#anyway its all worth it for MEAT

[halfmoon-horse]

just made a phone call in japanese

[waywardsalt]

anyways. my very first attempt at malenia

[r0semultiverse]

My take on the whole World War 3 WWIII WW3 whatever you wanna call it

This is a very simple look at why you won't die in a new World War (if it even happens) and a simple point of view responding to it. There are far better educated people to speak on this more thoroughly if you feel like researching and looking for that.

[lecliss]

I want to watch Naruto but I don't want to start from the beginning.

[miyanagateru]

i have 1 big problem with ezili which is that her totem position keeps resetting to the default when im not looking, im not sure what the deal is there

[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.

[plutowon]

orange flower

who are you── .✧˚ riki x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS── ｡𖦹°‧ when the world feels like it’s pushing you out of its tedious hold, riki comes to find you

( .✧˚ ) — genre angst, vent post wc 2.12k warnings depression, suicide andheavy suicidal ideation, deep insecurities, somewhat graphic depictions of eating disorders, fear of abandonment please proceed with caution, and know that you are loved reblog & comment

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you are not afraid of death. 

most people go out of their way to avoid it, but you've decided the task isn’t worth your time. spending all this effort, this cruel, depleting, malignant energy, avoiding something when its reverse brings you down, tortures your mind in agonizing ways, it’s a waste.

why should you be afraid of death?

death is comforting.

it is peaceful, it’s quiet.

whilst life is full of resentment and suffering, death offers a warm home. a place where pain ceases, where your heart never hurts cause it stops beating, where you can reside knowing that you will never have to hurt your friends or family again. a place where desperation and despair doesn’t find you. the hustle and bustle of just trying to get by no longer burdens you, because death welcomes you with open arms. death takes pain away. and everything stops.

why should you be afraid of death when it is so kind?

that is what you tell yourself.

when it seems like the cons outweigh the pros, when desperation clings to you like the lint on your black pants and you find yourself trying to live and failing, you remember that death is kind. when the only thing that keeps you afloat is killing you, you remind yourself that death is kind. even if living the way that feels best kills you, it won’t matter in the end because death is kind.

you deserve this anyway. life doesn’t love you, nobody does, so it only makes sense you find solace in pain, you deserve to be punished. your salvation comes from overworking yourself, smoothing every crinkle till you're perfect. your grace is telling yourself “twelve more hours” when your chest begins to burn and your stomach feels like it is eating you from the inside. when you feel like everyone is beginning to hate you again, you remind yourself of all your flaws. it is your own fault for being negligent; you have become too comfortable. you let those sick and grotesque sides of you show. you have forgotten that nobody cares about your struggles or your happiness. no one cares about your anger, no one cares about the relentless agony resting in your heart. no one cares about your humor and friendly nature.

no one cares.

you are loud. you are obnoxious. you’re thoughtless. you’re arrogant. you’re too much to be around. you forget that perfection is to be docile. it’s to see the good in everything. it’s to forgive, no matter the severity of the pain bestowed upon you. it’s to be beautiful. to have just the right amount of everything, the perfect ratio of meat to bones. collarbones that stick, but not hip bones. boney wrists but not your ribs. this is perfection. to control your emotions at all time, they should never be open and on display.

sometimes, you think you’ll never be good enough. the only way you will be loved is if you pivot and get sicker. the only love you’re deserving of is pity.

because you’re a burden.

you’re bad. a sick, filthy, evil creature. you suck the life and joy out of everyone. that’s why you must be punished. you’re a monster. no matter how hard you try, that will never change. you have no redeeming qualities.

no one cares for you other than death. for when you run yourself to the ground, death will be there to take you. to end your suffering.

no one will love you but death, who seems to chase you all your life.

that’s what you tell yourself, despite riki’s pleading efforts to keep you alive. you think he hasn’t noticed your relapse, but he has. he hasn’t said anything directly–just indirectly trying to remind you this path isn’t worth it–because progress isn’t linear, you just need to take your time.

but you need to live to have time to take. he’s tried to remind you of the health risks and compromises you’re setting yourself up for, but you don’t care. because you need to be punished so that everyone will forgive you. so that you can be clean. so that the evil that taints your soul will wash away.

so that you don’t have to be afraid riki will leave you. so that he doesn’t have to be burdened by you. so that everyone tolerates you again. to be loved, you must prove you deserve it.

what you don’t realize is that living recklessly worries the people who do love you, even when you’ve convinced yourself they’ve stopped. you don’t realize that when you go, riki goes too. that there’s no more dance practices together, no more k-bbq dates, no more horror movie marathons, you don’t realize that you will lose the one that makes you happy. you don’t realize that this passion, this desperation to live happily and be loved, you don’t have to bear on your own. 

you don’t realize that death is a temptress. she’s enticing, but she only wishes to take from you. to consume you. you don’t realize that death’s kindness will take away everything from you. you don’t realize that you want to live–truly, you do, you just don’t know how else the pain will go away, but if you open your eyes, you’ll see that the world is vast and beautiful, and good things are waiting for you.

riki doesn’t know how to make you understand.

he doesn’t know how to show you you’re a blessing, not a curse. you are one of god’s greatest treasures, and you bring a type of grace that so many people need. how can he show you that you don’t need to prove it, you’re already loved, and you deserve it. how does he show you that you don’t deserve to be punished, you don’t deserve the pain. the world is just cruel and unfair sometimes. you aren’t bad, you aren’t corrupted, you’ve done nothing to deserve this.

