmine grabbed his arm and pulled him with her. "Come on." Together, they hit the deck and started military-crawling through numerous beds in rows. Jasmine popped up from behind one bed and took out a shooter emerging from a nearby wardrobe. As another came in full speed towards their direction, Roman popped up and blew his head away. Jasmine looked behind her to find no less than five agents coming into the section after them on both sides. They couldn't take these guys out without splitting up. She looked at Roman. "Can you manage?"

He nodded, his thoughts in sync with hers. With a quick count to three, the two separated, stalking through the beds, popping up and taking agents out, and despite his injury, Roman proved too quick for the agents. More shooters spilled in. Jasmine knew they couldn't hold out for much longer. She shot and weaved her way back to her boyfriend’s location. "We've got to get into the warehouse!" she said, "It's through that door over here."

"Go ahead of me," Roman said, limping towards her. "I'm only going to slow you down."

Jasmine eyed him like he was crazy. "I'm not leaving you," she hissed. She wound his huge arm around her shoulder, locked her own arm around his waist and guided him towards the door. With his free hand, Roman shot at the agents coming to his left. Just as they neared the door to the warehouse, there was a rapid beeping sound from behind them. Roman glanced down at the C4 blinking on the ground, and his eyes widened. "Jasmine! Look out-"

The explosion knocked them both off their feet.

---------------------------

Leona jumped backwards out of Hunter's reach just as he slashed at her with the knife, nearly missing her stomach. She slid away from him, grabbed another knife and aimed for his face, once, twice. He blocked her arm the third time, and with lightning speed, he dodged the other arm she swung at him. Grabbing her by the hair, he drove her face right into the refrigerator, denting the surface. Yanking her back just as viciously, he smashed the heel of his palm into her face and swung her bodily into the kitchen drawers. Knocking back-first into an open one, Leona collapsed like a rag doll, her flailing arm dragging the drawer and all its contents to the ground with her.

Straightening himself up, Hunter wiped the blood in his mouth with the back of his hand. His necktie was gone, his shirt was torn and stained with his blood and hers. He stood over Leona's prone body, his eyes wild and a maniacal grin on his face. Leona remained still on the ground, but her mind was moving, thinking. Out of Hunter's sight, a rolling pin had fallen to the ground. With her arm outstretched, her fingertips closed around it. Above her, Hunter raised his leg, about to deliver the death blow with a slam of his boot onto her face.

With one last burst of adrenaline, Leona swung the rolling pin. The utensil connected viciously with Hunter's other shin, the bone shattering with a loud, ugly CRACK. Hunter screamed in sheer agony and fell to the floor. But Leona let no move go to waste. Pushing herself to her knees, she seized the knife she'd dropped on the floor, straddled Hunter and drove it through the middle of his throat and back out in one brutal thrust, his blood splattering all over her face.

Hunter's eyes popped wide with anger and surprise, eyeing her as though unable to believe she had the balls to finish him off. His mouth moved, attempting to speak, but only a gurgling sound emanated, along with a gush of blood from his lips, the thick red blotches splashing against his paling skin. Leona watched the light in his eyes dim, allowed herself the pleasure of watching the body of the great Hunter Helmsley jerk and tremble before it finally stilled.

Breathing hard, Leona let the knife clatter to the floor and pushed herself away from the body. Suddenly, she let out a loud cry, and collapsed back to the floor and landed awkwardly on her butt, grimacing from two different sources of pain. The adrenaline was quickly wearing off, and the agony that was spreading through her was indescribable. One look down at herself detected the cause of her agony.

Sometime during the fight, she had been stabbed. Blood poured freely from the right side of her abdomen, soaking her shirt and seeping through her hand as she attempted to stem the blood flow. When Hunter drove the knife into her, she had ignored it, kept fighting, her thirst for vengeance overshadowing every other emotion and rational thought she owned. Taking in a ragged breath of dread, she slowly lifted up her t-shirt and winced at what she saw. The wound was deep, much too deep, and Leona knew that her chances of survival were very slim indeed.

With what little strength she had left, she crawled towards the gas stove. Pulling it from its place against the wall, she yanked out the gas hose that was connected to the back of the appliance and immediately, gas came gushing out in a loud hissing sound, filling the entire kitchen with the putrid smell of carbon monoxide. Her body grew weaker with each movement she made, her breaths shorter and more ragged. She wasn't going to last long. Leona propped her back up against the wall, looking over at Hunter's prone, lifeless body. She lit a match and stared at the little stick with warped fascination. She didn't want her body to be found. If she was going to disappear for good, this was the only way it was going to happen.

