#almond float

[morethansalad]

Tao Huay Fruit Salad / Almond Float / Almond Agar Jelly & Fruit Salad (Vegan)

[purple-grackle]

new plan every time I consider a sip of the soco or a trip to the shop for amaretto I do 15 squats

[softgrungeprophet]

macadamia nuts are so good

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Lando said in an interview a few years ago that he would be a strict dad when he has kids. Could you do one where lando is a strict dad to either his toddler or teenager? Like with certain things. Maybe that they have to eat some healthy and can’t sit on there ass all day. Of course what you find fitting. Thank you! (I know I requested this earlier but I wanted to add some stuff)

Strict Dad

The Monaco air was golden and warm, pouring into the penthouse through the tall windows that overlooked the marina. Inside, the calm was gently stirred by the soft patter of tiny feet against the polished floorboards.

“Daddy?” came the small voice, delicate like the start of a symphony.

Lando turned from the kitchen counter, where he was pouring almond milk into a cereal bowl. He wore a white t-shirt, hair slightly messy, a wooden spoon still in hand.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said with a soft smile. “You’re up early.”

Yn, his five-year-old daughter, stood in her pink bunny pajamas, hair sticking up in a glorious nest of post-sleep chaos. She rubbed her eyes.

“I heard the birds,” she mumbled.

“You always do,” he chuckled. “Come on, breakfast time.”

She clambered into her chair at the breakfast table— painted in pale yellow with little ballet shoes drawn on the back. Lando set down a bowl of cereal with fruit slices and a separate plate of neatly cut vegetables: baby carrots, peppers, and a few slices of zucchini.

Yn narrowed her eyes at the vegetables.

“Can’t I eat those later?” she asked, her tone hopeful.

“Nope.” Lando leaned against the counter. “You know the rule.”

“But—”

“You chose to be a ballerina. You want strong legs, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“And good vision. Like a racing driver,” he said, tapping his temple.

“I’m not gonna be a racing driver, I’m gonna be a princess who dances.”

“Well, even princesses need their veggies.”

She pouted, but Lando was unmoved. Everyone always expected him to be the “fun dad,” the one who let his kid eat cake for dinner and skip school for go-kart races. And sure, he loved to spoil Yn. He gave her the world and more. But there were rules in his world—structured, thoughtful, lovingly strict rules.

Vegetables before play.

An hour of ballet training every morning, in addition to her ballet academy classes six days a week.

French lessons daily.

And stretching—especially during race weekends.

Yn pushed the carrots into her mouth dramatically.

“You act like I’m feeding you spiders,” Lando muttered, trying not to laugh.

She grinned at him with a mouth full of carrots.

“Princesses don’t eat spiders,” she said after swallowing.

“Well, I should hope not.”

When breakfast was done and every vegetable was gone—Lando checked under the napkin and under the bowl to be sure—he walked her to the living room, where her ballet mat waited.

She twirled once, bare feet tapping lightly on the wooden floor.

“One hour,” he said, tapping his watch. “I’ll set the timer.”

Yn nodded. Lando walked away to get his laptop, but not before casting a quick glance back. She had already started her pliés, her arms floating in perfect form above her head. Her instructor, Madame Evangéline, always said Yn had the natural grace of a bird in flight—and Lando couldn’t agree more.

He settled on the sofa to answer emails but kept half an eye on her. She finished her warmups, did her stretches, and by the forty-five-minute mark was humming to herself mid-arabesque.

When the timer dinged at sixty minutes, she ran to him, cheeks flushed and glowing.

“Daddy!” she said. “Done!”

He kissed her forehead. “Bravo.”

“Do I have to do French now?”

“Oui,” he said firmly.

She groaned, flopping onto the carpet like a pancake.

Lando picked up her French workbook from the shelf and sat beside her. “Just a little. Mademoiselle Rousseau left you a page of verbs.”

“I like colors better,” she muttered.

“But verbs help you say what you want.”

“I already know how to say ‘Papa, je t’aime.’”

He smiled at that.

“And I love you too. But you still need to do your verbs.”

“Ugh, fine.”

As she worked through the conjugation of “être,” Lando glanced around the apartment—her artwork hanging next to his sim rig, her pink ballet slippers drying beside his racing shoes. She was everywhere in his life, and he liked it that way.

She was everything.

It was race weekend in Barcelona and the paddock was already buzzing with activity when Lando arrived, Yn in tow. She had a tiny backpack with her ballet shoes, French workbook, and a small stuffed cat named Pompon.

The rest of the grid loved her.

She waved at Charles, who immediately crouched to her height.

“Bonjour, ma petite,” Charles said with a smooth accent.

Yn giggled. “Bonjour!”

Carlos walked by and raised an eyebrow at the sight of Lando carrying a pink yoga mat.

“Stretching time?” Carlos asked.

“Every day,” Lando replied simply.

“You’re really serious about that, huh?”

“Discipline,” Lando said. “She chose ballet, and I’m gonna make sure she commits.”

Carlos blinked. “Didn’t take you for the strict parent.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Would you let your kid skip physical therapy?”

“No…”

“Exactly. Ballet is her sport.”

George strolled by and joined the conversation, clearly amused.

“I remember you skipping physio sessions with some very creative excuses,” George teased.

Lando smirked. “Yeah, and now I’m making sure she doesn’t turn out like me.”

“You’re terrifyingly mature these days.”

“It’s the dad thing.”

In the hospitality suite, Yn was set up in a corner with her mat, her ballet teacher on Zoom for a check-in.

Lando kept checking over his shoulder between race prep.

“I think her form’s slipping,” he whispered to Oscar as they reviewed strategy notes.

Oscar laughed. “You’re like a stage mum.”

“She’s not doing the full stretch on her left leg.”

Oscar nearly choked on his coffee.

After an hour, Yn finished her stretches and came bounding over, her curls bouncing.

“Can I have gelato now?”

“Did you do your French verbs this morning?” Lando asked.

“Yes!”

He looked at her sideways.

“Conjugate ‘avoir’ in the present tense.”

She huffed and crossed her arms.

“Ice cream now, test later?”

“French first. Then ice cream. You know the rules.”

From behind, Lewis appeared, holding an espresso. “Strict dad strikes again.”

Lando smiled. “Hey, rules are rules.”

“She’s five, mate.”

“Exactly. She’s learning habits now. You think she’ll suddenly become consistent when she’s older if I let her slack off now?”

Lewis raised both hands. “Fair point.”

Yn, meanwhile, was sitting on the ground next to Pierre, trying to make him say silly French phrases from her workbook.

“Say ‘Le chat aime danser,’” she said, giggling.

“The cat loves to dance?” Pierre asked.

She nodded, eyes wide.

He chuckled. “Is that about you?”

“No, about Pompon!” she declared, lifting the stuffed cat above her head like Simba.

“Of course,” Pierre said solemnly. “How foolish of me.”

Later that evening, after media duties, debriefs, and a visit to the team garage, Lando found Yn sitting cross-legged on a beanbag in the motorhome, happily coloring a picture of a racetrack with rainbows and pirouetting ballerinas.

“French done?”

“Oui, Papa,” she said without looking up.

“Show me.”

She handed him the notebook. Her scrawled handwriting filled the page, all in blue crayon. Sloppy, but correct.

“Good job,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. “Want to watch a movie?”

Her eyes lit up.

“Can we watch the one with the pink dragon and the ballet school?”

“As long as you eat your dinner.”

She paused.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken, rice, and—”

“Vegetables?”

He nodded solemnly.

She sighed dramatically and flopped back into the beanbag.

“But also gelato,” he added.

Her eyes opened again.

“Yay!”

Later, long after she’d eaten all her carrots under Lando’s watchful gaze, and finished half a bowl of chocolate gelato, she sat curled beside him on the sofa, wrapped in a soft blanket.

The movie played quietly as she leaned into his side.

“Daddy?” she whispered sleepily.

“Hmm?”

“Are you gonna be at every ballet recital?”

“Every single one,” he promised.

“And when I grow up, will you still make me do stretches?”

He smiled, brushing a stray curl from her cheek.

“Only if you still want to be a ballerina.”

“What if I want to be a race driver like you?”

“Well then,” he said, hugging her tighter, “you’ll have to stretch even more.”

She giggled, her voice soft and sweet.

“You’re the best daddy,” she said.

And he knew then, no matter how strict the world thought he was—no matter how many vegetables or verbs or pliés he made her do—it was all worth it.

Because she was healthy.

Happy.

Disciplined.

And above all, she was loved.

More than anything.

More than racing.

More than winning.

She was his whole world.

And he was hers.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

[theballadofharkness]

Going to the Globes

She’s with with the Director Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x FemDirector!reader

Summary: When the Golden Globe nominations come in, your horror film doesn’t just make the list, it dominates it. Best Picture. Best Script. Best Director. Maya, your girlfriend-slash-marketing queen, is the first person to know. She’s never been invited to the Globes before, but when you tell her she’s your plus one, it changes everything.

Word Count: 8K

Warnings: Explicit smut so as always MDNI

A/N: Part 1 of my Golden Globes fic is here!! X it can be read as a stand alone but be aware the actual ceremony and after party will be the follow up! Xx

You’re still in bed when the phone rings.

Silk sheets twisted around your legs. The black-out curtains are drawn, keeping the room dim even though it’s nearly ten. You haven’t checked your phone, haven’t turned on the TV. You’re floating in that warm, suspended space between sleep and thought, your body still loose and boneless from last night, Maya’s hands, Maya’s mouth, Maya whispering something about “kissing her lucky charm” before slipping out the door in a bomber jacket and Balenciaga slides.

The phone buzzes again.

You reach out blindly across the nightstand, knocking over a heavy book and a glass of water in the process. Your fingers finally close around your phone.

<Maya Mason: Incoming Call…>

You answer with a sleepy mumble. “Baby?”

There’s a pause, like she’s trying to find breath, but then she’s there, crackling and frantic and utterly not composed.

“Can you come to the office?”

You blink, pushing yourself upright with a groan. Your hair’s a mess. You’re in one of her old oversized tees with the neckline ripped. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No — I mean yes — fuck, yes, I’m fine, it’s just — can you just come to Continental?” She sounds like she’s pacing. Like she’s mid-coffee, mid-freakout, mid-something.

Your heart kicks. “Maya? What happened?”

You hear her sigh and then go softer, “please? For me?”

You swing your legs out of bed, all sleep forgotten. “Okay. Baby… okay. I’m coming.”

There’s a breath on the other end of the line, like she’s relieved just hearing your voice. “Just get here. As fast as you can.”

~

Matt’s mid-rant, his arms flailing, a mouth full of almond croissant, saying something about needing “more relatability” on the Kool-Aid movie, when the door flies open.

Maya doesn’t knock.

Matt jolts upright behind his desk, knocking over an iced coffee and a stack of scripts. “Jesus Christ! Maya?”

“WE’RE GOING TO THE GLOBES FUCKERS.”

He blinks. “What?”

Maya Mason, the designer whirlwind that she is, is already halfway into the room, breathless, glowing, hair wild from her frantic walk-run across the floor. Her phone’s still in her hand like she sprinted straight from the call.

She repeats herself, slower. “We’re going to the Golden Globes.”

Matt straightens. “Wait… what?”

She grins, all teeth, eyes sparkling like a woman who’s just pulled off the marketing coup of the decade.

“Don’t play with me right now, Maya.”

“It’s confirmed.” Maya presses both palms down on his desk, practically vibrating. “The Witch. Her film. My girl’s film. It’s nominated. For multiple categories. And she…” Maya chokes, then laughs, then says it again like she can’t quite believe it herself, “she’s nominated for Best Director.”

Matt goes silent.

Maya counts them off, fingers shaking with adrenaline. “Best Director. Best Picture. Best Score. Best Script. Best Actress for Tilda.”

A beat.

Matt screams. “I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

He’s out of his chair, knocking into his standing desk controls, sending it up at a weird angle. “This is it. This is our moment. This is my Rosemary’s Baby, you marketing GENIUS! This is our fucking moon landing!”

Maya snorts. “She’s going to hate you for saying that.”

“I don’t care.” He’s already pacing. “We need to do a full rollout. Press, social, that Variety piece she agreed to — fuck, fuck, we’re going to have a table, right? Like an actual table?”

Maya just laughs. She’s flushed. Breathless. Beaming. “She’s gonna be a wreck. She hasn’t even checked her phone yet.”

“She has to win something right?! All those nominations! Fuck horror films never fucking get this level of respect!” Matt was practically vibrating on the spot.

“And she’s the youngest woman ever nominated in both categories.” Maya adds smugly.

Matt grabs his phone, starts firing off voice memos. “Petra. Confirm a table. I want to be in the front. Score guy, Tilda, Patty, me, see who else from the main cast and production can be seated.”

Maya says nothing. She’s still standing by the door. Her hand is clenched around the phone.

Matt looks up, grinning. “You look like you just won something too.”

She shrugs. “It’s her win. And it’s a Continental win.”

“You should be there. Without you, we wouldn’t have this win Maya” Matt softened for a second to give credit where credit is due.

She smiles again, tighter this time. Familiar. A little sad. “No one invites marketing to the Globes, Matt.”

And before he can say anything else, she turns and walks out, already dialing.

~

The champagne’s already flowing.

Matt’s got a flute in each hand. Patty’s sitting on the edge of his desk, kicking her feet in sparkly mules and laughing about something Quinn just said. Sal’s slumped in the armchair, half-celebrating, half-scowling because it wasn’t his project that got five nominations and made the industry wet itself.

The door swings open hard.

Maya strides back in, sleek and flushed and thrumming. She doesn’t wait. She snatches a glass off the tray, tips her head back, downs it in one long pull.

Everyone stares.

“Jesus,” Quinn mutters, impressed.

“She’s gonna be here in fifteen,” Maya announces, setting the empty glass down with a little clink. “I’m telling her then.”

Matt spins. “Wait she still doesn’t know?!”

“Nope.”

Patty blinks. “How?”

Maya shrugs. “She doesn’t do the internet.”

“Seriously?”

“She’s like a cryptid. A sexy, blood-soaked cryptid who only comes out to direct a movie and then disappears back into the mist with a scarf over her face.”

“She’s literally nominated for five awards how the fuck does she still not know?!” Sal laughs.

“I know,” Maya says, eyes shining. “And she probably hasn’t even opened her texts yet. She still has a flip phone somewhere in our underwear drawer. She’s gonna walk in here wearing my t-shirt and Prada sunglasses and act like nothing happened.”

Quinn shakes her head in awe. “She’s a fucking icon.”

“She’s my icon,” Maya says, softer now. “And I get to tell her she just changed her life.”

The room quiets a little.

Even Sal manages a slow clap.

Matt raises his glass. “To the freak in the shadows.”

“To the witch with the camera,” Patty adds.

“To her,” Maya says.

They all clink glasses just as the elevator dings down the hall.

The elevator doors part with a hiss.

You step out like a specter: long coat over sleep-rumpled silk, dark sunglasses, hair long and unbrushed. One hand clutches a tray, iced coffee with too many pumps of vanilla, a warmed muffin tucked into a napkin. The other holds your phone, screen cracked, texts unopened.

You’re not online. You’re not part of the buzz. All you know is Maya sounded off, her voice too high, too breathless, asking you to come in “please, just for me.” So you came. Muffin and caffeine in hand. Worry coiled tight in your ribs.

The office hallway is loud.

You hear the champagne laughter before you even round the corner. A glass shatters. Someone yells. Patty shrieks something about her couture.

You pause, shifting the tray in your hands. “Oh no,” you mutter under your breath. “They’re drunk.”

You nudge the door open with your shoulder.

She turns the second she hears the door click. Maya’s eyes flick to your hands, and something breaks in her.

You don’t even get a word out before she’s striding over.

“It sounded serious so I got the coffee you like,” you say, holding it up stupidly. “And the muffin with the—”

She grabs your face with both hands and kisses you. Hard. Right there, in front of everyone. It’s not a show. It’s not for the room. It’s relief. Euphoria. Pride. Love.

You drop the tray.

The coffee hits the floor.

Nobody cares.

When she finally pulls back, her hands still cradling your jaw, you blink up at her.

“What… was that for?”

Maya’s eyes are glassy. Her voice is soft. “You’re nominated.”

You blink again. “For…?”

She laughs and kisses your forehead, your cheek, your mouth again. “Golden Globes baby. Best Director. Best Script. Best Picture. Tilda got Actress. Score too. Five nominations.”

The world tilts.

You sway slightly, and Maya’s arms are already there. Holding you steady. “Oh,” you whisper.

Behind her, Sal screams, “YOU’RE A FUCKING LEGEND.”

You don’t hear it.

You’re just staring at Maya, lips parted, stunned and still. “Why didn’t you tell me when you called?” you whisper.

“I wanted to do it in person,” she says. “I wanted to see your face.”

You blink once. Twice. Then bury your face in her neck. “Oh my god.”

“I know, baby,” she murmurs, holding you close. “I know.”

You’re still next to Maya. One arm looped around her waist. Your body is humming. Your spilled coffee is forgotten on the floor.

Matt’s in full award show mode. He’s pacing, phone in hand, rattling off strategy like a man possessed.

“Okay. Carpet first. You’ll talk to Vanity Fair mic, E! livestream, the usual outlets with Tilda and Dafoe. You’re gonna be the director they will want to talk to!”

You nod vaguely, still trying to process.

“Then there’s the luncheon thing, you’re gonna hate the luncheon but the food is surprisingly good,” Patty interjects, “and then the red carpet, obviously, then we end up at the table right up front. You, me, Patty, the score guy, Tilda, some of the cast and crew…”

You blink. “Where’s Maya?”

Matt looks up. “What?”

“For the Globes,” you say. “Where’s she sitting?”

There’s a pause.

Matt chuckles awkwardly. “Oh… marketing doesn’t usually go to awards stuff.”

“It’s a very exclusive event,” Patty adds. “It’s producers, talent, and studio heads like Matty. Not marketing.”

You turn your head slowly. Look at Maya.

She’s frozen. Just for a second. Then she laughs. That classic Maya Mason laugh, tight, breathy, self-deprecating. “Yeah, no, I’m not going. I mean, I never go. I’ll be running point from here. Social, press strategy, everything the next morning—”

“No.” Your voice is quiet but sharp.

Matt freezes. “Uh. No to what?”

You look at him like it’s obvious. “Maya has to be with me for all of it. My girlfriend goes or I don’t. It’s that simple.”

There’s a pause.

Matt blinks. “You mean, like… on the carpet?”

You just stare. “Yes,” you say. “On the carpet. At the table. At the fucking afterparty. Maya’s with me.”

Everyone turns to look at Maya.

And Maya? She lights the fuck up.She stares at you, eyes wide, lips parted. The kind of expression Maya Mason never wears. Not in meetings. Not in negotiations. Not even when she’s talking someone into a seven-figure deal with nothing but a smile and a slideshow.

She looks like someone just cracked open her ribs and kissed her heart.

“Wait, wait, wait… are you for real?” she says, eyes wide. “You want me, like ‘with you’, with you? Like, holding your hand on the carpet, getting glammed, ‘who are you wearing?’ energy, next to you at the table kind of with you?”

You nod once.

She gasps like someone just offered her equity in Valentino.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I’m going to the fucking Golden Globes.”

Matt stares. “Okay well I guess we need another seat.”

“She’s sitting next to me,” you say. “Center.”

Sal whistles. “Fuck. Okay.”

And Maya, still blinking, still breathless, leans in and kisses you, messy and fast and grateful, like she’s trying not to cry but maybe doesn’t care if she does.

She turns to you, a little out of breath.

“I get to stand next to you. While you win. I’m gonna be the first person to touch you when you come off that stage. That’s so… I mean that’s so fucking hot.”

You blink, then smile.

She smiles too.

You reach out, hook a finger through her belt loop, and pull her back toward you.

“I want you there,” you say. “You’re the other half of my soul.”

Maya exhales, soft and wrecked. “Damn right I am.”

The next hour passes like a blur. You’re curled on the couch next to Maya, your legs over hers, stealing lazy kisses while she tries to act composed. Matt begins pacing as the calls start rolling in, congratulating him on the nominations, questions about Oscar buzz, various brands reaching out for sponsorships, representatives of the Award Show itself talking logistics. Sal’s taken to sulking upon learning he’d have to fork out $30K for a seat at the back of the room. Patty is regaling tales of her first Globes night to Quinn.

Then Tyler walks in, holding his iPad like it’s a message from God.

“Okay,” he says, breathless. “Maison Margiela, Alexander McQueen, Prada, and Gucci have all reached out. They want to dress the whole ‘The Witch’ team.”

There’s a pause. The room buzzes.

You glance up from your spot curled on the couch, still half-tucked into Maya’s side. Voice low, calm.

“Maya likes dressing up,” you say softly. “She can choose. As long as they agree to dress her too.”

The room freezes.

Maya turns to you slowly.

“Wait. what?”

You blink at her. “You’re coming. With me. So they have to dress you too. If they want me.”

Maya stares at you like you just rewrote the laws of reality. “… I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say?”

Quinn mutters, “Oh fuck, she’s gonna lose it.”

You meet her eyes, deadpan. “Well if they want me, then they have to dress you too.”