he wants you to know that everyone will mourn you as if the sun’s been taken from the sky. that when you’re gone, he’ll have to hold your hoodies to sleep even a wink, and when the smell eventually disappears, he doesn’t know how he’ll cope. when he reaches for your hand and it isn’t there, he knows he’ll break. he’ll mourn the way your laughter fills the room, he’ll miss your cookies and your homemade tofu soup. he’ll miss the nights of sushi and drunk stumbling, he’ll miss how cute you get, all giggly and beaming, the way you tell him you love him, the way you cling to him like he belongs to you–because he does, and he’ll miss the drunk makeout sessions that ensue afterwards, because he loves being close to you. he always wants to hold you. he kisses you like he worships you. like you’re an angel gifted to him, personally created by god just for him. he holds you like you’re precious, the most valuable thing in the world, as if he's scared you’ll slip, he doesn’t wanna break you and he doesn’t want you to leave. he holds you like you belong to him–because you do. 

he wishes you could see it. how the world will fall apart without you. his mother will miss cooking and shopping with you, his sister will miss her dance partner and best friend, her safe space that she can go to anytime she needs. his father will miss the jokes you make, he’ll miss your love and appreciation for classic films. his friends will miss the way you play games with them, they’ll miss the soup you bring them when one of them is sick, they’ll miss the way you tease them and the way riki is so soft with you. your mother will miss watching dramas with you. she’ll miss the way you send her cat pics and show her new foods to try. she’ll miss your temper. your dad will miss arguing and fighting with you. he’ll miss watching movies and teasing you. your brother will miss having someone to take care of and protect. he’ll miss the petty arguments, the late-night drives, the days spent at arcades or at home doing anything to make sure you aren’t bored. he’ll miss the lights in your room, the warmth on your bed, the smashing of your keys as you write away on your computer.

why would he change anything? everyone has bad habits, but you’re trying. that’s enough for him. you don’t try to be angry, and when you are, you let him in even when you feel like you’re on fire. you cry worrying about what others think, being his perfect girl, you obsess over being perfect, being loved,

but you’re trying. and that makes you perfect to him. you don’t have to change a thing. you were born gorgeous, you don’t have to put in the effort. he loves you just as much in his hoodie with shorts, no makeup on and your hair undone as he does when you get all dolled up; it’s not the outfit that makes you, you make the outfit. and you don’t need to change the body you come with.

he wants you to see.

he needs you to see. he needs you to know. 

he’s desperate as he falls to his knees on the rooftop, screaming at you, telling you to come down.

he loves you too much to ever get over your absence.

he begs with you, pleads with everything in him. he lays himself out in front of you to see. the deepest parts of him coming out and he doesn’t care,

because you are his, and he is yours, and he loves you too much to ever let you go.

he prays to god, he begs him to show you what he can’t. he tries everything. he knows that after this, you won’t feel good, you won’t have much hope, he knows you’ll be full of despair,

but he just needs to make sure you’re safe in his arms, then things will start to be okay. if you just come down, keep trying, good things will come. he’ll be right here with you. he’ll make them better.

“just come down, love. i promise you, i promise you it will get better. there will never be another you, you’re irreplaceable, not just to me. you have so much love to give, please, let me show you the world will love you in return.”

you stand there, sobbing. 

you don’t know what to do.

you love riki, you love your friends, you love your family, but you’re so tired and you’re dragging them down with you. you don’t deserve them.

“you do, i promise, darling, please. it’ll never be the same without you. i don’t know what i’ll do with myself,” he tells you, “they’ll never love anyone the way they love you, i’ll never love anyone the way i love you.”

but you’re so tired. it’s so hard. you just wanna give up. you want it to stop. you want this draining torture to stop,

but you want riki.

you want his cuddles, his kisses, you want the way he makes you laugh. you want dates at the bookstore, laughing at the plots in the manga and young adult sections. you want the drunken nights where he showers you with praise, when he makes the effort to stabilize himself just to look at you. he gives you that “wow, i got so lucky” stare that makes you hide behind your hands, and he pushes them down to see your flustered face. you want late nights when you’re crying and you feel alone, and he comes through your window to cradle you to sleep. you want family nights with his family. you want dance practices with his sister that consist more of talking shit and discussing what lunch is rather than actual dancing. you want late nights playing mario kart with his friends, cooking with them, ranting with them. you wanna eat lunch with your mom, you wanna watch movies with your dad.

you tell yourself you’re not afraid of death but you are.

you’re just also afraid that nothing will change and everything will stay the same. you’re scared that this pain will never get better.

“it will, love. think about all the effort you’re putting in. i promise, it won't go in vain. things are gonna be okay. you’re gonna be okay, and i’ll protect you till the end. so please come down, baby.”

death kisses your knuckles. she runs her fingers up your arms, beckoning you. she whispers in your ear and tells you there is peace in her waters. 

but with what little hope you have left, you push her aside and step off the ledge,

right into riki’s arms, where he holds you tightly as he sobs uncontrollably.

[nimueshell]

༒︎ Last Diner on Dead Highway (S.R)

Summary: When the world ends, Sukuna’s Diner stays open. You crawl in starving. He makes sure you leave full - or never leave at all.

Substance: f!reader, sukuna ryomen, apocalypse au, no protection, found family (rotten version), derogatory language, dubious morals, aftercare? what's that?, oral (male receiving), diner au, rough sex, breeding kink, size kink, wall sex, oral sex, overstimulation, praise, power play, gojo & geto cameo, degradation

Word Count: 8.5k

The wind hits you like a mouthful of grit when you shove the door open. Neon flickers overhead, a broken sign that buzzes out DINER in sickly green before coughing into darkness. Somewhere underneath the crackle of old neon, the part of the sign that still half-works spells out FLESH. Maybe you’d laugh if your tongue weren’t so dry.

Inside, the air tastes like grease and something thicker. The smell of meat you haven’t seen in years curls through your nose and roots itself in your gut, twisting you tight with a hunger that borders on agony.

You stand there for a heartbeat, just inside the threshold. Dust slides off your boots, clumps onto the tile floor that’s cracked like the skin on your lips. It’s warmer in here than it has any right to be. The overhead bulbs swing slow in their fixtures, humming a lullaby of old pipes and buzzing wires.

