Narinder sat atop the Lamb’s desk, tail flicking irritably as he glared down at them.

“I was a god.” His voice was low, dangerous—or at least, it was meant to be.

The Lamb, seated in their oversized throne, didn’t even look up from their paperwork. “Mhm.”

Narinder’s claws flexed. “I was feared.”

“Yep.” The Lamb casually stamped something with their seal.

“I ruled.”

The Lamb finally glanced up, their red eyes glinting with amusement. “And now you sit on my desk like a particularly angry housecat.”

Narinder’s ears flattened. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” The Lamb reached out and—**oh, the audacity—**scratched behind his ears.

Narinder stiffened. He should have bitten them. He should have clawed at their wrist, made them bleed. Instead, he melted. His traitorous body leaned into the touch, a low, involuntary purr rumbling in his throat.

The Lamb grinned. Smugly. Infuriatingly.

Narinder hissed and jerked away, fur bristling. “I despise you.”

“Sure you do.” The Lamb leaned back, utterly unbothered, twirling a pen between their fingers. “Now, are you going to sit there and sulk all day, or are you going to make yourself useful?”

Narinder crossed his arms. "I refuse to debase myself further."

“You say that,” the Lamb mused, flipping through documents, “but you also said you wouldn’t let me pet you, and yet…”

Narinder burned with shame. They had a point.

“…I am leaving.” He hopped off the desk with as much dignity as he could muster.

“See you at dinner, Narikitty!~” the Lamb called after him, far too cheerful for his liking.

Narinder hated this.

(…But he would show up for dinner. He always did.)

Narinder made it halfway to the door before he felt a gentle tug on his tail.

He froze. Turned slowly.

The Lamb sat there, utterly unbothered, idly twirling the tip of his tail between their fingers like it belonged to them.

“Let. Go,” he growled.

“You walked off without saying goodbye,” they replied, voice teasing.

“I do not say goodbye. I vanish. I brood.”

“Like a moody little housecat?”

He hissed. “Unhand me.”

“Say please.”

“I will end you.”

The Lamb tugged—lightly, just enough to make his breath hitch.
And stars above, it felt good.

They stood and approached, slow and casual, eyes locked on him like they already knew they’d won.

Narinder stepped back. One step. That was all they needed.

The Lamb knelt in front of him and reached up—fingers sliding under his jaw.
That spot.

Narinder’s mind blanked. His knees folded. A purr thundered up from his chest, raw and unstoppable. His tail flicked, not with irritation, but with giddy need.

He leaned in. Shamelessly. Greedily. His eyes fluttered shut. He wanted more. Gods, he needed more.

The Lamb’s voice dripped with amusement. “There it is.”

Narinder whimpered. Actually whimpered. His pride was dust, and he didn’t care.

“…call me a good boy,” he breathed.

The Lamb tilted their head. “Didn’t catch that.”

He growled, desperate. “Call me a good boy.”

They leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Good boy.”

Narinder practically melted into their hands, purring like a motor, pressing against them for more.

He hated how much he loved this.
He loved how much he hated it.