Her mouth drops open. “ON GOD?!”

Patty snorts.

Sal chuckles, “Here we go.”

But Maya is gone. She’s up. She’s pacing. She’s vibrating.

“Shut the fuck up,” Maya snaps, eyes still on you. “Are you being serious right now? Are you… you’re telling me that I get to pick any of those designers I spend half my paycheck on, walk the carpet in full glam, next to you, and actually get photographed and credited and tagged and asked who I’m wearing?!”

You nod, amused. “Well yes, that’s the plan.”

“On fucking GOD?!”

She screams. She stands. She immediately circles the room like she’s trying to walk it off but can’t. “Shut UP. Shut the fuck UP. I’m gonna be hot at the Globes?! Me?! In Margiela?? With the winning director of the night?! I’m gonna be someone’s Pinterest board. I’m gonna be on every gay moodboard in the country—” she began to waffle on in pure unfiltered joy.

You smile softly, eyes lowered. “Honey, I haven’t won. I’m nominated, there’s a difference”

Matt watches her spin out and says, “She’s not gonna make it to the carpet.”

Maya turns back to you, breathless. “Are you really serious?”

You nod, smiling at her unbridled joy. “Deadly.”

Maya melts. Fully drops her phone, rushes across the room, and kisses your face, your cheeks, temple, and all the way up your jawline in a blur. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she mutters into your hair. “And I work in marketing.”

You blush, becoming shy. “Love you.”

“I’m gonna fuck you in a McQueen bustier,” she announces.

Quinn cackles.

Patty groans. “Jesus Christ, Maya…”

“No. You don’t get it. You don’t get it. I feel like I’m being proposed to. I’m gonna cry and then ride your face in couture.”

You raise your brows, soft and steady. “So… can we go back home?”

Maya grabs your wrist like she’s about to drag you into a supply closet. “I need you. Now. Or I’m going to black out.”

You can’t help but laugh, letting her pull you toward the door.

Matt yells, “Maya, think of HR … Maya? MAYA!”

~

The door of Maya’s office slams shut behind you.

You barely have time to register the sound before Maya’s mouth is on yours—hot, open, starving. She’s kissing you like her hands are on fire, like she’s waited her whole life for this moment and just realized it’s real.

You stumble backwards with her, tangled in her grip, until your back hits the sleek marble of her desk. Papers scatter. Her laptop slides. You don’t care. Neither does she.

“Baby,” she gasps between kisses. “You just, fuck, you broke me.”

You smile against her lips, smug and breathless. “You like designer dresses that much?”

She moans and kisses you harder.

“You’re going to the Golden fucking Globes,” she pants, hands sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist like she wants to crawl inside you.

“We” you corrected breathlessly, “we are going to the Golden Globes”

“And you just told four fashion houses to fight for the right to put me in a free fucking gown?! Are you, god, are you trying to kill me?”

You murmur cheekily, “Maybe.”

She groans, attaching her mouth to your throat. “I’ve never been this turned on in my entire life.”

You arch into her, neck tilted, letting her press you flat against the desk.

“You’re gonna win,” she whispers, voice shaking with pride. “You’re gonna win Best Director and look like a fuckin spooky goddess or something doing it. And I get to be there. Next to you. In fucking Prada.”

She kisses you again, messy, desperate, and worshipful, like she’s trying to eat the words off your lips. “I swear to god,” she breathes, “you say one more thing nice to me and I’m gonna—”

You cut her off with a whisper: “You deserve all of it.”

She whimpers. Actually whimpers.

“Okay,” she says, hitching your skirt up to your hips, “I need you now. I’m about to climax just thinking about a Maison Margiela custom glove moment. I’m going to come just from being tagged in a Getty caption next to you.”

You laugh into her mouth. “Maya—”

“No. Shut up. My girlfriend’s a genius auteur witch who gets nominated for Globes and tells Gucci to dress me like I’m a fashion icon. I’m fucking feral, do you understand?”

You nod.

And then you gasp as she drops to her knees.

Your breath catches, your hands automatically go to her shoulders, fingers curling in the soft stretch of her tee. “Maya…”

“No. No talking.” Her voice is low. Dangerous. Reverent.

She looks up at you like you’re sacred. Like you’re art. And you are, pressed against her desk, blouse open, breath coming shallow, eyes glassy and dark.

“You think I’m gonna let you walk in here,” she growls, “casually say ‘Maya can pick the designer,’ like that’s nothing, and not ruin you?”

You tremble. Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and possessive.

“Maya, please…”

“Say it again.”

You blink, breathless. “Say what?”

“What you said that made me drop to my fucking knees.”

You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve all of it.”

She groans, like the words physically affect her. “Oh my god,” she mutters, pushing your skirt up, “I’m gonna be good to you for weeks.”

And then her mouth is on you.

You cry out, a sharp, broken thing, and clutch the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

She eats your pussy like she’s starved. Like you’re a goddess that demands worship through orgasms alone. Like you belong to her.

Her tongue is fast, her grip unrelenting. She moans into you, arms wrapped around your thighs, hands sliding under your ass to pull you closer. She’s possessed, like your pleasure is the only thing anchoring her to this plane of existence.

You whimper. Your knees buckle. “Maya… baby, please, please—kiss me?”

She pulls back, lips slick, panting. “You want kisses, baby?”

You nod frantically, eyes wet. “Please. Need you.”

“Oh my fucking god.” She’s up, grabbing your face, devouring your mouth like she’s claiming it. “You sound so pretty when you beg.”

You’re gasping into her kiss, your fingers gripping the hem of her pants, trying to pull her closer, anything, everything.

She kisses you harder. Slower. Deeper.

“I love you,” she breathes into your mouth.

You whimper again. “I love you. I love you Maya…”

She presses you back against the desk again, her hand sliding between your thighs, fingers slick and steady.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “Be good for me. My girl. My babygirl. Gonna come for me?”

You nod, desperate.

And when it hits, when your body breaks open under her touch, she kisses you through it, kissing your cheeks, your lips, your neck, like she’s tasting every part of you, like you just made her immortal.

You slump against her, dazed. Shaking.

She holds you there, her fingers stroking gently over your thighs, her mouth pressed to your hair.

“You just gave me the best gift of my entire life,” she murmurs.

You blink up at her, eyes full of tears. “What, the Globes?”

“No,” she whispers, eyes full of something dangerous and devoted. “You want to tell the world you’re mine.”

~

You wake up sick. It’s not the flu. Not food poisoning. Not anything you can name. Just that slow, steady churn in your stomach. Dread curling under your ribs. Your body feels tight and hollow all at once.

It’s still dark outside.

And you’re still wrapped in Maya.

She’s asleep, limbs tangled in yours, bare skin pressed to bare skin. One arm flung over your waist. Her hand resting just beneath your breast. Her face tucked into your neck like she doesn’t want to miss even a breath of you.

You should feel safe.

But your throat is tight, your skin itches with nerves.

You can’t stop thinking that today is the Golden Globes. Today you’re going to walk a red carpet. Today you might win. Today you’ll be paraded out like a show pony. Fully. Publicly.

And all you want is to disappear.

You bury your face deeper into Maya’s neck, your breath shaking. You try to be still. Try not to wake her. But your hands shake where they grip her waist. You feel like a ghost in your own body.

You whisper, “I don’t want to go.”

She stirs. Not fully awake, just half-dreaming, but her grip tightens around you.

“You cold?” she mumbles, voice wrecked with sleep.

You shake your head.

But you don’t speak again. You just bury closer. Tangle your legs around hers. Press your face into the curve of her shoulder and try not to cry.

You need her. Today. Now. More than ever.

Because if she lets go, even for a second, you’re afraid you might float away.

Maya stirs again.

A soft grunt in the back of her throat as she shifts, adjusting to your closeness. Her nose brushes your hairline. She mumbles something incoherent, fingers flexing over your waist.

Then she stills.

She feels it.

The tension. The way your breath is caught in your throat. The way your body’s curled into hers like a girl trying to disappear. Her brows twitch. One eye opens.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice scratchy and deep, barely awake. “What’s goin’ on, baby?”

You shake your head into her chest, arms clutching her tighter. You don’t answer.

She blinks herself more awake. “Are you—?” She pauses. Then, gentler. “You feel sick?”

A nod. Small. Barely there.

Maya lets out a soft exhale. Both arms curl around you, wrapping you up like you’re something precious. Her lips find your hair. She kisses your temple. Your cheekbone. The top of your ear.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

You press your face into her skin. You can’t stop shaking. It’s not cold. It’s just everything.

“I don’t wanna go,” you murmur, voice trembling. “I don’t wanna be looked at. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

Her mouth finds your jaw, slow and steady. “You don’t have to do anything yet,” she says. “You’re not on a carpet. You’re here. With me. You’re just a sleepy little cryptid in my bed and I’m gonna hold you till you remember how fucking brilliant you are.”

You make a broken little sound.

Maya kisses it away.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” she whispers. “You made something huge. You told the world who you are. And now they’re celebrating you for it. That’s terrifying. But I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Her hand drifts down your back, drawing soft circles into your spine.

“You’re my genius. My scary, spooky little auteur,” she murmurs. “I’m gonna zip you into that dress and stand next to you all night and remind them all who they’re dealing with. But right now? I’m just gonna keep kissing you until you fall back asleep or start complaining about how I can’t wear latex on the carpet.”

You let out a soft laugh. A real one. “It just feels too impractical for an event where we’re will be predominantly sat” you explained softly

Her smile presses into your skin.

“That’s it,” she says. “There’s my baby.”

You don’t say anything.

You just cling tighter.

And let her hold you until the world feels a little less loud.

The sunlight is creeping in now.

It catches in the fine strands of Maya’s hair, paints gold across her cheekbone, her collarbone, the curve of her bare shoulder where the blanket’s slipped.

She’s propped up on one elbow, trying to be gentle about it. Trying not to pull away too fast. “Baby,” she whispers, brushing your hair back. “We have to start getting ready.”

You shake your head, face buried in her neck. “No.”

“They’re gonna be here in, like, twenty minutes.”

“No.”

She laughs softly. “Glam team’s gonna break the door down and find us naked and fused together like a two-headed banshee.”

“Good.”

Maya strokes your back, slow and soothing. “Come on. You’ve got a dress that could raise the dead. You’ve got Tilda waiting to take shots with you. You’ve got a nomination for Best Fucking Director.”

You cling tighter, “don’t remind me”

She kisses your temple. “You can do this.”

You just kiss her neck.

Then her shoulder.

Then her mouth.

Soft, needy, warm. Not trying to start anything. Just needing to feel her. Just needing to stay close.

“I can’t breathe when you’re not here,” you whisper. “I know that’s pathetic.”

Maya’s hand finds your jaw. Tilts your face up.

“Not pathetic,” she says. “Human.”

You blink at her, eyes glossy. “Can we just… stay like this?”

She smiles. “We can stay like this for exactly seven more minutes. Then you have to let me put fancy shit on your face and help you into a dress that’s going to make people cry.”

You press your forehead to hers. “Promise you won’t leave me tonight?”

She pulls you closer. “Baby, I’m gonna be on you like a second skin. I am not letting go. I’ll hold your hand on the carpet. I’ll kiss your shoulder if you get nervous. And if anyone even thinks about asking who I am, I’ll say, ‘I’m the bitch she wakes up next to.’”

You let out a broken little laugh. “That’s romantic.”

“I thought so.”

You kiss her again.

And again.

And again.

Until your fingers stop shaking and your heart starts to believe her.

You keep kissing her. Lazy, insistent, endless.

Maya’s half-laughing now, propped up on her elbow as you shift to press your mouth to her collarbone, then her sternum, then her jaw. Each kiss is soft and clinging, more plea than seduction. Your fingers trace her ribs like she’s something fragile. Like she’s your last warm thing.

“Baby…” she breathes, somewhere between a moan and a warning. “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m gonna cancel the Globes.”

You smile into her skin. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Oh my god.” She falls back onto the pillows with a groan. “You’re such a menace.”

You crawl after her, half-draped across her chest, eyes shut, lips brushing her throat. “I just want to stay here. With you. That’s all I want.”

Maya sighs, curling an arm around your waist. “You say that like it’s unreasonable. You say that like I’m not also living for this.” She turns her head, kisses your temple. “But we do need to go. Eventually. Like, very soon. Very awards-season soon.”

“No,” you growled against her throat.

“I love you, but you’re literally the reason they make schedules. The glam team is gonna riot.”

“They can wait.”

Maya laughs. Full-bodied. Real. Her hand rubs your back, fingers lazy. “They’re probably outside trying to break into the house.”

“I have protection spells around the property, I’m not worried” you shrug and kiss her again. And again. Your leg hooks over hers, your nose presses into her neck, and your whole body sighs like it’s finally safe.

“I don’t want to be anyone else’s today,” you whisper. “I just want to be yours.”

Maya’s hand pauses on your back.

Then she flips the blanket higher over both of you, tucking you in like something sacred. She kisses your hairline, long and lingering.

“You’re always mine,” she murmurs. “Whether you’re in a gown or in this bed. Whether you win or not. You’re mine.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

“I’ll be right next to you the whole time,” she adds. “Cameras or not. You just keep looking at me. I’ll do the rest.”

You finally lift your eyes to hers. “Swear?”

“On Margiela. On the Prada. On fuckin Valentino. On your haunted little heart.”

You lean in and kiss her again, longer this time. Less desperation. More knowing.

You’re going to go.

Eventually.

Maya doesn’t force you. She just starts moving slowly, like she’s done it a hundred times before. You feel her shift beside you, warmth leaving your chest as she rises, but her hands stay on you. One trailing along your hip. The other brushing back your hair.

“Come on, baby,” she murmurs. “Let me get you ready.”

You make a soft noise. Protest. Not quite no, but not yes either.

She leans down and kisses your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the spot just behind your ear. “You don’t have to do anything,” she whispers. “I’ll do it all. Just come sit up for me.”

You blink slowly. Your chest feels full. Heavy. But you nod.

She coaxes you upright with warm hands, murmuring gentle things into your skin as she helps you swing your legs over the side of the bed. The sheet drops away, and the room is cool, but she’s already reaching for the robe draped over the armchair, wrapping it around your shoulders like it’s armor.

“There she is,” Maya says softly. “My scary little director. Sweetest thing in the world after noon.”

You don’t answer, you just look up at her from where you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. Eyes glossy. Lip trembling.

Her teasing dies the second she sees your face. “Oh,” she breathes. “Baby.”

You try to look away, but she’s already kneeling in front of you, hands on your knees.

“I’m okay,” you lie.

She reaches up, brushes a thumb under your eye. “You don’t have to be.”

Your throat tightens. You stare at her, really stare? and it hits you all over again. How she’s always there. How she never makes you feel too much. How she shows up, always, without asking for anything back. And now she’s kneeling in front of you in a silk robe and nothing else, kissing your knees like you’re a holy thing.

“I’m gonna take care of you today,” she promises. “You don’t even have to think. You just let them glam you up, let them put you in that gown, and you keep holding my hand.”

You nod. Barely.

She kisses your knees again. Stands. “Let me do your hair.”

She leads you gently to the vanity, settles you in her lap like you weigh nothing, and starts brushing long, careful strokes down your back, her lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds, just to remind you she’s still there.

“You’re gonna ruin them,” she whispers. “You’re gonna walk in and every exec who passed on you is gonna spontaneously combust. It’s gonna be so hot.”

You let out a broken laugh. She smiles into your neck.

You hear them before you see them.

Laughter. Heels. The rustle of garment bags. Someone’s yelling about steaming silk like the world is ending.

Maya kisses your cheek, still in her robe, her hair pinned up with golden clips. “They’re here.”

You nod, still sitting quietly at the vanity. The robe clutched tight around you like it’s armor. You’re doing better, your hands have mostly stopped shaking, but you still flinch a little when the door opens.

Tyler walks in first. “Okayyyy ladies,” he calls, grinning like he lives here. “Let’s get glam, baby.”

He’s in a blazer over a vintage silk shirt, juggling two iced coffees and an iPad. He hands one to Maya, kisses the top of your head without asking, and offers the other to you.

“Oat milk, two brown sugars,” he says. “I doubled checked with Maya yesterday that this was your order”

You take it. “Thank you, Tyler.”

“No problem, queen of horror.” He leans in, voice soft, conspiratorial. “You doing okay?”

You nod, small.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Cool. We’ll keep it chill.”

And he does.

Even as the glam team floods in, stylists, dressers, a makeup artist with fangs on her necklace, Tyler runs interference like a champ. You sit still, sipping your coffee, letting them work around you. He distracts the loud ones. Gently redirects energy away from you when he sees your hands start to twitch.

But Maya?

Maya is in her element.

She’s standing by the mirror in nothing but her robe, bare leg peeking out, sipping coffee and scrolling through her phone like she’s the main event. Every few seconds she flings off a line like—

“Wait, if I wear the gloves, do I need earrings or is that redundant couture?”

or

“Is it bad if I bring a purse just for lip gloss and a single Xanax? I want to look like I don’t need it but still have it.”

You catch yourself watching her in the mirror.

Lit up. Confident. Buzzing.

And somewhere deep in your ribs, something unclenches. You’re still nervous. But she’s here. She’s glowing. She’s yours. And she’s making sure the world sees it.

Every time she catches your eye, she winks. “Looking good, babygirl,” she purrs. “They’re not ready for us.”

You’re back on the couch, fresh-faced and wrapped in a robe, while the stylists float around you like shadows. You’re not the focus right now.

Maya is.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

She’s standing in front of the full-length mirror, robe half-open, skin glowing under soft ring lights. Her hair is already pinned in place, voluminous, glossy, old Hollywood waves with a modern, streetwear slick edge. Her skin is golden. Lips subtly and strategically glossed.

“Okay, I need the cuff on the left arm, stacked rings on the right,” she says, gesturing toward the tray of jewelry like she’s conducting an orchestra. “No necklace. This neckline’s doing the work.”

Tyler hands her a tray. “Margiela said the gloves are optional but—”

“Gloves are non-negotiable,” Maya cuts in.

You smile behind your coffee cup.

A stylist holds up two clutches.

Maya points. “The smaller one. I don’t need a purse, I need a statement. I’ll shove my ID and a breath mint in my bra like a professional.”

She turns suddenly, locking eyes with you. “Baby, are you watching this? I’m literally manifesting myself into becoming a fashion icon.”

You nod, soft. “You’re doing amazing honey.”

Her grin is crooked, cocky, a little breathless. “I feel like I’m finally able to realise my true potential.”

She steps into the dress, stylists zipping it up in the back. Maya smooths the fabric over her hips, breath hitching. “Okay. Okay. Oh my god, this is dangerous. I’m gonna get arrested. This is red carpet porn.”

Tyler chimes in, totally deadpan. “Your ass should have its own IG.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Finally, someone respects my craft.”

She turns again, checks her profile, lifts one brow.

“You think it’s too much?” she asks you, suddenly quiet. “I mean, I don’t want to outshine you or—”

“No,” you say, and your voice is clear now. “It’s perfect. You look like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Maya stops.

Softens.

Then gives you that smile. The one that means she’s about to either cry or climb into your lap.

But instead, she straightens her gloves. “Okay. I’m ready to make the Globes my bitch.”

Now it’s your turn.

The team moves around you with quiet precision, zippers whispering, brushes sweeping, powder settling like dust on old bone. You sit still. You let them paint you pale, line your eyes dark, twist your hair into something loose and long and dreamlike.

No sharp angles. No harsh lines.

You are not Maya Mason. You are something softer. Stranger. The goal is not to look hot but older than time.

Your gown is dark, sleek in some places, sheer in others, as if the fabric had been conjured rather than sewn. There’s something witchy in the cut, the drape, the way the hem moves like fog over the floor. You look like someone who should arrive at the Globes in a hearse pulled by a murder of crows.

And Maya?

Maya’s staring. From her spot on the bench, already fully dressed, gloves on, lip gloss perfect, she watches you like she’s being haunted.

“Holy shit,” she says, under her breath.

You glance up at her. Your makeup artist gently adjusts your chin. “Too much?” you murmur, self-conscious.

Maya laughs like you’ve just asked if the sun’s too bright. “You look like a bride of Dracula.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a compliment?”

Maya stands. Walks over slowly. “Baby,” she says, low and reverent, “you look like the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. You look like you’re gonna win Best Director and then ascend into mist.”

You smile, small and shy.

She steps behind you, hands careful on your waist. Her fingers skim the edge of the fabric, her chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “Let them talk,” she whispers. “Let them stare. You’re gonna take their breath away.”

She kisses the space just beneath your ear. “You don’t even have to say a word. They’ll still know who you are.”

You reach up, place your hand over hers. And for a second, the glam team disappears. The camera flashes, the nerves, the noise, it all fades.

It’s just you, her, and the quiet, staggering love between you.

The room is buzzing.Hair is done. Gowns are zipped. A shoe emergency has been narrowly avoided. Tyler is packing backup earrings into a clutch like he’s handling explosives.

And Maya, your goddess, menace, and marketing warlord, is perfection.

She stands by the mirror, hands on her hips, giving angles to no one in particular. Her dress fits like it was born for her. Her gloves are on. Her lip gloss is dangerous. She is peak Mason.