He’s there, behind the counter. Leaning against the chrome like he’s been waiting for a ghost to drag itself out of the dark just to stand in front of him and beg. Sukuna. Rumor said the Devil ran the only kitchen that never shut its doors. You figured the Devil would look older. Instead he looks carved from something meaner than bone, broad shoulders in a grease-spattered white tee, arms sleeved in dark ink that coils up his throat. There’s another set of arms, slack and folded until they twitch open like an afterthought when he shifts to flip the battered sign on the counter that says OPEN .

He doesn’t speak right away. Just flicks his eyes up from the chipped mug in his hand to drag a slow look over your sorry state. The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to laugh but can’t be bothered to spend that much breath on you yet.

You drag yourself to the counter. Elbows scrape on chrome when you lean in too close, knees weak from miles of bad road and worse thoughts. The gun in your boot presses cold against your ankle. You don’t pull it yet. Maybe you’re saving it for dessert.

Sukuna doesn’t ask what you want. He jerks his chin at the cracked stool. “Sit.”

Your throat works around a laugh that tastes like rust. “What’s on the menu?”

He grins, all teeth, all promise of something you won’t survive but might thank him for. “Whatever you can swallow, sweetheart.”

The flicker of neon outside hums brighter. The hunger in your belly howls. His hand drags the plate closer, palm wide enough to cover half the counter when he leans over, close enough you can smell the ghost of iron and old smoke on his breath.

“Come on then,” he murmurs, voice dark as the highway behind you. “Let’s feed that filthy little mouth. I’ll see if you’re worth the meat first.”

You sink down onto the stool, vinyl cracked and warm from the heat that leaks through the diner’s rotting walls. The edge of your thigh sticks to it, bare where your jeans gave up weeks back, torn wide at the knees and frayed along the seam. There’s dried salt crusted on your skin where sweat turned to dust and settled in every fold the desert could find. Your tank top is worse - threadbare, once black but sun-bleached at the shoulders, neckline pulled so wide it slips when you lean too far forward.

Your boots thud against the chrome rung of the stool, scuffed leather scarred white at the toe. The old revolver presses cold at your ankle, tucked just inside where the boot bites your skin. It’s heavy enough to remind you that you didn’t come here to beg, but you can taste the truth in your mouth anyway.

He watches you settle. Sukuna, behind the counter, leaning on one big elbow like the linoleum was built to hold up the weight of him alone. His eyes drag down your arms, linger at your collar where the shirt gapes open like a torn curtain, drift backup slow to your mouth. His grin twitches when he catches the shape your lips make when you swallow, dry and cracked and raw.

You feel it all the way down. The way he holds you in that stare, slow as a butcher’s blade. His voice cuts the hum of the busted sign outside.

“That’s it?” he drawls, thumb flicking along the rim of his mug. “All that dust in your throat and nothing left to spit at me?”

You shift, boots scraping the metal rung. Your knee bumps the counter, close enough to catch the sharp scent of old oil, something sweet under it that doesn’t belong in any kitchen. The corner of your mouth twitches.

“Got nothing worth spitting,” you say. Your voice scratches its way out, rough from days without water that wasn’t stale enough to taste like rust.

He laughs, a sound low in his chest that scrapes warm over your ribs. The extra pair of arms unfold at his sides like he’s stretching just for you. His palm plants wide on the counter, close enough that you see the old grease ground into the lines of his skin, black ink curling around the tendons like a binding rope.

“You stink of roadkill and you sit yourself here like you’ve got something worth trading.” He leans in, slow enough you don’t flinch when his face tips close to yours. His nose brushes a stray bit of hair off your cheek. His breath smells like cheap coffee and something that’s been dead a long time but cooked fresh.

“You hungry enough to lie about it?”

Your eyes flick to the cracked mirror behind him, the one that throws your ragged shape back at you in ghost-light neon. You see your shoulders. The skin at your collar. The faint line of your throat when you swallow around nothing.

“Depends,” you rasp, the corner of your lip hitching just enough to mock the grin he wears. “What’s worth lying for around here?”

His laugh hits the soft place under your ear, close enough you feel the rough drag of it against your shoulder where the shirt slips. His thumb brushes the edge of the counter, tapping twice near your elbow like he might reach for you but doesn’t bother yet.

“Stick around,” Sukuna murmurs, voice like a flicked match in a dry field. “See if you find out.”

Your fingers twitch at the edge of the counter. The smell of whatever he’s cooking drifts out of the back kitchen, warm and greasy, thick enough that it hits something low in your gut and twists it cruel. You shift your weight, boots grinding on the tile that’s cracked wide enough to swallow your heel if you’re not careful. The revolver presses at your ankle again. Heavy but not enough to feel like real power when your belly’s growling like this.

Sukuna watches your mouth. You know it without looking. His eyes slip there every time your tongue flicks over your dry lip, every time your breath shivers out past your teeth. He waits for you to say it. Beg for it. You’d burn before you do that.

Your hand slides into your pocket instead. The denim scrapes against raw knuckles as you fish around for what you’d half-buried in there days ago. Your fingers close around it. A scrap of metal, small enough to fit in your palm. You slap it down on the counter in front of his smirk.

“Here,” you rasp. Your voice comes out rough but steady enough to coat it in contempt. “Good steel. Pulled it off a rig near Burned Creek. Can flip it for parts if you’re clever.”

He doesn’t even bother to glance at the thing. Just lets his gaze drag up from your wrist to your collarbone, the slip of your ruined shirt still wide at one shoulder. His mouth curls half-open, teeth catching his lower lip before they bare again. The low laugh he gives you scrapes hot against your ribs.