A serene, content smile spread across her wounded face. She was dying, but everything felt better than it was supposed to be. She had avenged Dwayne, just like she had promised all that time ago. It was all she ever wanted for three years and now she'd done it. Now he would rest easy, and so would she.

I'll see you soon, my love.

And with that, the former Director of The Authority extended her arm, holding the match to the gas pipe. The explosion that followed consumed the entire house in a gargantuan ball of fire.

---------------------

Roman collapsed behind the massive wooden crate, taking in big gulps of air. "Shit..." he gasped. His leg throbbed painfully and he was exhausted. His hair was matted to his face by sweat and blood. Leaning back, he turned his head to see Jasmine sitting next to him, looking as bruised and beat up as he was. "You good?" he asked.

Her reponse was a breathless nod. "Yeah," she breathed, glancing down at his leg. "Jesus."

"Yep. First my shoulder, now my damn leg. I guess I make a great target practice," he quipped, a small, pained chuckle escaping his lips.

With a grunt, Jasmine lifted her shirt, spotting the bullet lodged in her bulletproof vest, where her heart was meant to be. She could sense the dilemma they were in as well. They had barely avoided catastrophe with the explosion. Barely. They could hear pounding through the door of the warehouse as the surviving assassins tried to break it down. They had done all they could, but as expected, the numbers were starting to weigh much too heavily on them.

Looking up, she met Roman's eyes, her heart sinking because she knew what he was about to say. "No," she immediately said, shaking her head. "No! Don't say it!"

"Jasmine, you have to get outta here.” Roman knew that she could still escape, that she could still save herself. She had to. "I’m only gonna slow you down. You can make it outta here and head to Jamaica-"

"I told your punk ass, don’t gimme that bullshit!" she cut him off sternly, "I said what I said; I ain’t goin’ nowhere without you." Her gaze bored into his own. "It’s you and me, okay? Ain’t nowhere I'd rather be than right here, with you, Roman. As long as I'm by your side, I don't give a damn if I don't make it.”

“Baby, please,” he pleaded, “I promised Rose you would make it out of this alive.”

“And guess what? I will make it out alive. And so will you,” she continued, her lip trembling even when she didn't want it to. “We’ve come this far, and we owe it to each other to make it. I owe Leona. I still have the debit card right here. We’ll head out to Jamaica. We’ll find a cute little house by the beach, we’ll go fishing and yachting, I’ll learn how to make good ackee and codfish, and damn it, you’re gonna fuck me senseless and make sweet love to me every single day, on every single surface imaginable when we’re there. Do you understand me, Reigns?”

Her jaw was locked and her expression was full of resolve, and he realized she meant every word. Even in the chaos and on the brink of doom, he had never been more in love with her than in that moment.

“God, you so fuckin’ sexy, babe,” he smirked, “Come here.”

Pulling her to him, he seized her mouth in an intense, desperate kiss. Jasmine reciprocated with equal intensity, both very much aware that despite her rallying cry, this would probably be the last time they would ever get to share such an intimate moment. Right now, the destruction around them didn't matter. Right now, all they saw, all that mattered, was each other.

"I love you, Roman Reigns," Jasmine whispered, kissing him one more time. "I love you until my last breath. I will love you even more after that."

"I love you too, Jasmine. I’ll still love you long after I’m gone," he answered, reluctantly pulling away to cock his AK-47. "So, how we gonna do this shit?"

Jasmine did the same with her own AR-15. "Aim and fire." Being outnumbered didn't change anything. They had vowed to take as many people as possible down with them, and they would, if it was the last thing they ever did.

"You ready?" he asked her. The door to the warehouse was caving in. They could hear the metal bending, succumbing to the pressure.

Taking one final deep breath, she nodded. "Yeah. I'm ready."

"On my signal." There was the most intense expression on his face. "See you in the next life, Jasmine."

Jasmine returned the look. "Likewise, Roman."

The door to the warehouse burst open. A few tense, timed seconds passed before the Samoan gave his lover and partner a quick but firm nod. Together, they leapt out from each side of the wooden crate, trained their weapons on their adversaries, and opened fire.

---------------

One final chapter left. This story has taken so long to finish, lol.

Thoughts?

Credit to the owners of the gifs.

#romanreigns #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns smut #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns imagines #roman reigns x black reader #roman reigns x black oc #targets

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