And you? You’re watching her like she’s prey.

“Maya,” you murmur.

She turns, distracted. “Yeah, baby?”

You reach out and tug her hand, just slightly. Just enough. She comes closer without thinking. She always does.

You wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her gently toward you. Your voice is a whisper. “I wanna make out.”

Maya raises an eyebrow. “Now?”

You nod. “Right now.”

She glances over her shoulder, Tyler’s muttering something about boob tape to a stylist. The rest of the team is sorting lashes and lint rollers.

Maya leans in, lips already parted, ready to give it to you when one of the stylists shrieks.

“No no no no NO—” she protests, diving forward with a powder brush. “LIP GLOSS!”

Maya pulls back fast, blinking. “Oh shit.”

“I just finished her mouth,” the artist wails. “She’s flawless. She has a perfect lip. You’ll ruin it!”

Maya stares at you. Then at the mirror. Then sighs. “Okay yeah no I do look hot as fuck right now. Baby we have to wait”

But you’re already grabbing at her waist again, pouting. “Just one kiss,” you whisper. “I’ll be good.”

She groans. “Fuck. Don’t do that face.” She leans in an inch. “You’re gonna make me throw this whole look away just to crawl on top of you in custom couture.”

Tyler yells from across the room, “IF YOU MESS UP YOUR FACES I WILL TELL VOGUE YOU USED DRUGSTORE CONCEALER.”

Maya barks out a laugh. “Okay, okay! Baby, you get one kiss. A chaste kiss. Like we’re in a fuckin Austen novel.”

You nod sweetly.

Then pull her down and absolutely ruin her. You kiss her hard, hot, a little greedy. One hand in her hair. Her lip gloss smudges immediately and she lets out a whimper into your mouth.

You pull back, breathless. Smiling.

Maya looks wrecked and radiant. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “You’re a menace. And I’m obsessed with you.”

Tyler walks by, muttering, “I swear to god, next time I’m bringing a squirt bottle.”

~

You’re in the backseat of a luxury black SUV.

There’s soft music playing. Everything smells like leather and floral setting spray. Maya’s phone is buzzing with texts from Tyler, updates from PR, a Vogue intern begging for a quote.

You don’t care about any of it.

Because Maya’s sitting next to you in full couture. Hair glossy, lip gloss reapplied to perfection, gloves smoothed up to her elbows. She’s crossed her legs, her slit high and skin golden, and her head is tilted ever so slightly, scanning her texts like she doesn’t know what she’s doing to you.

You squirm in your seat. Not dramatically. Just… a shift. A subtle exhale. A whine caught in your throat.

Maya glances over. “Baby...”

“I can’t wait.”

She raises a brow. “Can’t wait for what?”

You look at her, actually look at her, and you’re down so bad. The gloves. The gown. The smug little smirk she doesn’t even know she’s wearing. You’re not okay.

“I need you.”

Maya blinks. “Oh no.”

You shift again, pressing your thighs together. Your hand lands gently on her knee. She looks down at it like it’s a threat.

“Baby,” she says, voice hushed but sharp, “I am in custom Margiela. You can’t just squirm at me in archival silk.”

You lean closer. Breathe her in. “You look so good. It’s making me crazy.”

She clenches her jaw. “Fuck.”

You nuzzle into her shoulder. “Want you so bad.”

She laughs, nervous, aroused and a little desperate. “I cannot finger you in a moving vehicle on the way to the Golden Globes, babe.”

You pout. Whisper against her neck. “Don’t need that. Just your mouth. One kiss.”

“No, because you say ‘one’ and then suddenly we’re dry humping in designer dresses. You’re literally twitching. You’re like a Victorian ghost who caught a glimpse of bare ankle.”

You groan softly, dragging your fingers up her thigh. “You smell like a hot rich woman who I want to ruin me in a guest bathroom.”

“I am that,” she mutters. “But not in this dress.”

You shift again. She lets out a strangled sound and grabs your wrist.

“No. No no no. You need to calm down. This outfit is structured. There is boning. If you wrinkle me before Getty Images even sees me, I swear to god—”

You press your face into her shoulder, laughing softly, desperate. “But you’re so pretty.”

She leans over, kisses your temple, quick, firm, and breathy. “Five minutes, babygirl,” she says. “Hold it together. When we get through the carpet, I’ll find us a bathroom and ruin your mascara.”

You exhale. Shiver. “Okay,” you whisper.

She pulls your hand into hers, holds it tight on her thigh.

“Deep breaths,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna kill them all. And then you can climb me like a tree.”

The SUV door opens and the sound hits you like a wave of cameras flashing, fans screaming, press shouting names through a blur of lights and microphones.

For a second, you freeze.

And then Maya squeezes your hand. “Hey.” Her voice is low, just for you. “Breathe. You’re here. You’re doing it.”

She’s glowing. Glossed and gilded and impossibly beautiful, like she was made for this night. Her gown shimmers under the lights. Her gloved hand is still wrapped around yours.

You nod. Inhale. And step out of the car. The moment your foot hits the carpet, the shouting begins.

“Over here!”

“Turn this way!”

“Look here!”

You blink under the flashes, but Maya’s there. One step behind you, one arm slipping gently around your waist. “They’re not ready,” she murmurs. “You look like a goddess.”

You let her guide you down the carpet.

She doesn’t try to outshine you. She doesn’t pose too hard or talk over you. She just stays. Steady. Warm. A presence at your side.

Someone asks what you’re wearing. You falter.

“She’s in archival McQueen,” Maya answers smoothly, eyes never leaving you. “And I’m in Margiela. Custom. Obviously.”

The reporter stammers. Laughs. “You look incredible.”

Maya kisses your cheek right in front of the flash. “She is incredible.”

You nearly melt on the spot.

The cameras catch it. Of course they do.

The witch. The marketer. The moment.

You lean in and whisper, “I love you.”

And she says, with no hesitation, with the lights burning down, “I know. Now let’s go burn this shit down.”

You’re halfway down the carpet and the world has noticed.

Not just you, you two. The flashes intensify. Reporters are turning to each other mid-interview. Paparazzi are whispering to assistants. Publicists are scrambling to Google you again, properly this time.

“Who is that?”

“Oh my god, that’s the director of The Witch. And that’s… wait, is that her girlfriend?”

“Are we looking at the lesbian power couple of awards season?”

Maya’s smiling so wide you think her cheekbones might crack. “Oh my god,” she whispers in your ear, “I just heard someone say ‘Sapphic Succession energy.’ Baby we’re going viral.”

You nod once, eyes slightly glazed. “Can’t feel my feet.”

She presses a kiss to your temple. “Slay through it.”

Another reporter approaches. “Can we get a quick quote for Variety?”

You’re about to panic but Maya jumps in, already glowing. “We’re just honored to be here,” she says smoothly. “It’s been such an incredible year for horror, and I’m just thrilled I get to stand next to a genius who’s changing the genre and looks this hot in black lace.”

You blink. “I just want to go inside for the bread.”

The reporter laughs, not realizing you’re dead serious.

Maya’s still riding the high. “We’re doing afterparty rounds. I want to be on at least three lesbian moodboards before midnight.”

“I want mashed potatoes,” you murmur.

She grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles dramatically. “You’ll get potatoes. You’ll get everything. But we have to serve first.”

“Have we not served enough?”

“Not until someone live-tweets your cheekbones and tags it #SapphicSeduction.”

A flash goes off. Someone calls your name.

You try to smile. You think it looks like pain.

Maya leans in. “You are so close to a bread roll.”

You exhale shakily. “Promise?”

She presses her gloved hand to your heart. “On couture.”

[zmbiesoph]

FUN IN THE BARN

CARL GRIMES X FEM!READER

𝜗𝜚 A/N - VERY SURPRISING DROP, SORRY I HAVENT POSTED IN A WHOLE MONTH😭 lowkey boring smut but 🤷‍♀️. I really wanna write some jaw dropping, horny ass smut soon so give me ideas :)

𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - you and Carl go out to check out a barn for food for Alexandria, and things get a little… heated. And somehow, Daryl knows????

𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - smut, use of Y/N, unprotected P in V

AGED UP CARL

The sun hung low in the sky, casting an orange glow across the landscape as Carl and you trudged through the overgrown field towards the old barn. Alexandria's supplies were dwindling, and this place was our last hope for finding food before nightfall.

"I can't believe Rick agreed to send us out this late," you grumbled, your bow and quiver bumping against your back with each step. "It's almost sundown."

Carl glanced over at you, his almond-shaped eyes filled with determination. "We'll be fine, Y/N. We've done this plenty of times before."

You nodded, not wanting to dwell on the possibility of running into walkers. Especially with Carl. Ever since you’d met Carl on your farm when he got shot, he'd grown into a handsome young man - tall, lean, with a chiseled jawline and messy black hair that constantly fell into his face. And those eyes... you caught myself staring more than once.

Focus, Y/N.

You guys reached the barn, its wooden walls weathered and worn. Carl kicked open the door, his hand resting on the hilt of his gun. "Let's make this quick."

You followed him inside, your heart pounding in your chest. The musty scent of old hay filled the air. Rays of fading sunlight streamed through cracks in the walls, illuminating dust particles floating through the space.

Carl began searching through the dusty corners while you climbed up to the loft, scanning for anything edible. You spotted a few cans tucked away and reached for them, your foot catching on a loose board. You stumbled forward, your hand gripping the edge of the loft to catch yourself.

Suddenly, Carl was there, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to steady you. "Careful," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You turned to face him, your bodies pressed close. His eyes darkened as they met yours, full of unspoken desire. Your pulse quickened, a rush of heat spreading through you.

"Carl..." you whispered, your lips just inches from his.

He closed the gap, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as your tongues danced. He pushed you against the wall of the loft, his hands roaming over your curves.

You gasped as he kissed a trail down your neck, his lips and teeth leaving a path of fire in their wake. "We shouldn't..." you breathed, even as you arched into his touch.

"We will," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "I want you, Y/N. I've wanted you for so long..."

He crashed his mouth back to yours as he hiked up your shirt. You fumbled with the button of his jeans, desperate to feel him. Your clothes fell away until you both were skin against skin, touching and exploring every inch of each other.

Carl lifted you effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist as he thrusted into you. You cried out, your head falling back as he filled you completely. He started a steady rhythm, each stroke hitting that perfect spot inside you.

"Yes," you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Don't stop..."

He captured your mouth again as he drove into you harder, faster. Your bodies moved in perfect sync, lost in pleasure. You could feel your release building, the coil winding tighter and tighter.

"Y/N," Carl groaned against your lips. "Come for me..."

His words were your undoing. You shattered around him, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing over you. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck as he found his own release.

You two stayed locked together, catching your breath in the fading light. Carl pressed a soft kiss to your lips before carefully setting you back on my feet.

"We should probably head back," you said reluctantly, already missing the feel of him inside you.

He nodded, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "We'll have to do this again sometime."

You grinned, straightening your clothes. "Oh, I'm counting on it."

You guys gathered what supplies you two could find and made your way back to Alexandria under the cover of darkness. As you slipped inside the gates, Daryl stepped out of the shadows, a knowing smirk on his face.

"Have fun in the barn?" he asked, his tone full of innuendo.

You felt your cheeks heat but kept walking, Carl chuckling behind you.

@hiro--aoki @acid9786 @carlsangel @bethberry

[emacrow]

Jazz always wanted a little brother.

Her best friend's mommy having a baby brother in her tummy, but right now they were at gotham, mom was meeting with some important people while she stay safe in the car with dad sleeping in the front passenger seat.

When she asked her mom and dad for a baby brother earlier that same week, mom had to explained that her tummy was broken after she had her because she was a very special miracle baby because they tried so hard to have her.

Jazz understood but at the same time, she wanted- no she need a baby brother, maybe one with dad's hair and mom's eyes, or maybe one with hair like hair and dad's eyes.

And she was determined, as she snuck out of the fentomobile car, sneaking inside beside the scary ninjas guards that were temporarily distracted.

She was very good at sneaking around thanks to mom training her to stay quiet and hide better then a ghost.

There was pools of ectoplasmic but much dirtier and less cleaner then the stuff mom and dad work with. Container and chambers full of them.

She saw doctor walking out of one room and snuck in before the the door close on her. There was another ectoplasmic container that had babies in them..

One sleeping upside down and the other upside up. The one of the bottom was sleeping but the older has his eyes open, revealing pretty blue eyes like dad's eyes.

She chewed on her bottom lip a bit and weigh her short limited choices as nodding.

She close her eyes, focusing as she quickly started to float a bit wobbly, sticking her small hands onto the glass ectoplasmic ball using her secret powers that she had learned without mom and dad noticing.

Her invisible hand grabbed the baby slowly, making it invisible as she pulled it out of the ectoplasmic ball.

The baby was very small and light then a feather while covered in wet ectoplasm goop.. the baby cough a bit, dripping ectoplasm out his mouth, squirming a bit as he was about to make a fuzz but quiet down as she held him close into her warm fuzzy jacket.

She snuck back out of the room and quickly out of the place all the way back into fentonmobile..

Covering the baby with her Einstein bear designed blanket, cleaning the baby up like she would with her baby dolls, and she open the empty toy baby bottle and open her mini almond milk jug, then pour the milk in and close it, after remembering to cut a little open hole on the tip of the hard plastic nibble part.

Scooting over to the baby, and carefully picking him up and helding him close onto her lap like she seen the mommy do on TV as she press the toy baby bottle again the baby's mouth.

It would be 1 hour later before mom came back looking excited then 2 hours later after they left gotham before a soft baby wail woke her dad from the backseat of the fenton car where jazz was.

Jazz was pink in the face as she was trying to hide the baby but she couldn't stop him from crying.

It would 20 minutes of jazz lying straight to her parents's faces on where she found the baby, and it would forever be her only best lie she ever told that convinced them to adopt the baby boy that was now named danny..

Meanwhile back at league of Assassin headquarters. The head scientist has noticed that the first unborn twin baby has been removed early then schedule, probably due to natural condition of death since the first one has a much weaker pulse compared to the second unborn baby which Talia had name Damian later.

The leading scientist check off the existence of the supposed first born who went without a name on the data base...

Unknownly to both parties, Jazz was very happy to have a little brother of her own now, even if his eyes flashes green a bit from time to time.

Ao3 story made here <-

[tteotlma]

Sugar and Skin

2. Second Impressions || Previous - Next

a simple favor for Steve leads to an unexpected second encounter and a lingering trace of powdered sugar that's harder to ignore than it should be.

TattooArtist!Bucky x Baker!Reader (3.9kw)

tw: 18+ MDNI; mild language, subtle tension, implied attraction, slow-burn, strangers to friends to lovers. a/n: NOTE!!! If u see "{{...}}" then that means i think u can skip it and be fine. and i think i finally decided on a weekly schedule.

“White chocolate macchiato?” Bucky called out as he pushed the glass door open with his back, swinging around to face an empty storefront. 

“Don’t judge!” He heard from the back room, as he set the bag and cup on the counter. 

“Never pegged you for the type.” Bucky smirked, watching his best friend practically float towards the pastry on the counter. He watched in bewilderment as Steve tore the bag open and took an enormous bite. 

“Yeah well, how many years has it been?” Steve asked with a mouth full of bread, crumbs of almond slipping from his lips. Bucky didn’t say anything. Steve took a swig of the hot coffee and melted into the seat beside him. 

“It’s like Christmas in a cup.” He held the cup with both hands to his chest, a dopey grin plastered on his face. Again, Bucky just stared.

“Listen, you may not get it but once you actually slow down you start to find things you never even knew you could enjoy.” Steve rolled his eyes. 

“I didn’t say anything.” Bucky held his hands up in defense as he leaned across the counter. 

“You didn’t have to, I know that look on your face.” 

“Just never thought I’d see you practically jizz in your pants over a cup of coffee, and a danish.” Bucky jabbed at the blonde in front of him.

He watched as Steve stilled in his throat before groaning, dragging a hand down his face as he shook his head. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“And you’re apparently unpredictable,” Bucky shot back, slouching against the counter with a smirk. “White chocolate macchiato? Really? Who are you, Steven?”

Steve glared at him, from the corner of his eye. Eyebrows furrowed. 

“Just never thought I’d see you practically cum in your pants over a cup of coffee and a bear claw, is all Stevie,” Bucky quipped, emphasizing the name as he rocked forward against the counter, arms crossed.

Steve froze mid-sip, his eyes narrowing slightly before he set the cup down with exaggerated care. “Guess you met Y/N,” he said, his tone casual, though there was an edge of something unspoken.

 “Y/N,” Bucky repeated, testing the name as he tilted his head, studying him. “That the baker?”

Steve nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. She runs the café with this guy Sam. They’re partners. She handles the baking and the day-to-day stuff; he’s the coffee guy.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, tutting his jaw forward. “Didn’t realize you were so invested in her business model, Steven.” He continues to study his face, resting his leather padded elbows against the granite. 

Steve gave him a dry look, shaking his head. “They’re good people, Buck. Been going there for years since before this place opened up. Y/N’s always just somehow been there for me. You know how it is—some people just stick.”

Bucky just stared. He locked eyes with Steve, and watched as the jewelry attached to the end of his eyebrow quirked up as he silently questioned him.

“What’s the big deal anyway? Why do you even care?” Steve finally blurted out, his fingers crinkled the paper bag in his hands, signalling that not only he was getting irritated but that Bucky was behaving strangely. He stepped back, and blinked.

“Nothing—I don’t care—just didn’t expect you to have something like that going on,” Bucky said, his voice quieter now, though his words still carried a pointed edge. He put his hands against the counter, studying Steve’s reaction.

Steve blinked, his head tilting slightly as if trying to figure out what Bucky wasn’t saying. “Something like what?” he asked, his tone casual, but his gaze sharp.

Bucky hesitated for a beat, his jaw working as he tried to shrug it off. “I don’t know,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the coffee cup. “This whole… thing. The bear claws, the macchiato, the… normalcy.”

Steve’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, his tongue brushing lightly over the ring adorning his lip, though a slight furrow creased his brow. “It’s not a thing, Buck. She’s a friend—a good one. Don’t make it weird.” He took another swig of his sweet drink. 

“I’m not making it weird,” Bucky shot back quickly, his voice defensive. He shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable under Steve’s gaze. “Just didn’t peg you for it, that’s all.”

“For what?” Steve pressed, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowing.

Bucky straightened, his smirk returning though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For someone who’s got his coffee order memorized by a baker, Steve. That’s all.”

Steve snorted, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “You’re reading way too much into this,” he said, but there was something unspoken in his tone, something that made Bucky’s jaw tighten again. 

“Maybe,” Bucky muttered, pushing off the counter as he adjusted his stance.

The sound of the door swinging open cut through the moment, the brass bell bouncing sharply against the frame. Bucky glanced toward the entrance, catching the figure stepping inside, but his attention quickly shifted back to Steve.

Steve’s gaze flickered to the newcomer, then back to Bucky. He squinted slightly, as if assessing something unspoken, before pushing himself up from the chair. Grabbing the remains of the danish, he took one last bite before tossing it casually onto the desk. Without another word, he moved to greet the client, leaving Bucky standing there, the earlier conversation still hanging heavily in the air.

“But it’s still a hell of a danish, apparently,” Bucky muttered under his breath, his eyes flickering to the discarded pastry before walking towards the back office.

Bucky lingered by the doorway, watching as Steve greeted the newcomer with that same easy grin he gave everyone. The client, a guy in his early twenties, handed over a folded piece of paper—probably some Pinterest-inspired design that would drive Steve nuts later.

Steve took the paper with a nod, already slipping into professional mode, but Bucky’s thoughts stayed stuck on their earlier conversation. The weight of Steve’s words hung in the back of his mind.

He leaned against the office door frame, absently running his thumb along a faint tear in the leather of his jacket. It wasn’t the baker herself that was bothering him, he told himself—it was the way Steve had talked about her. Like she was more than just someone who made a good danish.

Bucky huffed quietly, glancing toward the counter where Steve was already sketching something out for the kid. He tried to brush it off, but the thought lingered, like a splinter under his skin.

Pushing off the doorframe, he headed toward the back. He didn’t need to stay and hear more—it wasn’t his business anyway. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

—

{{As you threw your head back to laugh at a joke Sam had suddenly thrown out, the bell above the door jingled lightly catching your attention. You glanced up just in time to see him—the man in the leather jacket—pushing the door open, stepping into the cool afternoon air.

Your gaze lingered briefly, watching as he walked past the window, his broad shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. There was something about the way he moved—deliberate, careful, like he didn’t quite belong here.

Sam’s voice cut through the café’s hum as he leaned against the counter, watching the door swing shut behind the man in the leather jacket. “What was his deal?”

You looked away from the window, your brow furrowing. “Who?”

He gestured toward the door with a sharp nod. “Steve’s “friend”. Looked like he was ready to bolt the second he walked in.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you placed loose napkins back in their holder. “Maybe he’s just not an outside person.” 

Sam scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Right. Like that explains the way he was looking at you.”

That made you pause, your hand hovering over the counter as you turned to him. “Looking at me? He wasn’t—”

“He was,” Sam interrupted, his tone flat but edged with something harder. “Like he was trying to figure you out or something.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as you turned back to your work. “You’re imagining things. He didn’t even say more than a few words to me.”