“Cute,” he says. His thumb flicks the scrap of metal once. It spins across the counter and clinks against the edge. He doesn’t even watch it fall. “You think I’m running a charity table? Scrap metal. I got half this kitchen made of scrap metal, sweetheart.”

Your jaw ticks. You curl your fingers, plant your palm flat on the counter so you don’t slap him across that grin. The hunger in your belly snaps mean enough to flush your cheeks, embarrassment coiled up tight with it.

“You think your meat’s worth that much?” you snap. Your voice cracks halfway through, raw from the thirst and the bite of his eyes on your throat. “You’re frying up the same shit I’ve smelled rotting in backlots for a week. Ain’t worth the stink, let alone my good steel.”

He tilts his head at you, slow, deliberate, like a dog sniffing a carcass it’s already decided to drag back into its hole. One of his extra arms unfolds, palm bracing beside your elbow so close your sleeve brushes the inside of his wrist. The heat of him soaks into the thin fabric, sweat-slick skin prickling under the weight of that grin.

“Then walk,” he murmurs. His voice hums low enough to turn your bones soft in your spine. “Door’s right there. Plenty of dirt out there to chew on. Or maybe you like the taste of rust. Lick the revolver in your boot if you get real desperate.”

Your nails dig into the counter. You feel it give just slightly under your palm, cracked laminate pressed hard enough to leave a faint imprint in your skin. You drag in a breath that tastes like oil and meat and the ghost of something sweet enough to make your ribs ache.

“I’ve eaten worse,” you spit. The lie slides out so bitter you can barely swallow it. The look in his eyes says he knows it. He knows it when your stomach gives itself away with a soft, traitorous growl you wish you could drown in your own spit.

You shove back from the stool so fast it screeches across the cracked tile. The scrape echoes through the empty diner, sharp enough to make your eyes water for reasons you’ll never say out loud. You brace a hand on the counter just long enough to push yourself up. The revolver shifts in your boot, cold weight thudding your ankle like an insult.

“Keep your shit meat,” you hiss. Your shoulders square as you pull your ragged shirt higher on your collarbone. “I’ll find a rat on the road, same thing anyway.”

He lets you go. At first. His grin doesn’t shift. His eyes slip down your side, catching where the thin cotton sticks to the sweat on your ribs. He watches you step back, watches the way your shoulders stiffen like you’re bracing for another mile of dry wind and empty road.

You’ve almost reached the door. Your fingers curl around the metal handle, cool against your palm. The cracked neon sign flickers outside, buzzing the word EAT into the darkness like it knows how hollow you really are.

You don’t get to pull it open. His voice rolls across the space between your shoulder blades, lazy as poison poured in a sweet cup.

“Tell you what,” he calls out. His tone drips warm and mocking, soft enough that it prickles the back of your neck. “Come back here. Get on your knees. I’ll feed you better than any rat could. Real meat that hadn't already been picked on by vultures, even cooked ontop of a stove.”

You freeze. The metal handle creaks under your grip when your knuckles go white. The soft hiss of the wind outside slips through the crack in the doorframe, dry and hollow and sharp enough to bite at your heel.

You turn your head just enough to catch him in the corner of your eye. He hasn’t moved an inch. One arm braced on the counter, the other pair folded loose against his chest like a king bored by the prayers spilling out of your throat. His grin carves deep enough to show the sharp edge of his teeth in the flickering neon glow.

“Or go on,” he says. He lifts one hand, thumb flicking toward the dark stretch of road behind you. “Back to sucking ditchwater and licking the rust off old cans. Plenty of ghosts out there dying to keep you company while your belly turns inside out.”

Your lip curls. You hate him for how your knees threaten to soften. Hate the heat that sparks behind your ribs when his eyes slip down your front again, slow enough to taste. You hate that your stomach growls again, louder now, a low keen that betrays you before your mouth can spit another lie.

You could draw the revolver. Put a round in his skull. Take what you want. But you know how that would end. The stories you heard whispered around half-dead campfires, about what happens to folks who think they can take from Sukuna without giving him something he wants first.

Your fingers slip from the door. The metal handle rattles soft when it snaps shut behind you. Your boots drag you back two steps, the sound of your soles scraping the tile drowned by the hum of the sign that still flickers EAT, EAT, EAT.

His grin splits wider when you stand there, shoulders hunched like the road’s weight hasn’t quite slipped off yet. He tips his chin at the empty stool you left spinning on its rusty base.

“Come on then,” Sukuna murmurs. He drags his thumb over the edge of the counter, slow enough to make the pulse in your throat kick. “Show me how hungry you really are. Maybe I’ll decide you’re worth the trouble.”

Your breath shudders out. The revolver in your boot presses heavy. You don’t reach for it. Your fingers twitch at your side once, then still. The hum of the neon sign above the door keeps buzzing the same promise into your bones. EAT. EAT. EAT.

Your tongue drags over your cracked lips. You take one step. Another. Your knees hit the cracked tile floor just beside the stool you abandoned. The metal creaks when you brace your hand on the counter, steadying yourself under the weight of his stare.

Sukuna’s grin softens at the edges but never fades. He leans forward, close enough you feel the ghost of heat where his breath drifts across the soft slope of your throat. His fingers tap the chrome once, twice, the echo of it sharp enough to pin you in place.

“That’s better,” he says. His voice hums warm where it curls under your ribs, soft as old sin. “Now open that pretty mouth. Let’s see how much meat you can really take.”

Your knees ache on the cracked tile. The hum of the neon sign buzzes somewhere behind your ears, a dull chorus that blends with the pounding of your pulse when you narrow your eyes at him. Sukuna’s grin holds steady, sharp as a butcher’s blade, while you push your chin forward just enough to show you’re not some starving pup begging for scraps.

You squint at him, voice scraping out rough but steady. “Gonna stand there and smirk all night, or you planning on working for your applause?”

His laugh rumbles low in his chest, a sound that makes the shadows behind him seem to shiver. He tips his head just enough to glance over your shoulder, eyes flicking to the door as if he’s checking to see if the ghosts of the highway have stumbled in to watch you on your knees. Finding the room empty except for the two of you, he drags his gaze back down.

His tongue flicks over one canine as he pushes away from the counter. He steps in closer, boots creaking on the old tile until his hips hover inches from your face. He leans his back to the counter, arms folding across that broad chest like he’s settling in for a private show.

You catch it when you look up. The thick swell in his pants, the bulge pressing hard against cheap fabric that strains around the shape of him. Even half-caged he looks heavy, long, thick enough your throat tightens with the memory of what he promised.

You wrinkle your nose, the soft huff of your breath ghosting over the bulge before you glare up at him. “When’s the last time you showered, huh? Or do you think the rotting smell is part of your charm?”

He rolls his eyes, one hand drifting down to thumb at the waistband of his pants like he’s trying not to laugh too loud at your poor insult. “Mouth on you,” he drawls, voice dripping with that nasty sweetness that makes your teeth ache. “You must taste so much better when you shut up.”

Your fingers twitch near your boot, the cold weight of the revolver digging at your ankle like a reminder that you could ruin him with a single pull. One bullet. Right through that smug grin. Or lower. You imagine it for half a heartbeat, the phantom of the barrel pressed to his zipper.

But you don’t. You stay where you are, knees pressed to cracked tile that bites at your bones. He’s the first man you’ve laid eyes on in months who doesn’t smell like rot or look half-shriveled under the sun. The last one with a face you might hate but a body you can’t help but want pressed up against you, filthy and alive in all the ways the dead men on the road never were.

He sees it too. The flicker of your thoughts across your eyes. The way your tongue drags over your cracked bottom lip again, your throat working to swallow down the sting of dry air. Sukuna hums low, his hand dropping behind the counter. He rummages for a second, metal clinking, before he pulls up an old glass bottle half full of water that gleams under the flickering light.

You don’t dare move when he cracks the cap open with one thick thumb. The smell of it - clean, cold, so real you could weep. His grin softens to something crueler, more patient. He crouches just a little, one hand slipping under your chin. The warmth of his skin presses there, thumb brushing the grime along your jaw.

“Open up,” he murmurs. His voice drips low enough you could drown in it.

Your lips part before you can stop them. His fingers tilt the bottle slow, water sliding out in a cold trickle that drips right into your waiting mouth. It hits your tongue and your throat clenches around it, the relief so sudden it makes your eyes sting. You swallow, mouth open wider, wanting more than you can beg for with your pride hanging tattered around your shoulders.

He tips the bottle back before you’ve had half. Your tongue catches the last drop as it falls from your lip, the taste gone too quick.

“That’s it,” he purrs. The hand at your chin slides up, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where the last drop hangs. He wipes it off with a rough drag, smearing it along your lip before he lets his hand drop to his zipper. “You want more, earn it.”

The sound of the zipper dragging down cuts through the hush. The fabric parts and you see him bare, his cock springing out heavy and flushed dark at the tip, veins ridged thick along the shaft. His thighs flex when he shifts, fabric of his pants bunching low where his hips roll slow, just to watch your eyes drop to the size of him.

You draw back half an inch, your shoulders pressing to the stool you abandoned, breath caught halfway between your lungs and your dry laugh. Your voice cracks out, hoarse but sharp. “Shit. This thing could be used as a weapon.”

He snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching as he lifts one brow. “Could be. Should be. Maybe tonight it will be.”

The grin that slips over his teeth is pure cruelty, dripping honeyed promise you can feel pooling warm in your belly despite every thought in your head that tells you to run. His hand wraps around the thick base, thumb stroking slow over the flushed tip like he’s showing off a prize you’re not quite allowed to taste yet.

Your lips part again, cracked and dry and waiting for the rest of that water he’s locked behind a promise you’ll hate yourself for keeping. His hips tilt closer, shadow falling over your face when he lifts the bottle just out of reach, his other hand pressing at your hair, rough enough to push your head back where you kneel hungry at his feet.

Your lips hover over the head of it, your breath hitting the flushed tip in small, shaky puffs that do nothing to cool you down. Your voice cracks when you manage to rasp something out, muffled by the heat of his skin brushing your mouth.

“I can’t put that fuckin’ thing in my mouth.”

Your words don’t match what your body’s doing. Your lips already press soft kisses along the crown, tasting the salt and something faintly bitter. One hand slides to the thick base, your fingers barely wrapping halfway before the other joins in, palms squeezing warm around the hard weight of him.

Sukuna watches from above, one arm braced back on the counter while the other tangles rough in your hair. His jaw twitches when you flatten your tongue to the tip, giving it a wet, lazy lick just to spite him. Your eyes flick up to see the way his mouth twitches at the corner, a muscle in his neck jumping like he wants to say something sharp but holds it for a second longer.

The moment doesn’t last. His hips buck up once, pressing the blunt head right against your lips until they part without your permission. Warm spit and that leftover water slip from your mouth, slicking him up enough that when he pushes in, your cheeks puff wide around the stretch.

He drags in a breath through his teeth, eyes narrowed down at you like he’s daring you to bite just to see if you’re dumb enough to test him. Your hands keep working the base, both wrapped tight as you pump him unhurried, the soft slick noise of your palms rubbing up the length swallowed by the low curse that breaks out of his throat.

“Pathetic,” he grunts, voice sharp enough to crack your pride in half if you let it. “All that mouth and you can’t even open it wide enough for me.”

You scoff around him, cheeks hollowing just enough to suck in a lungful of air around the stretch. Your teeth catch the underside for a split second, not enough to really bite but enough to feel the sharp hiss that rips out of him when his fingers tighten at your scalp.