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t looking,” Sam muttered under his breath, the smirk tugging at his lips doing little to mask the irritation in his voice.

Your lips pressed together as you glanced toward the counter, catching Peter juggling cups and fumbling with the register, his expression one of barely concealed panic. You exhaled sharply and jutted your chin toward him. “I think Peter needs your help,” you said, keeping your tone casual, but the shift was deliberate.

As the café settled back into its usual rhythm, you found yourself distracted, your hands working on autopilot as you adjusted the remaining pastries in the display. It wasn’t like you to dwell on customers—especially not ones who had barely spoken a word to you—but something about him stuck.

It had to be the contrast, you decided. Steve was always so easygoing, the kind of guy who fit in anywhere, his warm demeanor making even the busiest days feel manageable. But his friend? He couldn’t have been more different if he tried.

Where Steve carried himself with an open confidence, the man in the leather jacket had felt... closed off. He hadn’t looked uncomfortable, exactly, but there had been something guarded about him. Like he didn’t belong here and was painfully aware of it.

You shook your head, brushing the thought away as you wiped your hands on your apron. That’s all it is, you told yourself. The difference has you caught off guard, that’s all.

Still, as you moved to refill the sugar containers, you couldn’t shake the image of him standing at the counter, his quiet presence somehow filling the space. You huffed softly to yourself, determined to let it go. You had more important things to think about than some friend of Steve’s who probably wasn’t planning on sticking around anyway.}}

“Please, please, please.” You crossed your arms over your chest and rolled your eyes, biting your cheek to keep from smiling. 

“Steven, I have a shop to run.” You said, switching the “open” sign to “closed” after locking the double doors. 

“It’s Wednesday. You guys close early on Wednesdays—Please.” Steve begged over the phone, his tone dripping with exaggerated desperation. 

“I already did you a favor by ordering the books for you, and now—“ 

“I’ll owe you one.” 

“That’s what you said last time,” You deadpanned, switching the phone to speaker, so you could begin counting the money in the register. 

“And I still mean it. Just add this to the tab,” He said, his obnoxious smirk practically audible through the phone.

“Fine, Rogers you win.” You scoffed, reaching for your phone “I’ll stop by when I’m done.” You hung up and pocketed your phone with a sigh. 

“You headin’ over to Steve’s place?” A voice behind you asked, making you jump. 

“Sam, you scared me,” you said, counting the last of the dollar bills in your hand before compiling it into a neat pile and handing it off to your colleague. “And yes. I have to drop off that box over there.” You nodded toward a medium sized box on a folding chair in the corner of the back room. 

Sam swiftly took the stack from your hand and switched spots with you. “And he couldn’t come because?” 

“Said something about back-to-back bookings,” you replied, standing off to the side and wiping the counter for any remaining crumbs.

“You think his friend is gonna be there?” 

You paused, your movements halting mid-swipe. “I-I don’t know—” The sudden stutter caught you off guard, and you tensed. “What’s with all these questions anyway?” you added, more annoyed than curious.

“Nothing, just…I can take it if you want.” Sam said, slipping some money into a plastic bag and putting the rest in the register before shutting it with a soft click.

“Oh,” you said, feeling silly for your earlier outburst. “Thanks, but that’s okay. There’s some stuff I have to talk to Steve about anyway.” Was that a lie? Sam looked at you. Crap. It was. 

———

The entire walk there, you wracked your brain trying to think of anything you actually needed to talk to Steve about. The books were already paid for, and the pastries were an afterthought—a gesture more for your own sense of courtesy than anything else. There wasn’t anything urgent, not really. 

If you were being honest, Sam could’ve just as easily dropped the box off himself if you’d let him. 

You adjusted the boxes in your arms, and the purse on your shoulder, feeling the rough edge of the worn cardboard dig lightly into your palm. The other box, filled with leftover pastries from the café, teetered slightly on top as you shifted your grip.

The early afternoon sun filtered through the trees lining the sidewalk, casting dappled shadows that danced at your feet. The air was crisp but not biting, a faint breeze carrying the warm scents of bistros and freshly fallen leaves. It was a pleasant enough walk, you supposed, though you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you were overthinking it. 

Maybe it was Sam’s question that had thrown you off. Or maybe it was the memory of Steve’s friend—the man with the leather jacket and the sharp blue eyes. The way he’d lingered at the counter, quiet and guarded, but somehow impossible to ignore.

You exhaled, shaking your head as if to dislodge the thought.

It doesn’t matter, you told yourself firmly. You’re just doing Steve a favor. That’s it.

Still, as you neared the shop, you shifted the boxes in your hands again, noticing the faint warmth building against your palms. The moisture made the edges of the cardboard feel slicker than they should have, and you tightened your grip to steady them.

When you reached the door, you nudged it open with your back, the faint chime of the bell ringing overhead as you stepped inside.

“Hello?” you called out, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the tattoo machine in the distance.

You looked around the small tattoo parlor, the black furniture standing out in contrast to the white walls. More stuff had been added since the last time you’d stopped by—large and small plants now decorated the interior, their vibrant greens softening the otherwise sharp and minimalistic space. A new piece of art hung on the far wall, bold lines and intricate designs that drew your attention for a moment before your gaze shifted.

The space felt more lived-in now, more personal, like it wasn’t just a shop but a place someone cared for. The faint hum of the tattoo machine came from one of the rooms in the back, mingling with the subtle scent of antiseptic and something faintly woodsy, maybe a candle burning somewhere out of sight.

“Steven?” you called again, balancing the boxes in your hands as you glanced toward the counter.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be tied up with a client, but the shop felt quieter than usual. Setting the boxes down carefully on the counter, you adjusted the pastry box to the side  before looking around again. 

“Steve?” you called again, your voice louder this time as you leaned slightly over the counter, scanning the back area.

The faint hum of a tattoo machine that buzzed steadily suddenly stopped in the back room, but no one answered. You sighed, stepping back and glancing around the shop once more, your eyes lingering on the plants and new art pieces scattered throughout.

The soft creak of a door caught your attention, and you turned just as someone stepped out from the back.

It wasn’t Steve.

Your breath hitched briefly when you recognized him—the man from the café. Except this time there was no leather jacket adorning his figure, he wasn’t wearing it, just a black t-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. His sharp blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

“Oh,” you said finally, trying to mask your surprise. “I thought Steven would be here.” 

“He had to step out.” 

You nodded, pursing your lips as you glanced toward the counter. “I just brought some stuff for him,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the boxes. “Books he ordered. And some leftover pastries from this morning.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the counter before returning to you. “I’ll make sure he gets them.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, brushing your hands off on your jeans, though they weren’t dusty. The silence stretched for a moment, the faint echo of the tattoo machine still lingering in the air. You shifted slightly, glancing toward the box of pastries before blurting out, “You… can help yourself too… if you want.”

His brow arched slightly, his sharp blue eyes holding yours for just a second longer than you expected. “Appreciate it,” he said simply, his tone even, though you thought you caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze.

You felt your cheeks warm, and your hand drifted to the seam on the side of your jeans, fidgeting with the fabric as though it might keep you steady.

He didn’t move from where he stood, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. His steady gaze made your fingers itch, and your nail dragged against the denim fabric audibly now.

That’s when you noticed the black latex glove on his left hand, the stark contrast of it catching your eye. His arm, adorned with intricate tattoos you hadn’t noticed before, drew your attention—the sharp lines and shading that curved around his forearm and bicep were as striking as they were detailed.

When he crossed his arms, the movement only emphasized the muscles beneath the ink, the casual strength in his stance making it hard to look away.

“You’re Steve’s friend, right?” you said, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them. You’re startled by your own voice, and for a moment you wondered why you hadn’t just left right then and there. 

He didn’t answer right away. His head tilted just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was deciding whether or not to engage. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low and deliberate.

Silence stretched between you again, heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. You nodded as you shifted your weight. “Well... I should get going,” you murmured, your tone quieter now. “Just let Steven know I stopped by.” 

You turned, ready to make your exit, when his voice cut through the stillness.

“Bucky.”

The name came softly, but it carried weight, stopping you mid-step. You froze for a moment before turning back, your brow furrowing slightly. “What?”

His arms were still crossed, the black latex glove on his left hand catching your eye again as he adjusted his stance. “My name,” he said, the words simple but steady. “It’s Bucky.”

“Oh,” you said, feeling the word catch awkwardly in your throat. You glanced at him, searching his face for a moment, then straightened slightly. “Nice to meet you... Bucky.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to make your chest feel a little tight. “And you are?”

You hesitated for a second before giving him your name, the sound of it hanging awkwardly between you as you watched for a reaction. 

“Y/N,” he repeated, the weight of your name on his lips making your cheeks flush. Before you could respond, Steve’s voice rang out from the back.

“Hey, glad you made it!”

You turned to see him emerging from the back room, wiping his hands on a rag, his grin easy and familiar. “Y/N, can you bring the books back to my room? I just need to finish cleaning my station.”

“Sure thing,” you replied quickly, eager for something to busy yourself with.

“And Buck, mind ringing up this guy while I handle things over here?” Steve added, gesturing toward the lone customer waiting at the counter.

“Got it,” Bucky replied simply, stepping aside to let you pass.

As you moved toward the back room, you felt his gaze linger a little too long, the weight of it brushing against your skin in a way that made your steps falter slightly. You didn’t look back, though the heat crawling up your neck made you wish you had.

Bucky’s focus only shifted when Steve cleared his throat, nodding toward the counter. His sharp gaze flicked toward Steve, a quick, pointed look passing between them, before he turned to handle the transaction, his movements deliberate but unhurried.

You stepped into the back room, the soft scuff of your shoes blending with the faint hum of the tattoo machine in the distance. Steve was already moving to clear off a cluttered table, his grin easy as ever.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said, nodding toward the box of books you carried.

“Don’t mention it,” you replied, setting the box down carefully. “Though you might want to remember I’ve been keeping track, and it looks like you’ll be paying me back for the rest of your life.”

Steve let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”

You smirked. “And you’re lucky I’m nice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he teased, pushing off the doorframe. “Thanks again, Y/N. Seriously.”

His sincerity caught you slightly off guard, but you brushed it off with a shrug. “No problem, Stevie.” 

He raised his hand, palm out, and you met it halfway with an easy high five, your fingers curling briefly around his in a quick dap before you stepped back with a small smile. “See you later,”  he said with a grin as you turned toward the doorway.

Pausing just before stepping out, you peeked your head into the front room, your eyes scanning the space. The customer was gone, and so was Bucky. The faint creak of the office door swinging shut must’ve been him slipping into the other room.

Relieved, you stepped fully into the front of the shop, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you made your way to the front. Walking past the counter you caught sight of the pastry box slightly skewed with the lid ajar, the faintest crack catching your attention. Frowning, you reached out to fix it, fingers brushing over the edge as you led it back into place. That’s when you noticed it—a missing pastry. 

Your hand stilled, your pulse quickening despite yourself. Powdered sugar clung to the rim of the cardboard box, and littered the counter surface, a subtle, almost careless trace left behind. 

Your chest tightened, a flicker of heat creeping up your neck. It could’ve been the customer... but your mind stubbornly circled back to someone else. You shook your head, brushing the thought away as you made sure you had your things. The stillness of the space was broken by the low hum of the tattoo machine, its steady buzz filling the air once more.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped out into the cool air, the lingering warmth of the shop clinging to you. Even as you walked down the street, the faint image of sharp blue eyes and a missing pastry hovered in your mind, refusing to fade completely.

----

Next

a/n: please reblog to support! I also love feedback, and comments :)

taglist (lmk if you want to be added!) : @cheezemanz @shirukitsune @miharuwrites

[storiesoflilies]

𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐒

synopsis: the lights of this city flicker like dying neon stars. between them, monsters live and breathe. some are hunting. some are waiting. w.c: 7.6k.

pairing: monster!sukuna x f!reader.

warnings: horror (at least, i tried)!! this is a disturbing fic with explicit gore and cannibalism. character death. EXPLICIT SMUT! monsterfucking (trueform!sukuna), biting, bum stuff (for you, alba), blood licking. MDNI! cyberpunk/bladerunner 2049 vibes.

a/n: my first attempt at a dark fic and sukuna smut eeeep! i hope you all enjoy this!! i also want to say a massive thankyou to @ariiadnes for trusting me with her oc! i hope you like 11E’s little cameos :3

divider / playlist / ao3

nobody knows what they are, only that they are.

you cannot see them, not really. they live somewhere in broken screens, flickering neon signs and still pothole puddles. they are something like a heat mirage. a pulse of something that makes you want to run, to breathe, to fight, to surrender.

an itch behind your teeth.

a pressure in your spine.

the sound between your heartbeat.

nobody knows if they had always been there or not, only that they will always be there now, and that they are not something to be understood.

but a part of you thinks that you do.

(intimately so,

in the way my marrow settled between puckered lips.)

when they first decided to become known, it started off small. little disappearances here and there. an inexplicable puddle of blood in an alleyway behind a bar, the odd story on the news of a gruesome murder. then, metal posts started to fill up with missing persons flyers. all of them tattered, each person placing their’s on top of the last one like their person was more important than the rest.

they weren’t.

they were all the same.

bodies of flesh, bodies full of iron water.

the scientists couldn’t begin to explain much. they said that the creatures resonated at a frequency outside the range of human perception. that they were invisible unless they choose to be seen, and that there was no way to begin to communicate with them unless it was on their terms. now, their existence was something to just live with. a virus always floating in the air, waiting and watching. their tendrils were quick to grab and infect you, to swallow you whole. and you can try to drag your nails down their throats until they bleed, or jam your fingers into their windpipe and make them choke on their own vomit, but you still wouldn’t live.

you knew that.

you had seen them kill, once before.

it was a day when the rain was more yellow than clear, sulphur in the air like the breath of the devil. you’d been staring at the misted window of a sex club, a woman’s hands pressed up against the glass. you remember hearing a steady thump thump thump, and that it took you far too long to realize that it wasn’t coming from inside the club.

you don’t know why you followed the sound.

the air was sour. there was no moon, only the fuzzy neon lights and a giant hologram of the then latest version of companion doll. 𝘓𝘖𝘝3-𝘝16’s hair was a glossy black, nails perfectly almond with a red french-tip manicure. as she swayed to and fro, the alleyway would go dark and then a hazy hot pink.

it made the blood on the floor look almost fluorescent.

thump, thump, thump!

there is something inherently strange about a humans fascination with the horrific, the grotesque. why couldn’t you tear your eyes away from the woman, that creature? it was smashing another person’s head into a wall again and again and again. it mimicked the figure of a woman, but it wasn’t… right. it wasn’t beautiful. it held nothing behind its empty pearl gaze, but you could feel it was staring at you as it grinned with too sharp teeth.

thump, thump, thump!

went the head in its hands against a dumpster.

thump, thump, thump!

you could see fragments of skull on the ground, little dark hairs still attached to thin flesh.

and then she was gone.

the alleyway was empty, except for the mess she had left behind. that was two years ago now, at the height of the killings. when there was no point in calling the police because there was nothing that could be done.

but you still remember its kill.

the smell of it.

iron and piss and something like rotten fruit.

you think about it now as you stand in your concrete box of an apartment that exists in the cracks between architectural efficiency and human desperation. up on the twenty-fourth floor, with a single rusty elevator, wedged in between two other buildings that were identical to it. there is an android factory just a few streets over that runs for twenty-four hours a day, and it makes the walls vibrate with a sporadic hum that was so loud it drilled into your molars.

but you had gotten used to it now.

you stand by your window that overlooks onto an airshaft. it’s filled with other people’s laundry lines, patched up clothes and worn underwear swaying on the thin metal, with the odd advertisement drone clicking its way between the buildings like a strange bird. you watch it move as you slowly chew your nutrition paste. it tastes like cardboard and salt, allegedly supposed to be exactly like a roast chicken.

you wouldn’t know if it really was or not.

(there is

something better, something sweeter.)

your forefinger twitches.

it had become apparent some time ago that the creatures that lived within a certain frequency also chose their victims by theirs. any excess of joy or fear, happiness or sadness, would ooze out at different frequencies. they were drawn to it like sharks to blood. and so, missing person flyers gradually evolved into warnings to control your emotions because they could sense it. the government initially released brain implants for emotional regulation, but the recipients usually ended up becoming killers themselves, and so they were quickly taken off the market.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘜𝘗𝘎𝘙𝘈𝘋𝘌 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘋𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘔𝘚.

the drone plays.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘕𝘌𝘜𝘙𝘖𝘗𝘈𝘟, 𝘞𝘏𝘌𝘕 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓𝘐𝘛𝘠 𝘐𝘚𝘕’𝘛

𝘌𝘕𝘖𝘜𝘎𝘏!

then, special androids were developed to both detect the creatures, and act as a deterrent by sending out vibrations at a frequency high enough to drown out a persons baseline range. of course, they weren’t available to everyone. offices and factories, public spaces like clubs and shops, had androids employed. because, of course, nobody wanted murders happening on company property anymore. but once you were outside, you were free game.

unless you could afford an android.

which most couldn’t.

including you.

you scrape the last of the synthetic meat from the container, pretending you could feel stringy chicken stuck between your teeth instead of the chalky film over your tongue. it feels wrong, but you force yourself to swallow, because hunger is an emotion far too close to desperation.

and that was not what you were.

you live in the space between emotions. perfectly balanced, only present in the now. your heart doesn’t skip a beat, your breath doesn’t catch in your throat. you don’t know how you do it, only that you do.

it keeps you neutral – invisible.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘉𝘌 𝘕𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎, 𝘍𝘌𝘌𝘓 𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘠𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎!

you throw your empty container into the recycling chute, where somewhere twenty-four floors down, it will be processed and used for tomorrow’s meal for someone else.

the walls hum.

you match your breath to the rhythm.

somewhere in the distance, a baby is crying, a car backfires. then, silence. then the incessant hum, then silence again. you check the lock on your door twice, and turn off your main lights. the room is bathed in a sickly blue light from the commercial playing on your television. a woman with too bright eyes smiles into the camera, clutching a bowl of steaming chemical broth.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘍𝘜𝘛𝘜𝘙𝘌 𝘐𝘚 𝘊𝘓𝘌𝘈𝘕! 𝘛𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓

𝘍𝘓𝘈𝘝𝘖𝘙 𝘞𝘐𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘛 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎!

you turn it off.

on the other side of the wall, someone laughs.

it cuts off halfway.

you crawl into your bedsheets, stare at the yellowed ceiling, and wait for nothing to come. the drone outside flickers signs and holograms, neon shapes of blues and a pulse of static pink. your fingers curl over your chest. you let your mind flatten just enough to blur the shape of yourself.

(this is not

what it means to sleep.)

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

your work numbs you.

twelve hours a day of sorting people’s data through predictive algorithms. twelve hours a day of deciding what people see in their neural feeds, on their phones, and on their televisions. what they want, crave, fear, forget. twelve hours a day of that blue light burning behind your eyes like a slow rot.

it’s perfectly routine.

beautifully neutral.

you glance at the woman in the cubicle next to yours, at station forty-seven. you don’t know her name, and you don’t care to know it. she was crying, tears falling down so perfectly over her cheeks and onto her desk and keyboard. her monitors pressure gauge chimes softly, and you know the android assigned to your floor would be watching her closely.

𝘠𝘖𝘙𝘏𝘈 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦 𝘌, 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 11.

a shimmer of synthetic blonde hair, grey eyes like sterilized steel. only the best for your company’s employees, obviously. ruthless and ethereal, she opens her perfectly shaped lips.

“𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥,” she announces with a voice balanced and monotone. “𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵.”

she turns towards station forty-seven.

and practically glides over.

you wonder if she was manufactured in the factory close to your apartment building. if the sound of her lungs calibrating is the same one that hums through your walls at night. her face hardly moves as she approaches. you look back at your screen.

you filter, you sort.

nothing.

empty.

when she reaches the woman, the android sighs in a pretty voice like velvet draped over metal, “𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.”

the woman lets out a sob.

it’s ugly.

you keep typing, and finish another algorithm. 11𝘌 doesn’t make a sound as she escorts the woman from station forty-seven away from you and away from your building. when you submit your work, your screen lights green.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘎𝘙𝘈𝘛𝘜𝘓𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕𝘚! 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘈𝘙𝘌 𝘕𝘖𝘞 𝘌𝘕𝘛𝘐𝘛𝘓𝘌𝘋 𝘛𝘖 𝘍𝘐𝘝𝘌 𝘔𝘐𝘕𝘜𝘛𝘌 𝘈𝘋 𝘉𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘒!

you decline it.

you always do.

these ads were tailor made for you by someone probably sitting next to you. user feedback loops and predictive metadata, behavioral sampling. they do to you what you do to the masses. you glance to your left. the woman in station forty-seven is gone now. her chair is empty and ready to be sterilized and wiped clean.

by lunch, there’s already a new worker in her place.

he doesn’t speak to you.

and you don’t speak to him.

when your shift ends, you take the slightly longer route home to stretch your muscles. the rain outside isn’t too acidic today, doesn’t sting you so much. it leaves streaks across the signs in the streets, a circulatory system of neon and concrete and steel. you pass by the sign for 24 𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘗𝘓𝘌𝘈𝘚𝘜𝘙𝘌 𝘗𝘖𝘋𝘚! bathed in a lewd pink. the buildings overhead are so high up that they display artificial stars, because the real sky hadn’t been seen at this level in decades.

four blocks from your apartment, something shifts.

no footsteps.

no breathing.

but the sense of being followed roots itself in the back of your skull. something that makes the hair on your arms and neck stand up, phantom insects crawling across your eyelids and into your mouth. there is a flash of black and pink in your peripheral.

you don’t run.

something inside you begins to uncoil, cold and quiet and old.

it watches you from reflections around you. in touchscreen ads and raindrops, in puddles and the gleam of hover-car windows. it matches your pace, staying out of direct sight, toying with your senses. you catch the curve of a broad shoulder, a twisted grin that is never there when you try to look.

you keep going, past the vendor stall near your building.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘚𝘠𝘕𝘛𝘏𝘔𝘌𝘈𝘛!