“Watch it,” Sukuna snaps, the words dragging low from the pit of his chest. His hand shoves your head forward, the next thrust pushing him deeper, hot weight sliding over your tongue until you feel it press at the back of your throat. “Try that again and I’ll fuck your skull open so wide they’ll use you for a roadside caution sign.”

Your laugh cracks around the fullness, muffled and ugly but there anyway. You can’t say anything back, not when he’s pushing your head down farther, thick length forcing your mouth wide enough to make your jaw ache. Spit dribbles from the corners of your lips, slipping down your chin to smear into the grime already stuck to your neck.

Your hands never stop moving, sliding up and down what you can’t swallow yet. He grunts low when your tongue flicks against the thick vein pulsing along the underside. Each shallow thrust of his hips pushes him deeper, your nose pressed to the sharp edge of his stomach where the hem of his shirt hangs open just enough to show that deep cut of his v-line disappearing into your lips.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You try to blink them away but the heat of him inside you and the taste coating your tongue make it impossible to keep them from falling. One fat drop breaks loose, rolling down to catch on your wrist where your knuckles press to his thigh for balance. You wipe it away with the back of your hand, but another slips free before you can stop it. The salt mixes with the taste of him, drowning out the stale water you’d swallowed moments before.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice cracked open by a raw laugh that sounds like it should scare you more than it does. “Crying for it. Gutter slut on her knees, tears in her mouth while she tries to choke down a meal too big to swallow.”

You try to glare up at him but your vision’s too blurry to hold his eyes for long. Your cheeks hollow again when you drag your head back just enough to suck a breath. He doesn’t let you get far. His hand twists tight in your hair, pulling you back down so the head hits your throat again, forcing that half-retch you can’t hide.

“Take it,” Sukuna snaps. His hips roll slow at first, then snap harder when you try to lean back again. “Eat it all. You wanna fill that belly, you start here. This is real meat. Fresh. Hot. Better than anything you’ll find rusting on the road.”

Your hands grip tighter around the base, slick and messy with your spit. Your throat clenches around him when his next thrust pushes too deep, the burn of your gag sharp at the back of your eyes. He doesn’t care. He ruts in again, voice low and fucked, his head tipping back for a second when your tongue flicks just right under the crown.

Your tears keep falling, mixing with the dirt on your cheeks until they carve raw tracks through the grime. You feel them drip down your neck when you swallow, mouth stretched wide enough to bruise your jaw. His words keep spilling, filthy and half-amused like he can’t decide if he wants to gut you or praise you for taking it.

“Good enough,” he snarls, hips jerking forward again until your nose hits the heat of his stomach. “Better than I thought. Look at you. All road dust and sharp teeth and nothing left but spit on my cock.”

Your lungs burn. You swallow again, the taste of him turning your stomach but your hands never stop moving, squeezing at the base like you’re trying to drain him for everything he’s worth. You feel it when he twitches, the first hot pulse hitting the back of your tongue. He groans low, hips rolling slow and mean while his hand tightens at your scalp, forcing your mouth to stay wide around him.

The taste is worse than the smell. Bitter and thick, rancid enough your throat clenches like it wants to spit it back. You don’t. You force it down, fighting the urge to gag as you swallow the first wave, the next, the last thick spill that coats your tongue before he lets your head pull back just enough to breathe.

Your lips slip off him with a wet pop, spit and seed dripping from the corner of your mouth as you pant for air. The grime on your face looks clearer now where your tears cut through it, salt and sweat and dirt smudged into your chin when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

Sukuna’s breath saws through his chest, eyes locked on the mess of your lips and the way your throat works to swallow down the last taste of him. He wipes the last trace of spit from your chin with his thumb, slowly like he’s scraping grime from a plate he plans to lick clean later. 

His cock twitches once, still thick and angry where it slaps against his thigh when he lets go. He drags his eyes down your face, smirk split wide enough to show too many teeth.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice rolling through the hush of the tiled washroom. “Want a burger or somethin’?”

Your glare slices through the steam. Your knees press tight together, your hips roll just enough to feel the burn between your legs sharpen. One hand slips down before you can stop it, palm braced on the slick floor as you shift your weight to rut your clothed cunt against the curve of your wrist. You can feel the grit scraping your skin raw, but you don’t care. Not when his eyes drop and drag over the mess of you there on the tiles.

A low chuckle rumbles out of him. His grin curves wider, tongue flicking over one sharp canine. “Look at you,” he scoffs, eyes dragging back up to your mouth. “Still starving like a stray sniffing scraps under my table. You think I’m feeding you for that?”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek so hard you taste copper, bitterness flooding your chest just enough to force your spine straight. Your mouth curls into something half-broken, half-vicious as you push yourself to stand. You nearly slip on the wet tile, boots skidding on soap-scummed floor. His hand catches your elbow before you crash down. He doesn’t let you breathe. His grip tightens. He lifts you like you’re nothing but a rag he’s sick of tripping over.

Your back hits the counter’s edge. The cold laminate bites into your ass through your thin jeans. Sukuna’s grin splits further when he flips you onto your back, rough palms pressing your thighs apart so wide you feel the burn in your hips.

“You’re gonna get my whole kitchen filthy,” he growls, voice rough near your ear as his hand drags slow up your trembling inner thigh. His thumbs dig into the soft flesh, fingers flexing like he’s kneading raw dough. “I should rinse you out with bleach first.”

You roll your hips up into his palm, spite twisting your lips even as your body betrays you. “Keep talking. I’m not scared of soap or you.”

That pulls a real laugh from him, dark and cracked open at the edges. His cock bobs heavy between you both, head flushed and dripping near your stomach. The vein along the shaft pulses when he slides his thumb down, dragging it across the slick patch spreading over your jeans.

“You smell like stale sweat and old piss,” he snaps, pressing his face close enough that you feel his breath heat your lips. “You’re not getting this until I scrape the filth off you.”

You try to spit words at him but he’s already shifting, hooking one big arm under your back while the other scoops your thighs. Your world tips. Your spine smacks against his shoulder as he hauls you like a sack of grimy loot.

The kitchen flashes by, metal counters scrubbed too clean, white tiles stained rusty near a drain you don’t want to look at too long. He stomps you through a steel door and shoves it open with his hip. Inside, a cracked washroom waits, steam curling off a battered shower head that hisses warm water into the air.

He tosses you down onto your feet. You stumble back, one palm braced on the cold tile wall. Sukuna stands there, arms folded, that ugly smirk carved deep into his mouth like he wants you to crawl.

“Shower’s not charity,” he snaps. “Work for it.”

Your teeth bare in a grin that tastes like blood. Your fingers hook into your waistband, yanking your jeans down until they slap wet against the floor. One boot thuds off. The other flies across the grimy corner. Socks peel off with a damp squelch. The tank top comes last, ragged fabric scraping over your skin when you toss it to the tiles at his feet.

Sukuna doesn’t hide how he looks. His eyes rake over the sweat-slick curve of your stomach, the grit at the backs of your knees. He strips too, peeling his ruined pants down those thick thighs until his cock swings free, heavy enough you feel the pulse in your throat just looking at it. The veins stand out thick and mean. His chest is broad, a map of old ink and muscle that shifts under the harsh flicker of the overhead bulb.

Steam spills over your shoulders when you step into the warm drizzle. His palm hits your hip hard enough you grunt. Fingers dig into your ribs, nails scraping off grime in rough circles that burn when the water slides through. His other hand cups your breast, squeezes until your nipple peaks tight under the heat. He pinches, rolls the bud until your hips shift closer on instinct.

“You don’t look half bad when you’re not covered in your own filth,” he mocks, voice rough, mouth pressing to the slope of your throat where the last streaks of dirt run down the drain. “Almost worth the stink.”

Your snort cracks open your grin. One hand drops between you, wraps around the heavy weight still half-hard at his stomach. You squeeze, thumb dragging along the slit just to feel the twitch in his abs when you pull.

“Don’t remember you complaining about the stink when you were halfway down my throat,” you bite.

A growl cracks out of him, low and mean. He fists your hair, tilts your chin up so your back hits the tile with a soft slap. Warm spray soaks your scalp, washes the grit from your roots while his other hand drops to shove your thighs apart.

“You talk too much,” he snarls. His thumb finds your clit, rubs hard and messy until your breath catches behind your teeth. “Maybe I should shut you up again. Mouth’s better busy.”

Your gasp splits around a low curse when two thick digits push inside you, the stretch so sudden your knees knock his thighs. The water drips over your chest, rolling down to pool at your navel when his knuckles drag against your walls.

“Hope you cleaned under those filthy claws,” you spit, breath broken on the laugh that tumbles through your teeth.

He snorts, voice sharp enough to cut skin. “You think I give a fuck? You’ll be begging for more of this dirt before you’re done.”

Your fingers dig into his forearm when he scissors you wider, the raw scrape of his knuckles pressing spots that make your thighs quiver. He doesn’t give you time to catch a breath. Another finger pushes in, the stretch raw and sweet when he curls them together.

“Spread wider,” Sukuna snaps, thumb grinding your clit until your hips rut helplessly against the push. “Don’t make me pry you open with my teeth.”

Your laugh shatters around a gasp, fingers still curled tight around the thick base of his cock as it twitches hot against your stomach.

“Big talk,” you rasp, hips jerking when his thumb circles your clit harder. “For a man who lives behind a counter frying mystery meat.”

Sukuna’s grin sharpens. His fingers slip out with a wet sound that makes your chest shiver. He shoves you back until your shoulders smack the tile. One rough hand slides under your thigh, hitching it over his hip when he lines himself up.

“I’ll show you what real meat tastes like, pest,” he snarls against your jaw, voice cracking over your skin just as his cock slides heavy between your slick folds. “Keep that mouth open.”

And when he thrusts up, splitting you open in one slow, bruising shove, your snarl twists into a moan so sweet even the flickering bulb above you seems to hum for more.

Your gasp catches hard in your chest when he shifts, the thick weight of him punching deeper with a bruising shove that scrapes the breath from your ribs. Sukuna’s body pins you flush to the cracked tile wall, heat searing your skin where his chest slides against yours, wet and slick from the water pounding down over both of you. His cock stretches you wide, every slow drag tearing your insides raw in a way that makes your knees quake.

Your voice hitches, mouth open against his jaw as he presses you harder to the wall, nails scraping down your ass before he squeezes the soft swell of it in both huge hands.

“Too big,” you rasp, eyes squeezing shut when his hips pull back and ram forward again, each thrust shaking the tiles behind your spine. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails scraping skin and old ink while your words spill out in ragged spurts. “It’s too fucking much… feels like I’m getting split on a damn post-”

A vicious grin splits his mouth as he dips his head, tongue dragging a slow, hot swipe over the sweat at your throat. His laughter rumbles low, so close you feel it in your teeth before you feel it in your cunt.

“Good,” he growls, voice rough as gravel. His teeth graze your earlobe before he bites down hard enough to make you whimper. “Better than that filthy hole you keep flapping. Maybe I should keep you plugged full all day so you shut up for once.”

The filthy scrape of him pulling back makes your hips twitch. One big hand slides down the curve of your ass to slap it, sharp and wet, the sound bouncing off the mildew-stained walls. Another smack lands on the other side, heat blooming under his palm when he rubs the sting in lazy circles before gripping tight enough to bruise.