𝘌𝘈𝘛 𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘞𝘌𝘙𝘌 𝘔𝘈𝘋𝘌 𝘍𝘖𝘙!

it is abandoned.

when you finally stop in front of your building, the hum of the factory reverberates through the ground. it travels through your feet and to your ribs. you breathe to its rhythm, steady and neutral. your eyes scan the windowpanes and the shimmering surface of the pleasure pods.

empty.

you exhale.

and something answers.

a voice, just behind your left ear. low and smooth and amused.

“found you.”

he speaks to you as a mirage from the pulsing cherry-red light of an occupied pleasure pod, smiles at you with too many teeth.

he is there and then gone the next.

“you’re so… empty.”

the hairs on your arms stay standing. you say nothing and wet your lips. the door to your building slides open with a quiet sigh as you enter. you can hear him humming as you walk through the sickly green light of the lobby. you press the button for the elevator, and avoid looking at the dirty, cracking mirror when you step inside.

but you know he is there.

he is already everywhere.

the elevator dings and the doors open to your apartment.

and he is there.

waiting for you.

he is more… solid now. his chest is bare and raw, skin dripping with rain. thick, violent black tattoos coil around him like chains made of ink. his hair is a light peach, slicked back like he’s run his bloody hands through it one too many times. he sits on your kitchen chair completely unbothered, his lips curled in a beastial smile. red eyes track you as you close the door behind you, slow and deliberate.

(prey being savored

from afar.)

two of your fingers twitch.

he tilts his head, his movements almost catlike, but far more dangerous and charged with energy. you felt if you blinked too slowly he would be on you like the end of the world.

you do wonder how he found you.

you had made it this far without any incidents. your neutrality was your survivability. unless, just like all humans are finite, so is the duration of balance. perhaps there was a minuscule tip in the scale, and therefore the end of your invisibility.

but you haven’t known anything else.

so, you time your breathing to the hum in your walls, and think of 11𝘌 calibrating her lungs.

“you are so waiting to be unmade.”

at this, he laughs. you watch the acid rain from his hair run over his mouth, catches on the tip of a fang. this voice feels real. it sounds like yours. nicer, even, like honey oozing between shattered pieces of glass.

“how did you find me?”

you don’t know why you opened your mouth to ask it, but you did. not that his answer mattered. you would probably be dead within the next thirty minutes.

his grin widens, too many teeth.

“you might not be interesting to feel, but i can still see you.”

you nod, slowly.

he stands. his height is immense, and when he moves towards you, you can tell that he is not like the creature you once saw. he is far different, stronger.

much stronger.

“what else do you want to ask?” he questions coyly as he circles you.

he is playing a game with you now, and you have no choice but to go along with it.

“your kind feed on energy.”

“hmm, something like that.”

“but you said you can’t feel me.”

“not a thing.”

you keep your face still. confusion is a brittle emotion that only ever leads to senseless fear.

“will you still kill me?”

he breaths in deeply into your hair, and makes a satisfied noise.

“naturally”

naturally.

this world isn’t natural, but here he is. a creature so raw and real and visceral that who is and what he does and who he kills are perhaps the only natural things left in this world. he is a living creature that is limitless and boundless, one that feels things and has urges. you think he might just me more human than you are. he circles you again, languidly, like a cat.

“don’t you want to know why?”

you did.

because you know he wants you to ask it.

you breathe out a quiet, “why?”

“because i want to break you.”

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

he doesn’t kill you that night.

not the next night.

and not the one after that either.

this was all part of the game, wasn’t it? a long, drawn-out hunt. he is a predator, and he is playing with his food before he eats it. the thought of your inevitable fate should terrify you.

but your days go on, and he only follows you.

you catch sight of him in places that exist in the edges – reflections, static, flashes. in the dull metal sheen of your elevator doors, in the half-second lag in your retinal display, and in the flicker of 𝘓𝘖𝘝3-𝘝27’s sensual hologram. he’s studying you, you realize. your routines, your patterns. where you go and what you do.

and he’s mocking you.

you catch him trying to change the frequency in the air around you. trying to incite fear in your spine or arousal in your hips or pain in your brain. none of it works on you. you notice the new employee at station forty-seven. how his parlor is almost ghostly white as he mutters to himself, beads of sweat collecting at his hairline like he’s stopping them from falling by sheer willpower. his algorithm filters into yours, coincidentally, and you see a sharp change in his displays from birdsong ambience for… whatever this was.

skin peeling.

eyeballs crunching.

your own voice crying out in ecstasy.

he doesn’t come back to work the next day, and you still don’t care.

on the fourth day after your first encounter with the creature, 11𝘌 approaches your desk.

you stop typing.

her hair catches the blue light from your monitor, and you tilt your head at her as she tilts hers at you. her face is so perfect, you think. a face perfect in its absence of warmth and life. there is a soft chiming sound from somewhere inside her chest, some sort of processing noise you’d never heard from her before.

“𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘹𝘵𝘺-𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦,” she says with a soft voice. “𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.”

nobody looks up at you as she says this.

they are all used to the coming and inevitable goings of people, like the tide coming in and out.

11𝘌’s eyes seem to focus and unfocus, pupils dilating and contracting as she scans you. you don’t feel anything as the processing sound gets louder.

“𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘦… 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥.”

something in her expression switches to something like confusion. you don’t think androids feel things like that.

“𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵,” she says, and you know it’s not a question.

“no,” you agree.

she looks at you directly now. you think you see something flicker behind the expanse of grey and steel in her eyes. something like recognition. as if you and her are the same.

two perfect objects of neutrality.

two perfect machines.

the processing sound ends as 11𝘌 comes to a decision.

“𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪��𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.”

you don’t protest.

you just gather your coat and bag from underneath your desk, and follow her outside your building. outside, the world chokes slowly beneath a smog-thick fog. holograms flicker overhead, men with open mouths and blackened eyes. a drone whirs just above your heads, trailing a pixelated ribbon.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘌𝘈𝘛 𝘉𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙, 𝘉𝘌 𝘉𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙!

11𝘌 stops just beside the vending machine outside your building, the one filled with pills and vials of immediate release dopamine. she faces forward, hands folded neatly behind your back.

you do the same.

the silence between you isn’t awkward. it is clinical, routine. you think you hear the timer in her skull ticking down to zero. this is only another task to her, and you are just a box she has to tick to follow her protocol.

you blink.

there is a rush of heat as a motorcycle flies past you, and you see a flash of the man from station forty-seven across the street. only the shape of him, just for a second. his skin stripped and spine exposed, propped up like a message on a wall, like a prayer.

your heart does not change rhythm.

11𝘌 turns to you, slowly.

“𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦.”

you nod.

she walks away without saying goodbye, disappears back into the concrete building that is her world and her mission.

you know you will not see her again.

and then, you go home.

it’s late by the time you arrive. your building’s security drone hovers outside the doors to the lobby today. a false pretense of safety, as if it could protect you from is waiting for you inside. but your creature is not inside your apartment like you expected him to be. you can sense him. or rather, he is calling you to him. you push open the rusted latch to your window, and climb the ladder of the emergency stairwell.

the air on the roof is warm.

even this high up, the air still smells like metal and engine grease and electricity. there is no such thing as fresh air anymore. the skyline bleeds in neon colors. pinks and purples and blues that only bruise it.

and he sits there casually at the edge of it all, his legs spread wide.

a man, a creature.

a god.

he turns to you and his mouth stretches into something wide and unpleasant to look at. his large hand pats the space on the ledge just beside him in a gesture that you think is almost human of him. you move to him, a lamb to the maw of a wolf, and he places a small paper bundle onto your lap.

red stains leak through the paper.

“it’s for you,” he offers in a voice dripping with mock tenderness. “i saw it and thought of you.”

you say nothing, and unwrap the paper slowly. he watches your face more than your hands, eager to savor whatever reaction he thinks he is about to get from you.

“it’s a tongue!”

he says it like you didn’t already know. like he is announcing he’s presenting you with flowers from the far corners of the planet they still grew on. the little piece of pink flesh is slightly greyed, and its taste buds look like sanded down spikes. there is clotted blood at the base, and you know that it had been torn, not cut, from someone’s mouth.

“i pulled it out of someone who thought he was in love.”

he says this in an almost conversational way, like discussing the weather of the week.

“he kept saying this one woman’s name over and over again. oh, and of course he just kept begging me to let him tell her he loved her one last time.”

you pinch it gently between your fingers.

“so i made sure he’d never say anything again.”

his grin widens.

“how can you tell that it wasn’t real?” you ask.

“because love tastes like rot. it’s unbelievably pathetic, there’s no good flavor left anymore. but he… he tasted like a lie.”

you wonder what love tastes like. sweet and warm, maybe. honey-filled moons soft enough to swallow whole. but what are lies? perhaps it is chewy, bursting with juice that stains your teeth. maybe that is what your creature liked best.

so, you open your mouth.

and eat it slowly, methodically.

your face doesn’t change, and you don’t gag. his expression splits into something that could be pure ecstasy, pupils dilating like he’s watching the most beautiful thing.

(have mercy on the poor fly

that follows the smell of honey.)

your fingers twitch.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re perfect.”

he leans in close to you. so close that you can smell the static and copper and cold void of what he is made from. his breathing is rough, heavy like he’s just been running.

“perfect and filthy. you’re just like me, aren’t you?“

you tilt your head.

blood trickles from the corner of your mouth.

“and who are you?”

his laugher is pure delight.

“ryomen sukuna.”

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

you don’t come to this place often.

the light of the club throbs low and red, a heartbeat just on the edge of an arrhythmia. its walls are slick with sweat, and the air is thick with the smell of pheromones – engineered or otherwise real. sweet like candied rot, dull like subjugated metal. you walk through the crowd like a thread through fabric, and take your place at the bar.

the signs outside call this place 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘉𝘖𝘋𝘠.

you aren’t sure why you come here. this isn’t a place made for people like you. on the surface, it seems like just another club that sits in the underbelly of a bloated city. but really, it’s a chain of alters, bodies upon bodies. where bare flesh is presented to another to fuck in ways that feel like worship. there are rooms within rooms here, draped with sheer curtains that reveal more than they conceal.

but you know sukuna will still find you.

you order nothing, and wait.

in the center, two feminine androids provide the entertainment for the next ten minutes. these ones move slowly, ritualistic. they are not pornographic like most of the others you watch. it’s a performance, a mimicry of intimacy that has been long since forgotten.

“they move like insects.”

sukuna doesn’t appear beside you fully. he is behind your eyes, behind your bones. seeing what you see, moving as you do. his presence is like oil and smoke on your skin, clinging to the cracks between your ribs.

“do they?”

for a while, he watches them with you.

the androids part briefly, a break in their dance, and rejoin. the hips undulate and grind into each other in half motions, perhaps to invoke a sense of longing. their glassy eyes blink in slow alternations. it’s all too rehearsed, you think.

“do you like it when they fuck?”

“i don’t care.”

“liar. your indifference is a better performance than theirs.”

you take a sip of an abandoned drink, and sukuna smiles behind your teeth.

“oh, but this is so boring. is this all they do?”

“until the next one comes, yes.”

sukuna makes a disgusted sound. it vibrates through your throat like you made it.

“you’re very still, for a human.”

“i’m watching.”

“mhm.”

“do you not enjoy this?”

“hmph! this is pathetic to me, you know? they pretend this isn’t some desperate attempt at muscle memory for something your bodies will never remember.”

“and you understand it.”

“of course i do, it’s only another form of hunger.”

an ad flashes at you above the bar.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘚𝘜𝘉𝘚𝘊𝘙𝘐𝘉𝘌 𝘛𝘖 𝘚𝘠𝘕𝘛𝘏𝘔𝘌𝘈𝘛 𝘕𝘖𝘞!

“and you… you are so deliciously empty that you understand nothing.”

“you don’t understand it, then.”

his hold on your spine tightens considerably.

“i understand the mechanics,” he says, far too fast.

“that’s not the same.”

“isn’t it?”

“you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

he doesn’t say anything, and his silence is heavy. you feel him watching the next dancers take the stage, made from real bones and flesh this time. his gaze isn’t lustful, or gleeful. it is detached, a killer watching his puppets bleed and break.

“i’ve fucked in plenty of bodies.”

you say nothing.

“it’s just rearranging lumps of meat, that’s all. bend a leg here, break a jaw, and someone always screams.”

“don’t you want it to be real?”

“i don’t need to, i take what i want when i want to.”

“taking doesn’t mean you know what it is.”

“i want to devour, not connect.”

“it’s not about connection.”

“well, it used to be. once.”

“once?”

“a thousand years ago, when you humans weren’t… this.”

“don’t you want to understand it?”

“you want to fuck me, little human? is that it?”

“yes.”

at this, he fully materializes beside you in a flash. all teeth and a moist, red grin.

“show me,” he orders.

his voice sounds the most human it ever has.

you feel a pressure in your hips, in your navel.

(oh mercy,

have mercy.)

your left hand spasms.

sukuna hums. “why do you want to do this?”

“because you want to understand something you were never built for, and you want it to be real.”

“real,” he savors the word on his tongue. “and that’s what you can give me?”

you take the time to really look at him. he is so beautiful, like a fever dream. he makes something in your hollow chest ache. he looks at you like you can give him the world. but you know he wants to be the one underneath your skin and wear you like a memory. to rip you open and drink your marrow so he can see how you tick. you wonder what it would feel like for ryomen sukuna to break you.

to let him in.

there is a hairline crack in the porcelain of your persona.

“i don’t know,” you say softly. “that’s the point.”

you offer him your hand.

and he takes it.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

you bring sukuna to one of the pleasure pods outside your building.

it seals behind you both with a hiss. the air inside smells sterile at first, but you know it is being pumped full of sweet, synthetic pheromones. the walls are a pale pink, slick and almost fleshy, like a womb. it quivers faintly like a heartbeat. sukuna reaches out to touch it, and it responds to him like it is alive. you reach the middle of the pod, where the floor extends upwards and thickens into something softer, more pillowed.

“lie back,” sukuna huffs.

you don’t.

you wait.

before you can blink, your clothes and his are gone, swallowed into a void that eats everything he touches. sukuna stands there perfectly solid, perfectly constructed. pale skin taut over lethal muscle. his blood eyes are drinking you in greedily, watching your heart beat beneath your breast, all violence that is barely constrained. you know the only two things saving you right now are his curiosity and that he wants this from you.

and still, he comes to you.

“do you want to kiss me?” you ask, tilting your chin up to him.

sukuna holds your jaw in his hand. “do you even know what it means to ask me that?”

and his lips crashes into yours like thunder. messy, eager, hungry. his fangs immediately catch on your bottom lip, and you let out a groan. sukuna’s tongue catches your sound and bullies your mouth open. you feel him tasting you, feel your blood spreading over your lips and between his. he pushes you down, and your spine curves against the pods membrane. your legs wrap around his hips, and you are met with the thick, hot weight of him at your core.

you make sure he sees you.

you make sure that he feels you.

“this isn’t just meat,” you murmur, rocking your hips to rub yourself on his length. “this isn’t hunger.”

“you think you can teach me?” he snarls.

sukuna enters you like a challenge, like an angel hurtling down from the heavens full of intent. for a second, his form glitches. there is a stutter in your visual field, a crack in the mirror. a hot shard of pleasure whips your core, and you clench around him, arching into his chest.

the pod walls pulse faster, the lights dim.

your voice trembles, “do that again.”

“do what?”

he is not all there, he is something halfway. but here and now, ryomen sukuna has never been more real to you than he is now. but he is toying with you as he always does, because he knows exactly what it is you want.

sukuna blinks.

and smirks.

then, he pulls back from you. his body pulses and stretches above you, and you think you just might die from the pleasure of it all, or perhaps just from him. his face shifts, multiplies, and two eyes become four looking down on you. his markings embolden and become living, vicious things. you feel something else. something hot and heavy, against the curve of your ass, and it takes you far too long to register that he has another cock.

the pod groans beneath you.

“are you afraid yet?”

“i’m…”

what are you?

you don’t know.

(only a soft thing

that starves.)

your hands shake.

sukuna laughs, and the sound reverberates in your bones and core. you open up to him so easily.

and he splits you apart.

not just once, but twice. hit first cock fills you fast, familiar in its essence of him. the second is much slower, deliberate. the way he stretches both your holes open is utterly filthy and impossibly divine.

your mouth opens in a silent scream.

he is inside you twice.

it’s too much, it’s everything.

the pod pulses and flashes with a low light. his hands are everywhere on you at once, sometimes two and sometimes all four. on your throat, your breasts and waist, one spreading your legs even wider to pinch your clit. you moan prettily, your fingers clutching at the flesh bed. it reacts, throbbing under you like it is part of his building rhythm, that cruel and delicious rhythm. the hollowness in your chest is overflowing now, spilling wine and blood, and you can’t remember ever feeling so full.

you are absolutely ruined.

“do you feel y–?”

he cuts himself off. something is happening inside him. you pull sukuna’s face down to yours.

“this is real,” you pant against his wet, bloody mouth.

his head rolls forward into you, his pace is brutal as he fucks you like he’s losing his grip on what he is. a fist slams into the wall behind your head. you feel his lips on your neck, and he sinks his teeth in. not enough to kill you, but just enough to hurt. your pussy flutters wildly around him.

“i want to– rip you apart.”

“then do it after. feel this first.”

your eyes roll back.

sukuna kisses you again. it is messy, mixed with spit and iron. he presses into you like he’s trying to take something from you, like wants to steal all your memories. he lifts your hips lift to meet his every thrust, and you wrap your legs tightly around him, sucking him in even deeper.

this new angle wrecks you.

you feel everything.

each thick, hot drag of his cock inside your sopping wet cunt, every ridge, every vein, every merciless push of him in both holes. you are utterly helpless as you tumble towards the edge.

“fuck! what are you doing to me?”

his thrusts become erratic, desperate.

and he cums.

loudly, shaking, splintering. first one cock, then the other. they pulse and twitch inside as his cum floods both your holes, warm against your walls. sukuna’s body flickers in between forms as his breath coming out in hot, ragged huffs. he collapses over you, his arms locking tightly around you. his tongue finds your collarbone, lapping away at your trickling blood.

the pod pulses once, twice.

and goes still.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

your tv screen flickers slightly.

it’s been on for three days straight, set at a volume too low to be heard if you weren’t paying attention.

“𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳.”

your spine aches. your skin stings where sukuna nipped at you and throbs where he gripped you. you are still swollen with the fullness he left inside you, and you don’t know what to do with it all.

it has been so long since you let yourself feel.

“𝘸𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘱𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.”

you quietly sip your iron water.

the creature watches you from the ceiling.

it is wearing her face – 11𝘌. her perfect mouth and her perfect face and her perfect stillness. but it is also wrong. it has her fingers bent unnaturally, clutching at your walls like a spider, too many joints folding where there shouldn’t be any. its head is dementedly twisted at a sharp right angle.

it does not blink or breathe.

just watches.

you are not afraid.

but you are struck by the ache in your chest from how much you miss 11𝘌.

“𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁.”

it whispers to you, tainting 11𝘌’s voice with static and mold.

“go away.”

you don’t look at it. your spine twinges as you shift on your couch. the android news anchor drones on in the background of your tv, but you are not really listening. a smile spreads over the creatures borrowed face.

it reaches out to you.

your apartment suddenly feels colder all at once.

sukuna is here.

“you have guests now?”

you blink.

the creature has scuttled out your open window.

“what a rude, little thing. not even a hello for me.”

“why was it afraid of you?”

he shrugs, and sits beside you. “it wasn’t. we don’t poach each other’s meals.”

“and i’m yours.”

“you’re my delicacy.”

your stomach turns. it’s a slow, rising sensation that travels from your gut to your throat. quiet and shapeless. it’s not fear, never that. it is hunger. but if it’s yours or his, you don’t know. you glance at sukuna.

you know the sex has changed him too.

he is more erratic, unhinged. his form glitches in small bursts. he is not as solid as he used to be, like his glamour is bleeding into the air.

“is it true?” you ask.

“hm?”

you nudge your head at the tv. “your kind is disappearing.”

“maybe.”

“you don’t seem concerned.”

“hah! you think i’m like them? like that insect that was just here?”

you feel the air shift again. sukuna’s body becomes something more unstable.

“i’m the strongest.”

“i know.”

“and you, you are my most perfect prey.”

“you don’t seem well, sukuna.”

“no, i’m starving for you. there’s a difference.”

you sip your water.

your tongue feels like it’s rusting.

“then, what are you waiting for?”

he grins with too many teeth, but it feels different than before. nothing human is left in it.

“for you to want it.”

“want what?”

“to be devoured.”

he says this reverently.

a beat passes, your walls hum.

“you were close,” sukuna murmurs, leaning into you. “when i was inside you. you broke, i could feel it.”

his tongue slides over his fangs.

“and now, i’m waiting for you to ripen. for your flesh to soften. when you let go, when you’re so full of feeling you burst in my mouth. i want the marrow in your bones to say yes, and that’s when i’ll eat you.”

he sighs, dreamlike.

“that’s the taste i’m after.”

(when the fly swims in honey,

it becomes sweeter.)

your hands shake violently, and you almost drop your glass.

sukuna smiles again, and his fingers splay across your chest.

“how will you do it?”

you ask him because you do actually want to know. his fingers flex, pressing against your sternum, testing the give of your ribs. he hums like he is considering a wine pairing.

“slowly.”

he taps your collarbone.

“i want to hear every crack you make. little by little. i’ll start at your edges, your fingers and thighs. these soft spaces in your ribs, right here.”

he presses between your ribs from over your shirt.

“and then i’ll go deeper. i want to use my teeth to tear your skin off. i want every part of you to spill out, and i want to eat your thoughts.”

you swallow.

“will it hurt?”

for a moment, sukuna looks bored at your question. “not at first.”

then his voice drops.

“but… eventually, yes. exquisitely so. i’ll make it last. you’ll be screaming with truth, realness. all of your performance will be gone, and there’ll be nothing left of you when i’m done.”

your heartbeat is no longer yours. it beats in time to his, rapid and greedy and so hungry. your body doesn’t know if it wants to lean into him and his touch, or run until the soles of your feet bleed. his palm lays flat over your chest, and it feels like fire.

you wonder if sukuna can feel it too.

the shift.

that slow leak of something inside you about to burst open.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

it hunts in the night.

perched atop a rooftop, high above the crisscrossing metal beams and the world stitched together by neon gas below. it ticks its head to the side, and its fingers twitch.

it watches.

it waits.

(he is a stupid,

beautiful fool.)

the city breathes again. an inhalation of acid and pleasure, and an exhalation of fumes and polyester. this world is loud, it thinks. it is a slowly decaying, pathetic little world. it watches the humans behind its pearl-white eyes with an air of pride it knows it shouldn’t have. a predator does not have the right to take pride in its violation of life, and it knows this. it hovers over the edge, like an angel undone and dripping in sin. it spreads its arms like its prey, a king of old bones.

and falls.

it traverses the plane of half-existence. the wind does not break it, and gravity does not own it. it weaves between and through buildings as a phantom. there are shining windows and rippling puddles, holograms and corrupted billboards. this world has an abundance of them all. each one an opening from the world it was born into this one. the humans called for their own doom, and its kind simply answered.

but the humans didn’t matter.

not to it, at least.

(take the king!

to the king, kill the king!)

it can smell him.

it perceives everything about him. him and his arrogance. the king smells like metal and fire, but it has grown somewhat fond of the scent. it can see him now, and it stops high above him in the clouds. the king is not solid, wearing his more human form than natural, as he warps through a market, parting through the humans like an old god. it can see his effect on the humans. they are on edge, their world tilts and ripples when he passes, and they glance behind their shoulders like they could see the death cloud of red. the king is a blight on their existence, but he is not theirs to suffer.

not anymore.

(he is

ours.)

he turns into an alley, chasing the sound of someone broken. maybe a scream, or the call of snapping bones.

it is behind him now.

crouched atop a pale orange streetlight.

a hazy shimmer in the corner of his blood eyes. a light wind passes through his peach hair. the taste of dust and ash on his tongue where there should be iron.

he stops.

he is not afraid. he turns to face it with the slow delight of a creature who believes himself to be invincible. his lips pull back over his teeth in a wicked grin.

“come out. i don’t bite.”

it laughs like broken glass.

still, it waits. it watches him high above on a window sill, the way he moves so casually. careless and godlike. how little he fears death. his eyes flash like twin rubies. there is a shift in the air, and it knows that he has recognized the challenge.

a predator and a fellow beast.

but he doesn’t run.

he begins to walk again, an amorphous orb flashing between holographs and puddles. it follows, gliding after him and keeping close. it watches the back of his neck where the blood is sweet and warm. the king glows like a rotting sun in its perception.

it lets him feel it, just slightly.

a pain behind his eyes.

a trailing scratch along his spine.

a rising pressure in his lungs.

(peel him apart,

pull out his teeth and count them.)

the king comes to a halt.

his eyes narrows. he is really looking now, peering into the darkness between the neon signs. it never doubted he was clever, and it licks its teeth. he flickers, his body becoming alive and fully solid.

“who are you?”

he calls out lazily, bored even, his arms stretched behind his head.

“what a stupid question,” it replies, smiling.

it descends without a sound, an unraveling spool of air. it does not fully form, not yet. it adopts the outline of something more familiar to him, feminine but still inhuman. a constellation of truth and unfeeling memory.

he watches it, curious.

“you’re new.”

it circles him now. he is not alarmed, but it doesn’t expect him to be, not yet. he watched its outline move with a hunter’s grin. he is no longer alone in this game of his, he never was. the king is a fool who has never realized this.

(there were signs,

and more.)

the air becomes static and dry.

“no.”

the king hums, amused. “no?”

“i’m so much older than you.”

his pupils sharpen. there is a recognition creeping through the air like crawling ivy. but he doesn’t see it until it moves.

too fast.

too clean.

not like a woman.

and not like prey.

its body folds and unfolds and becomes alive with a click. ribs splinter and extend outward like jagged wings, white and wet. ready and devouring. its spine unlatches, vertebrae popping and bulging open like little doors. a creature, a starving goddess draped in a familiar, soft girl skin. it pins him to the asphalt in one fluid motion.

he doesn’t recognize it at first.

“get off–”

then, he blinks. his eyes widen in a beautiful horror as he understand what he has been playing with for all this time. his mouth twitches, and he snarls.

“it’s you.”

it smiles the same way he used to. “yes.”

the king stills.

his arms are caught, jaw forced open with its needle fingers. it presses its forehead to his like an old lover, and reminisces the feeling of fullness it had felt not too long ago.

it breaths him in, pinches his tongue.

(do not gloat,

we have won the game.)

and you feed.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

©storiesoflilies 2025, all rights reserved. please do not plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work on other sites! i only post on ao3 and tumblr.

[rassicas]

QUESTION, how do Inkfish have milk/milk flavoured things if there are no mammals to produce it? And if they synthesized the milk, how would they know that its nutritional? Or that it can be made into cheese/yogurt?

Even if theyre using oats or nuts to make milk substitues, i dont think those can be used to make other dairy products right? Idk im not a biologist

for this ask i thought about just linking the wikipedia pages for plant milk and vegan cheese or the video where i touch on this topic and leaving it at that, but i thought that would come off as too passive aggressive and i dont like that with how often i see this question floating around still i think its worth going into a bit more so i can just link this post in case anyone ever asks again.

“One thing we know about the world of Splatoon is that mammals are basically gone,” said Nogami, seated across from me in a small room behind Nintendo’s booth. “So they don’t eat beef or pork or the meat of mammals.” With Splatoon 2 playing on a screen, Nogami walked his Inkling over to a corner in Inkopolis square where a bright ad played for cereal. A crab chowed down on a bowl of milky carbs. “There’s no mammals, so whatever is being poured over the cereal might not be milk,” Nogami laughed. Hm. Okay. So what do Inklings eat? “Veggies, birds, fish,” said Nogami. “Some bread.” -- What do Squid Kids Eat? Splatoon’s Producer Explains

So the facts are: -Mammals are basically gone (excluding Judds/Grizz) -They drink milk that isn't real milk -There are crops cultivated in the Inkling world The obvious conclusion is that they use plant-based substitutes. there are a few questions that could spawn from this.... Q1: a bunch of stuff went extinct in the splatoon world. what kind of dairy substitutes could they use exactly? A: canonically, inklings have a variety of rice and soy-based products. a few types of nuts are confirmed to exist. they eat coconuts too. you can make milk out of all of these, as well as other dairy products like cheese and yogurt. They're not limited to plants either...

i swear everyone ive shown the left image goes like EWWW THEY EAT INK but like. squid ink is edible in real life. i dont get why this is weird?? nobody said ewww at the squiddymelon which i imagine would absorb ink to change colors like that. the concept that inklings figured out Ink-based dairy products is fucking awesome. anyways Q2: how did they figure this out? A: I think the answer can be found by looking into the history of plant milks in our world. Humans have been making and consuming plant based milks like soy and almond milk for centuries. the consumption of coconut milk goes back millennia. plant based cheeses are not as old, but still go back a hundred or so years. a lot of other dairy substitutes emerged in the past 50 years. Inklings figured out plastics, fish egg energy, and computers, surely at some point in their 2000+ year history, they figured out plant-based milks, cheeses, and yogurts. It's also possible that recipes from the human era survived. maybe they learned about dairy products that way. oh wait isn't there a sunken scroll about human era recipes?

yes There's also a non-zero chance that Judd could've taught the inklings about the human era and their food. The other question i can think of is... Q3: is there any specific mention of a plant based substitute being used instead of a mammalian product in splatoon? A: yes<3

In 2019 there was JP only splatfest, pineapple vs. no pineapple. It's about whether you put pineapple on subuta (japanese sweet and sour pork.) (i dont have strong opinions on pineapple, but the subuta at gyoza no osho. bro it will make me hurt myself and others. literally licking the fucking plate its so yummy. anyways.) Now pigs are extinct. How would pearl and marina have opinions on a pork dish?

「だな！ アタシんちの古い書庫で見つけたレシピで ロブに作ってもらったやつだろ？」 「豚という生き物が 絶滅しちゃってるから 大豆とかで代用した 「酢豚風」でしたけどね♪」 Pearl: "That's the recipe you found in the old archives at my place, and Crusty Sean made it for you, right?" Marina: "Yeah, though since those creatures called pigs are extinct, he substituted it for soy and some other things to make a "subuta-style" dish~ "

this is the only thing i have seen that confirms plant-based substitutes being used for mammal meat in splatoon's setting. i learned of this just recently and i was SO happy this was confirmed somewhere<3 I think this gives a lot of weight to the idea that they'd use soy milk and other soy-based dairy products.

[aurumacadicus]

Lol. Lmao even.

--

"So, what does a typical Avengers meals look like?" the interviewer asks, smile wide and mean.

Steve hates these types of questions. Everyone knows he and Thor eat like horses. There are pictures of them with their own table laden with food after really strenuous battles while the rest of the team sit at a different one floating all over the internet. Sometimes Bruce joins them, if he'd been Hulked out for a long time.

It's a question to shame Natasha and Tony. It always is, no matter how sincerely the interviewer smiles or insists it's just to see that they're real people. No one gives Steve side-eye when he talks about eating three bagels smothered in lox and cream cheese, but if Natasha mentions ice cream, there are half a dozen articles about how that ice cream goes straight to her thighs. Tony gets pitying looks for trying to keep up with a literal god and the peak of human perfection as he's told he's looking great--for a man his age.

Clint seemed to fly under the radar. He used to gloat, until Bruce had snapped that it was probably because there was a webpage dedicated to pictures of him crawling out of dumpsters during battle after a particularly vicious interviewer had asked Tony if he worried about getting too fat for his suit, and left Natasha visibly rattled when asked if she was taking steroids to stay in shape. He'd apologized immediately after, but Clint had stopped taking joy in being the disaster Avenger when Natasha and Tony started glancing at watches with smiles growing more plastic by the second.

Steve has half a mind to tell the interviewer they all eat protein-filled gruel designed by SHIELD just to get her attention away from them, but Natasha had scowled at him the last time he'd tried to stage a rescue in front of cameras, and he'd taken it as the warning to back off that it was.

"I've gotten real into smoothies," Tony answers, and he actually sounds enthused. "And Natasha's my willing guinea pig. These heathens," he adds, waving at the rest of them. "Wouldn't know a good flavor profile if their lives depend on it."

"He's figured out a chocolate and almond butter recipe with coconut water that tastes just like an Almond Joy," Natasha adds approvingly.

Steve watches the interviewer's face twist with fake sympathy as she winces and hisses through her teeth, hand clenching into a fist on his thigh. He just has to let this happen, he reminds himself. Then they can go home and he can remind Tony and Natasha that they are probably the healthiest normal people in all of SHIELD. Maybe Tony will make that protein-packed smoothie that tastes just like caramel apple pie for him that is probably supposed to embarrass him but he actually really likes.

"Ooh," the interviewer says with another wince. "But aren't smoothies just full of sugar? Wouldn't it be better to eat whole fruit?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow. She opens her mouth, but closes it again when she notices that Tony is openly gawking at the woman like she's personally reached over and slapped him. She leans back in her seat, brows furrowing together as she clearly tries to puzzle out why he looks so shocked.

Tony blinks, once, hard, before he says, "I used to do cocaine, Christine. I think a little sugar from fruit juice is fine."

There's a brief pause as the words sink in, and then Clint spews the water he'd been nervously gulping, and Bruce starts howling with laughter, and it pretty effectively ends the interview there, because no one has heard Bruce laugh that hard outside of the tower and Natasha looks seconds away from guffawing as well.

[nohoney]

“What’s my favorite bread?” You ask your boyfriend during early morning cuddles. It’s warm inside the blanket and Bakugou’s hand is idly petting your hair.

“Croissants. Specifically almond and only from that bakery that’s 20 minutes from the house.” Bakugou answers without a beat of hesitation. “That and brioche. French bread only when you wanna have that gross balsamic dip.”

“How do I like my tea?” You fire off another question, waiting for him to see if he’ll get it right.

“Depends on the tea. Green tea, you’ll only do lemon and honey. Early grey and black tea, a little bit of vanilla creamer and some sugar. Oolong tea, you’ll have it plain.” Once again Bakugou answers your question without fumbling over any of his words.

It makes your heart fond over him but you still want to ask more questions. “What’s my favorite kind of chair?”

“Rocking. Baby, what’s with all the questions?” Bakugou asks gruffly but with no particular annoyance in his voice either. His hand still pets over your head and his eyes look up to the ceiling. Sunshine pours through the window and he sees particles of dust float in the air. “Feels like you’re testing me or somethin’ about if I know you.”

You shrug your shoulders and answer him, “Just wanna see if you pay attention to the things I like. Y’know the last guy I was with, I was with him for more than six months and he didn’t remember when my birthday was even though his and mine were literally a week apart. And then one time he got me flowers and he got me the ones that literally break me out in a rash even though I said a million times what to never get me.”

Bakugou’s hand stops petting your head and he starts to sit up in bed. You follow his movement, sitting back a little and finding the expression on your boyfriend’s face amusing. “What exactly did this loser know about you then? Since he was forgetting all the important things.”

“He knew my go to order for McDonald’s.” You answer as you pull your knees up to your chest and pull the blanket more towards you to cover yourself. “Medium fries and ten pieces nuggets.”

“That’s wrong because it’s actually large fries and twenty piece nuggets.” Bakugou corrects you and you laugh a little knowing that he got you. “And everyone likes nuggets and fries from McDonald’s, that’s hardly anything intimate.”

It makes you laugh that he calls you out but for Bakugou, he frowns a little that you had wasted your time with a guy that didn’t bother to know you at all. He leans back against the headboard and asks you, “What about me? How do I take my coffee?”

“At the agency, you’ll just have plain black coffee. When you go to coffee shops though, you’ll have a dirty chai with soy milk.” You answer him, remembering the first time you and him had coffee together.

He nods his head and asks, “What’s my least favorite vegetable?”

“Brussels sprouts. They’re basically mini cabbages and you hate cabbage too.” The answer comes out easily and as fast as he answered you too.

“Books? What do I like?” He asks, thinking this one might trip you up.

“Sci-fi books, but I know that you’re a sucker for classics literature. I see the Jane Austen books on your shelf.” You tell him.

Bakugou nods his head, equally impressed with your knowledge about him. Then he shoots back, “What’s my McDonald’s order?”

“Spicy deluxe McCrispy with two orders of medium fries. Bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit with three hash browns when you’re hungover.”

He smiles at you, reaching his hand out to ruffle your hair and chuckling when you smack his hand away. “I could take all this info and leak it, you know? Pro Hero Dynamight’s McDonald’s order: this is what he eats!” You laugh at your stupid joke, “Imagine the brand deal that comes your way.”

“First of all, that’s only for you to know.” Bakugou tuts and starts to leave the bed, reaching down onto the floor for his underwear he flung off his body when the two of you got frisky last night, “Second, the last guy you were with was a dipshit for not learning anything about you.”

“Yeah well, I was an even bigger idiot for staying with him for more than half a year.” You sigh as you also move to leave the bed as well. Bakugou’s shirt is found right on your side of the bed so you end up wearing it instead of finding your own sleeping top you intended to sleep in the night before.

Bakugou snorts and you round your way up over to him, giving him a big smile and bumping your hip against him, “Good thing I traded up.”

He leans down to kiss you, smiling into the kiss and not even bothering to hide how you stroked his ego just a little bit.

“My favorite breakfast?” You ask him,

“Aside from my dick?” Bakugou pretends to be hurt when you punch his arm before giving the correct answer, “Overnight oats and waffles.”

[ryes-brownies08]

hi luv! im craving for a fluffy date of sungchan x male reader who are so down bad for each other! can u write it for me pls??

ily bby, xo [sungchan x male reader]

“God,” Sungchan chuckled, deep in conversation with the guy he’d realised he loved all too dearly. “You’re a hot mess.” “You’re odd as fuck, too.” M/n laughed, the boys drowning in one another’s laughter.

˙⋆✮ genre: FLUFF ˙⋆✮ roles: top! sungchan, bttm! mreader ˙⋆✮ word count: 3.7k words

SYNOPSIS: Sungchan and M/n have been attracted to each other for a while, and now that they're finally on a date, they begin to realise how much they truly like each other. Sungchans composed masculinity paired harmoniously with M/n's adaptable friendliness, and the two go wherever life takes them as they thoroughly enjoy one anothers company on a late night date.

WARNINGS + TAGS: affection, dating, kinda sappy, swearing, insensitive at times, sunchan loves soccer!!, high school, kissing, holding hands, depictions of any irl character here does not reflect who they are irl this work is purely fictional, etc

M/n and Sungchan walked out of the shopping center hand in hand, the sound of laughter and the warmth of a whole heart following them. M/n cradled a pastel pinkish-blue soccer ball in his arm, a prize he won from a claw machine, whilst Sungchan gracefully nibbled on a cupcake besides him, colorful sprinkles occasionally getting stuck to his lips.

“That’s why I don’t go to arcades anymore. I had no idea, what was I supposed to do?” M/n chuckled, playfully swinging Sungchans arms to the same rhythm of his head as it gently bounced side to side. Sungchan smiled as M/n lead the conversation, purely happy to listen to him talk.

“That’s crazy. I wouldn’t have seen you at school for a century, huh?” Sungchan responded restfully, turning to look at his date. As he did, M/n took note of Sungchan's kind, deep-set almond eyes that he loved ever so, watching as his lips spread to either side of his face in an elegant, observant smile.

“Realistically, no.” M/n laughed, returning his gaze to stare at the ground as they walked, which was a little habit of his that Sungchan loved.

The two had a crush on each other for a while. At school, neither M/n nor Sungchan sat with the same group of people, but just so they could talk to each other, interacted with each other’s respective friend groups. M/n was an individual who only showed his liveliness to people he trusted, and the athletic Sungchan was a part of a popular but not impolite friend group.

Despite their differences, their attraction to each other was strong. So they took a chance, and before they knew it, became a thing.

The two of them discovered they both had a liking for similar things, although their customary penchants could sometimes be quite different. But that’s just what made them all the more beautiful.

For their date tonight, they set out to wander a shopping centre together until the sky turned a brooding black, and a million stars floated brilliantly in its embrace; they both loved the serenity of the night.

As the two walked out the front gate of the shopping center, they were hit with the pleasantly cold breeze of the night. The outside was surrounded by floral bushes and majestic trees, and the orange lighting from above created a vibey, nocturnal atmosphere as they walked upon the cobblestone pathway. Sungchan was feeling the cold a bit more than he was prepared for, wearing only a white tee shirt that was tucked into his pair of blue denims. M/n, wearing a brown striped sweater and cargo pants, noticed and decided to offer his long beige coat to Sungchan.

“You’re gonna become paler than you already are,” M/n said, nudging at Sungchan’s shoulders as he looked up at him. “Take this back. I’m overheating anyways.”

“Are you sure?” Sungchan asked. “I don’t want you to get cold.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Can’t have you freezing, can I?.” M/n smiled softly, looking up at his date. M/n took pride in his height of 5’10, but Sungchan made M/n feel short, standing at 6’1.

“M/n, I mean it,” Sungchan said, despite the cold noticeably getting to him. “You don’t have to-”

“Sung.” M/n interrupted, eyebrows raised in a way that read ‘don’t try me, my precious loser.’

“Alright, my bad.” Sungchan laughed. “Never been terrorized to wear a coat before.” He muttered, knowing M/n would hear. M/n didn’t care though, softly smiling as he admired the man infront of him.

Sungchan’s face was attractively long and oval-shaped, his jawline clean but not aggressively sharp, alongside a bigger and structured nose that rested above relatively full and kissable lips. But despite the sheer perfection of his visual, that wasn’t what M/n was necessarily looking at.

M/n was rather entranced by the way Sungchans biceps flexed with every movement, his chest straining against his white tee, leaving little to the imagination. But what M/n was most hypnotized by, was how Sungchan focused intensely on whatever he had in his arms, in this case, the coat. His movements were so deliberate and calculated, ensuring the coat was put on smoothly, and M/n couldn’t help but take it out of all appropriate context. M/n mentally slapped himself, not wanting to ruin this innocent date; he was simply taking notes for the future. A heat began rising in his cheeks. One day, he would be the thing Sungchan would examine every corner of, and there wouldn’t be any clothes to-

“M/n?” Sungchan called out, snapping M/n out of his trance.

“Y-Yeah? Sorry, zoned out.” M/n responded, chuckling sheepishly.

“Are you cold? Your cheeks and nose are all reddened up.” Sungchan asked. Fuck, already? M/n didn’t expect the heat to show through his (S/c) skin that quickly.

“Really?” M/n asked, using his hands to feel the temperature of his face. It didn’t feel so hot, so he wondered how prominent the blush was for Sungchan to have noticed it. All M/n really felt was a slight stubble, which he needed to shave before it became anything noticeable. “Hold on…” M/n reached for his phone, trying to visually examine the degree of redness of his face.

“Wait, don’t move.” Sungchan spoke softly, hyperfixated on M/n’s face as he began stepping closer to him. M/n remained still, like he was asked to.

M/n was slightly unnerved as he observed Sungchan gently touching up his hair. It made M/n wonder if he had something on his face. Was it a cut? Or a bug? M/n became a bit worried. Then, he noticed as Sungchan's hyperfocused face slowly morphed into an enamoured expression. A leafy rustling crinkled against M/n’s ears, and when he opened up his camera, M/n saw that there wasn’t, infact, any blush.

Instead, there was a flower that Sungchan had placed in the nook of M/n’s ear. M/n let out an amused sigh, realising he was on edge for nothing, but he did make sure to offer Sungchan a look of playful indignance.

“What? You look cute. I had to.” He smiled, eyes forming half-cresents as his lips spread to either side of his face, his expression too loveable to refuse.

“You had me so confused; I was scared.” M/n said, chuckling as the two began to walk again.

“You’re scared of roses?” Sungchan smiled, as calmly mischievous as only he could be.

“Wha- No?- Well, you picked it from a random bush!” M/n protested.

“All roses come from bushes, my love.” Sungchan responded. His adaptable composure was something M/n loved, unless he was getting clocked.

Before long, the two had been walking together for an unknowable amount of time, their harmonious company making time go by only too quickly. The roads were empty, the only sound being the laughter of the two, or the rustling of the nearby trees every now and then.

“God,” Sungchan chuckled, deep in conversation with the guy he’d realised he loved all too dearly. “You’re a hot mess.”

“You’re odd as fuck, too.” M/n laughed, the boys drowning in one another’s laughter. “Remember when we had biology, and you stood like an NPC and zoned the fuck out?” M/n spoke in between chuckles, too busy cracking up at the memory.

“Oh my god, shut up..!” Sungchan cringed at the memory, grinning ear to ear and shaking his head in regret.

“The teacher couldn’t even…” M/n trailed off, wheezing. The thought was just so funny.

Everyone got up to go to their tables and conduct an experiment, whilst Sungchan had a brainfart, and just stood there, zoned out in the middle of the class. The teacher tried to ask what was wrong, but he was too caught up in his head to respond. Not only was it awkward, it was pindrop silent. It took a few minutes for him to snap out of his trance, and he ran to his table, face reddened like a tomato through his pale skin. His group of boys didn’t let him live that one down, and invited M/n and his group to joke about it once they caught onto the fact that Sungchan liked him.

Sungchan gave M/n a playful nudge, watching as he almost stumbled in the darkness of the night, eventually needing to pause there and take a break from laughing his ass off.

As M/n fumbled, the pinkish blue soccer ball fell out of his hands, rolling over to a relatively tall black fence. Beyond it was an open soccer field, illuminated by a single large sports floodlight in the far corner. M/n picked up the ball, and turned to see Sungchan, who gasped and became struck with excitement. This was one of the many sides to Sungchan’s generally reserved personality that M/n was eager to explore. His 4D personality was a beautiful, well-crafted mystery that M/n was excited to unveil.

“Oh my god! M/n, we have to get in!” Sungchan leaned against the moderately tall fence, eyes wide in a boyish eagerness.

“What? We can’t go in there, it’s closed!” M/n replied.

"Well, no one's gonna catch us." Sungchan said.

"They might." M/n suggested.

Between the two, neither were troublesome, even at school, but Sungchan was a likeable rule-breaker. He and his friends would always fuck around every now and then, and though they didn't do anything too extreme, you could still roll your eyes at it.

"Not at 8:37pm in the night!" Sungchan said, turning to M/n as his eyes became glossy and his eyebrows were knit together in a pleading expression. He was no longer asking for permission. He placed a foot against the black plastic fence, rising above the ground before throwing the other leg over it so that he was sitting on top of it. He looked back down to M/n, who hadn't moved yet.

"C'mon, M/n! It'll be fun." He said, patting the top of the fence as his eyebrows bucked upwards, daring M/n to come. Remembering Sungchan's love for soccer, M/n couldn't say no. He'd just have to get dragged into trouble again and hope he'd never get caught. Sungchan extended a hand, as he knew M/n wasn't a daredevil (or rather that M/n was lame and couldn't even climb a fence).

With a yelp, M/n hesitantly set a foot on the fence, using the pull of Sungchan's arm as an advantageous leverage. M/n tried to distract himself from the rebellious nature of the moment by focusing on Sungchan's strong arms, and how they moved him around so easily. Then again, M/n had to ensure he didn't turn this cute little date into something not so appropriate.

"Good boy." Sungchan teased, causing M/n to raise a clenched fist as an empty threat. With a flinch and a hitched laugh, Sungchan jumped off the fence and landed with a thud in an athletic, graceful squat.

M/n followed after, thumping on the floor disgracefully despite using the fence as a means to come down, slipping and falling on his side.

"Cute." Sungchan remarked. M/n didn't know what was so cute about that, though; seeing the person you'd potentially want to love not be able to climb. If anything, it was a sign that M/n would suck in an apocalypse, presumably being the first to die unless Sungchan came to save him.

M/n didn't know how, but Sungchan already had the ball, doing a cool little trick where he kicked it upwards and used his one leg to keep it from touching the floor. He clearly looked like a natural.

When M/n caught up to him, he smiled at him wholeheartedly. It was clear he loved M/n and appreciated the gesture to do this despite not wanting to. "What's up, cutie?" He spoke, his voice flattering M/n and surely evoking an upcoming blush.

Deflecting, M/n interjected. "So, am I just gonna sit on the bleachers and watch you play?"

"Well, you don't have to watch if you're bored. You can use your phone." Sungchan shrugged.

"Hey, don't be ridiculous. I'll watch you. This is your chance to impress me." M/n smiled, taking the ball from Sungchan's embrace.

It was clear that Sungchan preferred if M/n watched, because like a child, his mouth grew into a excited smile, eyes sparking with possibility. "Yeah..?" He spoke somewhat breathily.

"Yeah! Matter of fact..." M/n said, holding the ball over his head with intents to throw it. Not even a split-second into the movement, Sungchan already got ready, eyes wide and creasing with glee as his lips spread open in an exhilarated smile. When M/n tossed it in a measly, unathletic throw despites his best efforts, Sungchan began to sprint right after it, racing towards the goal with a laser-focus.

"Go Kylie, go! You're doing great, sweetie!" M/n yelled out, and heard Sungchan chuckling from the distance as he played.

M/n took a seat on the bleachers, and it was just incredible to see Sungchan dominate the open fields as he showed off his skills, doing cute little tricks where he bounced the ball between his legs or did an airborne kick. It was impressive and M/n realised that he'd wanted to see him play more often.

M/n watched as Sungchan darted around the goal with the ball, a talent M/n hadn't really seen in full bloom before. He knew he had an interest for soccer and sport, but didn't realise how proficient he actually was; it was incredible. The way he chased the ball with not only precision and skill, but a burning sense of passion. This was where Sungchan wanted to be at, and his body was aligned perfectly with his heart in that very moment.

After a few goals and incredible tricks, Sungchan looked to M/n, catching a breath as he smiled warmly, allbeit exasperatedly. M/n smiled at him back. "You're doing great, sweetie!" He yelled out, referencing that Kylie Jenner meme again, causing Sungchan to hunch over, using his knees for support as he laughed.

"Why don't you come and play?" Sungchan asked from the distance.

"Me? Girl, I can't play for shit." M/n chuckled, yelling back.

"I'll go easy on you!" Sungchan laughed, holding his arms out in invitation.

"Promise?" M/n said, offering it a bit of thought before cautiously coming down from his seat on the bleachers.

"I promise." Sungchan said, hand on either one of his hips as he waited for M/n. He raised a hand out, opening and clasping it to indicate that he wanted M/n to come and play.

M/n walked down, Sungchan looking at him with a loving gaze. It was clear to M/n that Sungchan ended up enjoying this moment alot, appreciating what M/n was doing for him. That was a good thing; perfect, actually.

"Alright, so what am I doing?" M/n asked, looking at his date with a somewhat nervous, but nevertheless happy smile.

"You just go stand near the goal, and I'll try to score." Sungchan responded.

"I'll never win that! You're too good!" M/n chuckled, gasping indignantly.

"I'll go easy. You can do it, trust me." Sungchan said, smiling. "Why don't I show you?" He said, stepping away from the goal with his ball.

"You ready?" He called out after maintaining a sizeable distance. M/n gave him a sheepish nod in return. Without as much impact as he was using previously, Sungchan kicked the ball so that it began rolling over to M/n and he had a moment to intercept. M/n stepped forward to connect his feet to the ball, stopping it in it's tracks. It wasn't impressive at all, but M/n was thoroughly impressed with himself.

"Just like that!" Sungchan called out, smiling. "Now pass it back, and I'll show you some real skills."

"Go ahead. I'm the soccer baddie himself. Complete with a BBL." M/n said, leaning on one hip in an attempt to serve cunt, eliciting a laugh from Sungchan.

"C'mon, don't change yourself. Besides, your ass is a skinny queen." Sungchan spoke back, cringing at the latter part of his sentence. "Was that good or should I just stick to my own slang'?"

M/n chuckled. Sungchan had pretty boyish, masculine humour compared to M/n's somewhat more feminine persona, which was another difference between the two that he loved. It went to prove that there was no set standard for a relationship of any kind. "Not bad; you slayed, or as you would call it, cooked."

"Well, I'll do both in a second. Think fast!" Sungchan said, his foot taking off from the ground as he struck the ball with fury, M/n ducking helplessly as it hit the net of the goal behind him.

"Hey, not fair!" M/n chuckled, the two entangled in a lighthearted moment of wholeheartedness. He kicked the ball back, and Sungchan began to control it with his swift feet. He was like a rabbit, the way he hopped and ran with the ball, so M/n would have to become the fox.

"Catch this!" Sungchan took another shot, but ended up hitting the top bar of the goal, watching as it bounced back.

"Ha!" M/n yelled in defiance as he held his hands out in an 'L' shape.

"You got lucky, just wait!" Sungchan huffed, fog forming with every breath out of his mouth against the cold air.

This little adventure of the theirs together felt wistfully short, but at the same time pleasantly elongated, and neither of them wanted it to end. Sungchan was absolutely besting the hell out of M/n, but M/n was determined to show him who was boss. Just cause M/n wasn't athletic, didn't mean he had to let that define him at all (it did, M/n just wanted to look remotely impressive for Sungchan).

A familiar thud echoed through the field as Sungchan kicked the pinkish-blue ball, a symbol of M/n's potential defeat against Sungchan if nothing was done. The ball was calling out to M/n, daring him to block it; that very thud was an indicator that M/n had the choice to fight or fly, to defend his point or succumb to Sungchan's reign of ferocity.

M/n squatted, his body loose and anticipating, ready for the move as the ball approached. And as if everything happened in slow motion, the ball flew towards the corner of the net, sure to have hit it; but not if M/n had anything to say about it.

He sprung to the side, both arms reaching outwards as if to create a great iron wall, impenetrable by a mere pastel ball, and unphased against Sungchan's power. With a moist thump, the ball ricocheted off from his hands, sent away in a thrust of humiliation and defeat, rolling over as it grovelled pitifully at the feet of Sungchan. It surrendered, it's halt acting as a silent proclamation of defeat against M/n's defence. The ball was powerless. M/n had won.

He had won! Sungchan raised his arms up, whooping for his date. "Fuck yeah! Awesome, M/n!"

M/n gasped, picking himself up off the ground. It took him a second, but he began to smile and laugh too. Sungchan ran towards him, picking him up and spinning him around, causing M/n to let out a giddy yelp. M/n felt Sungchan's strong arms around his waist, his honest smile at even M/n's tunnel vision victory a silent message that he'd support him forever. M/n felt a thrill through his chest, both from the cold air and the fear of being off the ground. But there was something else, too.

Love. An intense love for Sungchan.

Eventually, Sungchan set him down, and the two were caught lost in each other's eyes, despite panting and beginning to sweat. Sungchan stared deep into M/n's (E/c) eyes as they looked up to him with a docile, amiable light, and found himself marvelling at how the floodlight's shine subtly reflected in his alluring (S/c) skin. M/n returned the look to Sungchan, looking up at the youthful yet sophisticatedly elegant man before him, his gaze towards M/n as loving as it was intense.

Without a word, before the two knew it, they leaned in closer and closer, until their lips met in a loving, warm kiss. The soft sound of smooching englufed either of the two, as their hearts began to beat to a harmonious rhythm. This was their first kiss ever, and they wanted it bad for a while now. Sungchan's hands grasped M/n's waist in a respectful, but affectionate manner, as M/n put his hands on Sungchan's shoulders, holding him close.

Maybe the kiss was too sudden, maybe they were just acting out of teenage impulse. But, boy, did it feel electric.

Etiquette and time wasn't a consideration to the two in that moment; they were beyond that. Their hearts aligned in a way that would make the stars in the night sky shine eternally brighter.

When they parted, they took a moment to open their eyes, their faces still only inches apart. Fog escaped at their lips given the temperature of the night, and it's as if they were breathing each other in as they slowly broke into two soft smiles.

"M/n. I think I really like you." Sungchan spoke in a low, vulnerable, but nevertheless genuine tone.

"Sung... I don't know what to say..." M/n blushed, his eyes deerlike as they looked up at him, all flustered. He felt the same, and Sungchan knew it. He just got shy.

"Whatever feels right, baby." Sungchan smiled warmly, making sure not to rush him.

"Well, I think I like you too. A lot." M/n said, trying to overcome his nerves. "And I think that I really like it when you call me baby." He said softly, as his heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest.

Sungchan chuckled, the breath from his nose tickling M/n's cheeks. "You're so cute when you're shy." He noted, a blush rising to his own face.

"Aw, Sung.." M/n smacked his lips, getting shyer. There was a comfortable silence as Sungchan examined M/n, who looked away in diffidence.

"Can I... kiss you again?" He asked, his voice low and loving.

M/n turned his head back to face him slowly, a full-fledged blush now on his face. Sungchan noticed how the flower was still there on the side of M/n's head, the same shade of red M/n's nose and cheeks were.

M/n tried to respond, but he couldn't, and his mouth just hung ajar. It was so cute to Sungchan. M/n let out a chuckle, embarrassed at himself. Instead, he offered an eager nod, before speaking under his breath, almost inaudibly. "Yes.."

Sungchan smiled softly, and didn't waste a second after that, meeting M/n's soft lips in a pleasant moment of warmth and love.

The two stood like that for a bit, just melting into each other. After today, was there really anything else they needed?

[animekpopsimp]

Introducing You as Their Wife (Genshin Men x Fem Reader)

Aether finds you and your husband spending time together and learns that he's married.

Diluc

When Aether spotted Diluc standing in a field, he was confused. He was even more confused seeing him stand next to a woman he hadn't seen before. Diluc wasn't the type to be seen anywhere other than Dawn Winery or Angel's Share.

"Hey look! It's Diluc, who's he with?" Paimon asked as the pair walked closer to where he was standing. Her voice caught the attention of you and your husband. You looked between the strangers and Diluc with an eyebrow raised.

"Diluc? Who are they?" You asked, smiling at the pair. In response, your husband cleared his throat, clearly feeling awkward. Seeing this, you stepped in, knowing your husband wasn't the best when it came to handling social situations.

"I'm (Y/N), Diluc's wife. You must be the traveler" you introduced yourself with a gentle smile on your face. Both Aether and Paimon stared at you in surprise.

"What?! Diluc?! You're married?! Since when?!" Paimon exclaimed, causing you to laugh softly. Your husband wrapped an arm around your waist, a soft yet awkward smile appearing on his face.

"Yes, I'm married. I must have forgotten to mention it before" he spoke.

"Wow, who would have thought that you had a wife?" Lumine looked over at Paimon, silently telling her to stay quiet.

"Oh sorry" Paimon said, Diluc sighed, this is why he wanted to keep your relationship private.

Kaeya

Aether had been looking for Kaeya, and he and Paimon had finally found him. He wasn't in his usual spot at Angel's Share, instead they found him sitting at Good Hunter's with a woman they hadn't seen before. He was acting different, more relaxed than usual.

"Oh, Traveler, Paimon? What brings you here?" Kaeya asked as he turned toward the pair. The two of them noticed he was holding his companion's hand as he talked to them.

"Who's this Kaeya?" Paimon asked, tilting her head to the side in a curious manner. And without missing a beat, he responded.

"This is my wife" he introduced you, pride in his voice. Both Aether and Paimon looked at him shocked, eyes wide.

"You're married?!"

Zhongli

You were sitting and having some tea with your husband, you two often did this when you wanted to spend time together.

"Oh! It's Mr. Zhongli" you heard a high-pitched voice call out. Turning your head, you spotted who you recognized as the traveler as well as his flying companion. You had heard about them, but never met them in person.

"Hello Mr. Zhongli" the floating girl said, then she looked over at you.

"Who's this?" She asked, looking confused. Zhongli smiled as he spoke.

"This is (Y/N), my wife" your husband happily introduced.

Xiao

On the balcony of Wangshu Inn, you sat with Xiao while the two of you ate some almond tofu. Things were peaceful and it was just the two of you until two more people approached you.

"Xiao, there you are" a high-pitched voice spoke, you turned your head seeing a blond male.

"Oh, who's this?" A floating girl asked, surprised to see Xiao spending time with someone else. Xiao blushed slightly, mumbling something under his breath.

"Oh, I'm (Y/N)" you took the initiative to introduce yourself.

"Paimon is surprised you're actually spending time with someone." The floating girl commented,

"we're married" Xiao mumbled,

"what did you say, Paimon couldn't hear you."

"We're married" Xiao said a little louder, both her and the traveler's eyes going wide.

Ayato

Hearing someone walk into the estate you share with your husband, you placed your tea cup down and turned your head to see the traveler, who you had heard about before.

"Oh, welcome traveler." Your husband greeted the pair.

"Hi Ayato, who's this?" The floating girl spoke as you smiled at the pair.

"Oh, I've been meaning to introduce her, this is my wife, (Y/N)." Your husband spoke with a soft smile on his face as he wrapped an arm around your waist. The traveler and his companion, looked at you shocked.

"Since when were you married?!"

[ourseasone]

CHAPTER 002 ✽ GLITCH IN THE FLESH

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It had been… a while. Long enough for you to wonder how many sunrises had passed since the world last made sense. You weren’t fully there yet — not really — but you were no longer unconscious either. You floated somewhere in the strange in-between, tethered to awareness by sensations that grew sharper with every passing moment.

Your eyes were still stubbornly closed, but your other senses were wide awake.

The first thing you registered was the smell — soft, vaguely sweet, like almonds drizzled in antiseptic. It clung to the air in a way that made it feel too intentional to be random. Like someone had carefully curated the room’s scent to be comforting, but still sterile. A strange balance between spa and surgery. Then there was the sound. A rhythmic, unrelenting beeping to your right. Machine-like. Medical. Beep. Beep. Beep. A heart monitor, maybe?

Yeah. Probably.

You were lying on something — no, in something — incredibly soft. The mattress beneath you didn’t just support you; it completely held you. Like it had been sculpted to fit your body precisely, responding to your weight with luxurious gentleness. It definitely wasn’t the stiff, plastic-covered excuse for a bed you expected from a hospital.

Somewhere nearby, someone was moving. Not talking, not breathing heavily — just present. You could feel them, the subtle shift of air whenever they adjusted their position. And then; a faint, rhythmic scratch. Writing. A pencil, maybe. Or a pen on thick paper. Whatever it was, it had that unmistakable cadence — quick notes, pauses, then more scratching.

Okay, so you weren’t alone.

You must be in a hospital. Everything — the scent, the beeping, the presence of another person — screamed clinical. But even in your hazy state, something about it all felt… off.

And, of course, the most obvious clue of all ; you were alive.

That, in itself, felt unreal.

Each breath you took scraped against your throat like dry sandpaper, rough and unfamiliar, as if your lungs had forgotten how to function and were now re-learning the motion. Your body felt foreign — not in pain, exactly, but dulled. Disconnected. As if someone had turned the volume down on every sensation and wrapped you in a layer of fog. Your head throbbed under the pressure of ambient light, even though your eyelids remained shut. But it wasn’t the stabbing kind of pain you’d braced for, it was more like a slow, pulsing ache.

Still, the weight of your eyelids felt ridiculous. Like they’d been sealed with cement.

You tried to open them again — for what had to be the fifth, maybe sixth time — and this time, finally, they gave in. Just barely. You blinked sluggishly, eyes adjusting to the muted light, mind still floating somewhere between sedation and clarity. Anesthesia? Possibly. Or maybe just the long hangover of being unconscious for days.

But the moment your vision sharpened enough to register the room around you — that very first glimpse — something cold and electric raced down your spine.

What you saw did not match what you expected.

You were in a hospital room. Technically. But not like any hospital room you’d ever seen in your life.

The walls weren’t painted in sterile white or pale blue. They were paneled in warm, honey-colored wood, polished to a soft sheen that glowed under the sunlight pouring through long, flowing cream curtains. Golden light — real, natural light — filtered through like something out of a luxury vacation brochure. The bed beneath you looked custom-designed. The sheets were a brilliant white, ironed to the millimeter. The mattress was deep and cloud-like.

Even the side rails, which you only now noticed, were so sleek and minimal they blended into the design — like the room itself was ashamed of admitting it was still a place for sick people.

And the space… it was huge.

No, not just huge. Ridiculous. There was enough room for a whole dance studio in here.

To your left, a sprawling sitting area stretched out like a hotel lounge ; a low beige sofa, two armchairs that looked like they belonged in a design catalog, a polished coffee table holding a delicate orchid in full bloom. Nearby, a small tray with a few carefully arranged magazines — their glossy pages untouched, perfectly aligned, like props in a movie set.

Farther back, embedded seamlessly into the far wall, was a television so large it practically was the wall. And just beyond that ; another room. No, a living room.

What the hell.

You blinked again, trying to reset reality. Maybe you were dreaming. Or hallucinating.

There was an actual kitchenette. A minibar. A damn espresso machine. Not the clunky, vending-machine kind, either — it was one of those sleek chrome ones you’d find in a CEO’s penthouse suite. Everything about this place radiated elegance, calm, money. A lot of money.

You stared in mute disbelief.

“Where…” your voice cracked like brittle glass. “Where the hell am I?”

It came out hoarse and broken, like you hadn’t spoken in weeks — and maybe you hadn’t. It felt like the words had to claw their way out of a throat made of sand and rust.

The writing stopped.

A woman turned toward you. She was young, maybe in her twenties, dressed in a pale blue medical uniform that was way too clean to have seen actual emergency-room action. Her dark hair was pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, and her eyes widened the second she saw you awake.

Her reaction was immediate.

She smiled wide, bright, with an almost childlike relief and then, in one fluid motion, bowed deeply from the waist.

“Sir! You’re finally awake!”

You blinked, your eyebrows knitting together.

Sir?

You were seventeen. A high school junior. The last time someone called you ‘sir’ was a sarcastic barista at the mall. But more than that: why was she bowing like you were… some kind of king? Your heart began to beat faster — not from pain, but from a strange feeling creeping into your gut.

Before you could respond, she was already at your side, brisk and practiced. She checked your pulse with gentle fingers, took your temperature with a contactless scanner, peered into your eyes with a small flashlight. Then she adjusted your pillows with the touch of someone trained in both care and presentation. She even wiped your forehead with a damp cloth, her movements clinical but oddly reverent.

Everything she did was efficient, professional — and oddly delicate, like she was handling something precious.

“You must be feeling disoriented. I’ll go get the doctor right away,” she said quickly with another bow before disappearing through the door.

And just like that, you were alone again. In a room so perfect it felt like a dream carefully curated by someone who had too much money and too many secrets.

You glanced down at your arm. An IV. Practically invisible. Sleek. Not the usual tangle of plastic tubes and tape. The bed adjusted as you tried to sit up, shifting with a gentle hum. A digital screen embedded in the wall displayed the time in minimalist font. Beside you, a white remote rested on a linen napkin. A napkin. In a hospital. A glass vase sat on a narrow table to your right. One single flower ; a white peony.

Every inch of this place screamed intentional. Personal. Designed for you.

But… why?

Your fingers curled slowly into the sheets, trying to ground yourself in something — anything — real.

Your heart was thudding now, fast and uneven.

Who put you here? Why were you being treated like someone important? Where were you, really? And what the hell had happened to you?

You stared at the ceiling, chest tight, adrenaline beginning to spike as a single, raw truth echoed through your mind: nothing about this made sense.

“…Holy fucking shit. Where the hell am I?”

The words barely left your mouth before the door opened again with a quiet click.

You didn’t even get a second to think.

The nurse from earlier stepped back into the room, now joined by three others — a tall man in a white coat with a neatly trimmed beard, clearly the doctor, and two other medical staff trailing behind him, also dressed in crisp, spotless white. All four of them halted at the threshold.

And then, almost in sync, they bowed. Deeply. Not a casual nod, not a polite tilt of the head — no, they also bent at the waist, like attendants welcoming royalty.

You blinked, stunned.

The doctor stepped forward first, smiling in a calm, carefully measured way. His presence was warm but composed.

“Mr. Y/N,” he said gently, straightening up. “It’s such a relief to see you awake. You gave us quite a scare.”

His voice was deep, professional — the kind you’d expect from someone who wore designer shoes under his lab coat.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days,” he added. “We were monitoring you closely. There was concern about possible neurological damage, but… thankfully, everything looks stable now.”

Three days?

Your mouth felt dry, like your tongue had been carved from dust. Your brain was still playing catch-up, thoughts crawling like molasses.

“I… I fell, right?” you managed to mumble. “In my room.”

The doctor nodded.

“Yes. You had a serious fall. Slipped and hit your head rather hard. You were found quickly and brought here, stabilized upon arrival. No internal bleeding. No signs of trauma to the brain. Just a concussion and temporary unconsciousness.”

The words sounded right. But something about them didn’t settle. They felt scripted, like the doctor had rehearsed this explanation and was now feeding it to you line by line.

“…Here is where, exactly?” you asked, trying not to let the edge of panic show in your voice.

The doctor paused — just for a beat. Barely noticeable. But you caught it.

“You’re at Seoryang Hospital, in the VIP recovery wing,” the man replied smoothly, as though that answered everything.

You frowned.

Seoryang?

You repeated the name in your head, trying to recall if you’d ever heard of it before. It sounded vaguely Korean, sure. But it wasn’t a city. Not a region. Not a medical center you’d ever come across. And a VIP wing? Who the hell booked you into a VIP hospital suite? Your family sure as hell couldn’t afford that.

The doctor must’ve read the confusion on your face, because he added, “It’s completely normal to feel disoriented after waking. That’s why we’ve kept the lighting low — to ease the transition. But if you feel any dizziness, nausea, or pain, please tell us immediately.”

You didn’t respond.

They were all still looking at you — the nurse, the doctor, the two assistants — with this strange… stillness. Like you were fragile. Or sacred. Reverent, even.

Like you were something valuable and rare.

The doctor continued, his tone calm and overly respectful. He explained that your vitals were strong, that they would keep observing you for another day or two, that they expected a full recovery with no long-term effects. Every word he spoke was careful. Too polished.

But you weren’t even listening anymore.

Your gaze had drifted past the doctor’s shoulder, out toward the softly glowing curtains, the luxurious furnishings, the unnatural calm of the room.

Nothing made sense. Nothing felt real.

Eventually, the doctor finished his monologue, gave a last polite nod, and left — the others trailing silently behind him like shadows. The door closed with a soft click.

And once again, you were alone.

You stared up at the intricately detailed ceiling, trying to make sense of the carved patterns in the wood, like they might spell out a secret message, or a hint, or maybe the name of whatever weird dream you were stuck in.

Silence settled back into the room, but your mind was anything but quiet. You remembered the fall. The horrible, skin-crawling moment when your foot slipped, when gravity yanked you down and your head struck the floor with a crack you still swore you heard more than felt. You remembered the numbness. The metallic tang of blood on your tongue. The warmth seeping from your temple. The way your breath had caught.

But now?

Now you were here. In a bed softer than anything you’d ever owned. In a room too perfect to be real.

People bowing. Calling you sir. Telling you you were in a place you’d never heard of. Acting like you were someone important.

Were you dead?

Was this some bizarre afterlife? Some kind of trick? Because this sure as hell wasn’t heaven. But if it was hell… it was the weirdest, most beautifully furnished version imaginable.

Just as you started to spiral deeper into that thought, the door to your oversized hospital suite burst open again.

“Ninieee!!”

A high-pitched voice rang out, full of unfiltered joy, followed by the patter-patter-patter of tiny feet on hardwood.

You whipped your head toward the sound, stunned. A little girl — maybe three years old — came sprinting toward you, a blur of pastel and pigtails. Her flower-printed dress flared with every step, and her tiny shoes tapped like a metronome on the polished floor. Before you could process what was happening, she reached the edge of the bed and climbed up, with surprising determination for someone so small, and flung herself at you.

“Ninie!” she chirped, burying her face in your chest. “You’re awake! You were sleeping too looooong! I cried! I told Mommy to wake you up but she said we had to be patient and I hate being patient!”

You froze.

“What the—?” Your arms hovered in the air like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Ninie?

She clung to you like you were her favorite stuffed animal, her tiny fingers fisting into the hospital blanket. Her hair smelled faintly of strawberries.

Who the hell is this kid now?!

The door opened again, this time more quietly. Slowly.

You looked up. And time stopped.

A woman stepped inside — impossibly pretty, tall, elegant and so composed. Her tailored cream-beige suit fit her like it had been designed just for her by someone who charged a fortune. Her heels clicked softly on the floor. Her handbag bore the gold emblem of a luxury brand you only recognized because your classmates used to post memes about how unaffordable it was.

But it wasn’t the outfit that stunned you. It was her face.

Your mouth went dry.

“…Mom?” you whispered.

The resemblance was undeniable.

Same eyes. Same cheekbones. Same smooth skin. But the expression? It was all wrong. Gone was the gentle smile you remembered from childhood, the soft warmth that made even her silence comforting. This woman’s expression was cool. Controlled. Calculated. She looked at you like you were a public figure she needed to manage — not a son she loved.

“Finally awake,” she said in a voice that was neither warm nor cold, just neutral, like someone reading a script. “You had us all worried, Y/N.”

You tried to speak, but your throat tightened.

It was her… and it wasn’t.

She approached the bed slowly, stopping at a respectful distance. Her arms remained crossed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, her tone nearly professional.

You tried to respond, but your throat constricted around the words. Your body was still sluggish with leftover sleep — or sedation — and your mind felt like it had been tossed in a blender. You couldn’t stop staring at her.

Your gaze drifted down, almost on its own, to the child still clinging to you.

The little girl was curled up against your chest like some kind of tiny, stubborn koala. She looked up at you now with the biggest, most adoring brown eyes you’d ever seen, her chubby fingers curled gently into the collar of your hospital gown. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement.

“She’s refused to leave the hospital since the night of your fall,” the woman said, voice still even, matter-of-fact. “She cried herself to sleep next to you every night. I didn’t have the heart to force her home.”

Your mind reeled.

What?

The little girl smiled brightly up at you.

“You slept for soooo long! Mommy said you were like Snow White in the glass bed! I told her to kiss you but she said only princesses do that,” she giggled, completely at ease and completely familiar.

Your brain short-circuited.

“Mommy…?”

Your eyes darted from the girl’s beaming face to the woman standing at the foot of your bed.

No. No way.

“Is she…?” Your voice cracked, and you forced the words out. “Is she… my sister?”

The woman didn’t blink. “You don’t remember her?” she asked, brow lifting slightly. “I suppose that fall hit you harder than we thought.”

She turned her head slightly toward the little girl. “Her name is Yeonju. She’s three years old.”

Three. Years. Old.

You went pale. Your skin prickled with cold.

“No. No, I—” You shook your head slowly, heart pounding. “I’ve never had a sister.”

Silence fell like a curtain.

The woman’s lips pressed together. For the first time, her expression faltered. Concern flickered in her eyes, just for a moment — but it was the concern of a doctor hearing a strange symptom, not a mother afraid for her child.

“We’ll inform the medical team,” she said calmly. “This could be post-traumatic memory loss. They’ll evaluate you again.”

“No,” you muttered. “No, this isn’t right. This isn’t just memory loss. This is—this is wrong. It’s all wrong.”

Your hands clenched the hospital bedsheets until your knuckles turned white. Panic clawed at your throat.

“This can’t be real. This is a mistake. Or a prank, or… or something. Right?”

You looked around wildly. The walls. The gleaming floor. The perfect flower on the table. The absurdly luxurious bed you were lying in. Everything around you screamed money. Power. Prestige. But you weren’t rich. You weren’t important.

And this woman — this version of your mother — was not the woman who used to make panda-shaped rice balls and hum along to the radio while folding laundry. Your mother wore soft cardigans and comfy sweatpants and cried during melodramas. She didn’t wear tailored Chanel.

And your dad — God.

You looked up at her sharply. “Where’s Dad?”

She raised an eyebrow at the question, as if it annoyed her. “You know perfectly well he’s at work. He’s extremely busy today.”

At work? Your father? You nearly laughed. The disbelief bubbled in your chest, bitter and sharp. Your real father would have dropped everything — everything — to be by your side in a heartbeat. Even if it meant flying across countries. Even if it meant losing his job. There was no way he wouldn’t be here.

And Yeonju? This sweet, strange little girl wrapped around you like you were her favorite person in the world?

She didn’t exist. She couldn’t exist.

Something inside you cracked.

What year is it?

Your eyes darted to the television screen mounted on the opposite wall. A sleek, modern news broadcast was playing silently. At the bottom of the screen, a date scrolled by in clean, minimalist font ;

[ YTN — Monday, September 5, 2022 ]

Your heart stopped.

“2022…?” you whispered.

That wasn’t right. That wasn’t even close. You blinked. Then blinked again, and again, harder, as if that might make the numbers change.

“No, no, no,” you breathed, voice climbing. “That’s not right. Not at all. It’s 2025. I remember. I watched Weak Hero Class 2 just last week. I was literally watching a goddamn Seongje edit when I—”

When I died.

The realization hit like a wave slamming into shore. Your mother — no, this woman — stared at you as if you’d lost your fucking mind.

“Weak Hero Class? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said flatly.

Your chest tightened.

You were shaking now, violently, like your body was trying to reject the reality around you. You could feel it — this wasn’t just confusion or post-concussion fog. This was something else. And then… it suddenly came back.

Not just the fall. Not just the darkness.

The void. The voice. The screen.

The choices you made.

How strong do you want to be? How rich? Respected. Intelligent. Irreplaceable.

You’d laughed. You’d thought it was a dream. A lucid hallucination. You’d made your picks like it was a game.

Ten. Ten. Eight. Ten. Seven.

And now? This wasn’t the world you left behind. This wasn’t your life, your timeline. You hadn’t woken up. You’d been transferred. Shifted. Rewritten. Reincarnated.

Or more accurately — isekaied.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“No fucking way.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. The walls seemed to bend around you.

Every detail of this place — the scent of the orchid, the warmth of Yeonju’s tiny body, the shine of gold on the woman’s bracelet — it was all real. Too real. But so wrong. Wrong in the kind of way that made your skin crawl. You stared at them both ; the elegant woman pretending to be your mother, and the child who’d somehow been written into your life like a character in a fanfic.

You didn’t know how you got here. You didn’t know what rules this world played by. You didn’t know what you were supposed to be. But one thing was undeniable now ; this wasn’t your world anymore. And whatever this place expected of you… you were going to have to survive it.

Or worse — become something you never intended to be.

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note ∘ ∘ ∘ i hate this chapter omg but i had to write it for the story to make sense later 🥀 like trust me, it's important even if it was painful to get through + IM SO SORRY it took me forever to finish it... like i had the whole thing planned out in my head but my brain just refused to cooperate. literally fighting for my life to turn thoughts into words lmao

tagglist ∘ ∘ ∘ @suunani @slovesyouuu @starrykie @pedifero @iluvkyo @yuuuumii @naelvze @chaotic-world-if-the-j @leftpoetrymoon @aple-piie @exodiam @odevote118 @dumbisme @daichiwkmi @killerd1 @nxxav3rs3 @kamiliora @blodwyn4u @cloudch4n @b0orf @onigiri-miyas (let me know if you wanna be added!)

[shikiitoshi]

𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 karasu tabito x reader

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖘: NSFW, minors dni, bathtub sex, smut, tits playing/sucking, etc.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖘: this smut inspired by "pretty ricky song" but in Mv song when their taking a bath nvm

"Wanna join me for a bath?" Tabito's voice floated over from the bathroom, dripping with seductive promise.

After a long day, his offer was too tempting to resist. You quickly shed your clothes and padded over to the open door, heart fluttering with anticipation.

Tabito lounged in the oversized tub, the water cloudy with bubbles. His eyes trailed over your nude form appreciatively as you approached.

Tabito pulled you close as the warm water of the bath enveloped your naked bodies. His strong arms wrapped around you, his hands roaming your slick skin with sensual intent. The steam rose around you, making the air thick with a musky scent.

"Careful, it's a bit hot," he warned, scooting over to make room.

You stepped into the steamy water and sank down with a sigh, leaning back against his chest. His strong arms encircled you, pulling you flush against him.

You're so beautiful," Tabito murmured, his lips grazing your ear. One hand slid down your back to cup your ass, giving it a possessive squeeze. The other came up to tilt your chin, bringing your mouth to his in a deep, passionate kiss.

You moaned softly into the kiss, your own hands exploring his muscular chest and abs. Tabito's tongue delved into your mouth, tangling with yours as he kissed you hungrily.

Breaking the kiss, Tabito pressed his forehead to yours, his almond green eyes intense with lust. "I need you, my love. I need to be inside you."

"Mmm, this feels amazing," you murmured, tilting your head to nuzzle his jaw.

Tabito hummed in agreement, one hand gliding up to cup your breast underwater. Your nipple pebbled at his touch and you arched into his palm.

He took the silent invitation, rolling and teasing the sensitive bud between his fingers. His other hand drifted lower, trailing feather-light touches along your inner thigh.

You shivered and parted your legs in invitation. Tabito rewarded you by trailing a finger along your slit, circling your clit.

"Already so wet for me," he purred in your ear, pressing two fingers inside your slick heat.

A breathy moan escaped your lips as he began pumping his fingers, stroking your G-spot. You rolled your hips, desperate for more.

"Fuck, I need you," you gasped out, reaching back to palm his rock hard erection.

Tabito groaned and nipped at your neck, the sting shooting straight to your core. "Flip around and ride me," he growled.

You eagerly complied, turning in the tub to straddle his lap. Guiding his thick length to your entrance, you sank down with a keening cry, enveloping him fully.

You bit your lip and nodded, spreading your legs further in wanton invitation. Tabito groaned again, positioning his thick, hard cock at your entrance. With a swift thrust of his hips, he was inside you, filling you completely.

"Ahh, Karasu!" you moaned out, your inner walls clenching around him tightly. He stretched you deliciously, touching places no one else ever had.

"Come for me," Tabito growled against your breast. "Let go, my love."

The combined stimulation had you seeing stars, pleasure building rapidly in your core. "Oh gods, Karasu! I'm so close!" you wailed.

"Oh fuck, yes," Tabito hissed, hands gripping your hips as you began to move.

"Yes, yes, just like that!" you gasped, meeting his thrusts eagerly. Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he pounded into you relentlessly.

The warm water sloshed around you as you bounced on his cock, the pleasure building with each thrust. He met you stroke for stroke, slamming up into you.

"That's it, take it," he grunted, fingers digging into your ass.

Biting your lip, you rolled your hips, grinding against him. The head of his cock hit that perfect spot inside you and you saw stars.

"Karasu kun~!" you moaned out, back arching as your orgasm crashed over you.

He quickly followed, spilling himself deep inside you with a guttural moan.

With a scream of ecstasy, you did just that, your pussy clenching like a vice around Tabito's pistoning cock as your orgasm crashed over you. He continued to thrust through your climax, prolonging your pleasure until he stiffened and let out a guttural moan.

Hot seed spurted deep inside you as Tabito found his own release. He collapsed against you, both of you panting heavily from the intensity of your lovemaking.

"Mmmm, it was," Tabito agreed, lips brushing your temple.

After a few moments, Tabito raised his head to smile at you, his eyes filled with love and satisfaction. "I'll never get enough of you," he declared, pressing a tender kiss to your lips.

𝕰𝖓𝖉......