“Might have to keep you stashed here,” he rasps, voice half laughter and half threat. He drags his cock deeper with another harsh grind, each push forcing a sharp squeak from your throat that he drinks in like it’s his last drop of liquor. “Keep you bent over my counter like a meal on a plate. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You bark a wheezing laugh that snaps in half when his hips ram forward, forcing you open around the thick weight splitting you raw. Your fingers fumble for purchase on the wet tile, your nails biting half-moons into his arms when your cunt clenches so tight your vision blurs at the edges.

“Only if there’s an all-you-can-eat buffet for me too,” you spit, gasping when his next shove makes your thighs quake. “I’m not gagging on your shit for free every damn night. I want real meat too.”

Sukuna’s teeth bare in something that looks like a grin and a snarl fighting to tear his mouth in half. He presses his forehead to yours, his breath hitting your lips hot and thick as his hips pound forward again, dragging another slick moan out of you.

“You think you’re worth a full meal?” he huffs, voice dripping with rough amusement. “You’ll be lucky if I toss you the bones. You’ll lick ‘em clean like the mangy bitch you are.”

The insult scrapes your chest raw but the filthy roll of your hips gives you away. His thumb finds your clit again, circles fast and mean until your breath stutters and your legs buckle around his waist. Your nails carve down his back when your cunt tightens, the raw stretch of him inside you catching deep enough to make your eyes water.

“Fucking, you’re so damn thick-” you whimper, voice cracking when he drives in again, the wet slap of skin ringing loud in the steam. “Hurts… fuck, it hurts-”

“Good,” he spits, lips dragging down your neck to your collarbone where he bites another bruise into your skin. “Maybe you’ll remember who’s feeding you.”

Your body snaps under the push and pull of him rutting you into the wall, water splattering down your back where it washes the filth away but leaves nothing clean between you. His hips crash forward, each thrust meaner than the last, his heavy cock splitting you open while your moans break apart under the rush of heat curling tight in your gut.

“You’re mine now,” he snarls when you try to look away, fingers fisting your hair to yank your head back so you have to see him, eyes red and half-lidded. “Every inch of you. Every pretty sound. Mine.”

You bare your teeth at him, your hips jolting up to meet his next push even when your thighs tremble from the strain. “Only if you keep feeding me real,” you pant, voice splitting around the filthy smack of his hips. “No more cans. No more trash. I want real meat. Cooked and steaming.”

He drags a harsh chuckle from deep in his chest, mouth smashing yours open on a kiss that tastes like steam and salt and the iron tang of your tongue between his teeth. His hips snap hard, cock throbbing inside you when your cunt grips him so tight it drags a guttural groan out of him.

“You’ll take whatever I give you,” Sukuna snarls against your lips, his hand slapping your ass again when you squeeze around him. “And you’ll beg for more when I’m done.”

Your laugh cuts into a moan that falls apart when his thumb rubs faster, the sharp press of his fingers driving you straight into the edge you’ve been choking on for minutes. Your spine arches off the wall when the wave hits, your vision crackling white at the edges as your cunt clamps down so tight you feel every pulse of his cock twitching deep inside.

“Fuck… fuck …Sukuna-” you choke, the words shredded on a whine that he swallows with his mouth still locked on yours. His hips hammer forward, his thick length dragging every shudder out of you until your voice collapses under the weight of it.

“Mine,” he growls again, words a filthy promise that splits your bones open as his hips slam flush, cock spilling hot inside you until the warmth drips down your thigh where the water can’t wash it away fast enough.

You choke on the taste of his breath when he bites your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to watch your eyes flutter under the blinking bulb. 

Your moan breaks open in his mouth when his hips slam flush, his cock twitching deep inside you. He holds you pinned to the cracked tile with the full weight of him, thick arms caging you in while the warm spray hits your shoulders and slides down your back. Your legs tremble, thighs tight around his waist as the first hot pulse fills you.

Sukuna’s groan tears out low, ragged in his chest. He doesn’t stop pushing. He stays buried deep, hips rolling in short, punishing thrusts that keep you split wide around him while each thick wave of cum pours into your cunt. The heat rushes through you, slick and heavy, dripping down the backs of your thighs when you clench helplessly around the mess he leaves inside.

“Fuck,” he snarls, voice cracking as he grinds forward again, forcing another rough spill that makes your breath stutter. His teeth catch your jaw, scraping along your skin as he mutters filth against your throat. “Take it. Pussy’s so tight. So fucking wet for me. You’re not done.”

Your laugh cracks apart when his hips jerk one last time. The last pulse of warmth drips out as his cock drags against your walls, leaving you trembling when your cunt flutters around nothing but the thick mess he’s shoved deep inside you.

“Sukuna,” you gasp, your voice thin, the steam around you swallowing it up. “You do realize there’s no birth control anymore. Not a single fucking pill, not a single shot. You think they stock that at some dusty ruin?”

Your breath hitches when his hand slips down, rough fingers rubbing at your clit again. Your hips buck at the touch, a soft whimper spilling out that you hate him for hearing. His grin slashes across his face, sharp and filthy, mouth dragging over your cheek where the water hasn’t rinsed him clean yet.

“Oh, I know,” he rasps, words half-laugh, half-threat when he pinches your clit just right, making your thighs jerk. “I know exactly what I’m doing. Maybe I’ll knock you up on this dirty floor, give this shit heap of a world something even worse than me. Little mongrel chewing through my leftovers while you waddle around this kitchen leaking me down your thighs.”

Your laugh rattles through your teeth but breaks off in a whimper when his thumb circles harder. Your spine arches off the tile, nails digging into his shoulders as your second climax claws through you with raw heat. The heavy mess inside you slips out when you clench, warm drips mixing with the spray around your ankles.

“You’d keep it,” he goads, mouth pressed at your ear while he rubs harder, pulling every soft cry out of you. “You’d spread your legs for seconds before it’s even born. Breed you full again right here on the counter while that little monster naps behind the grill.”

Your eyes roll, voice shredded as your thighs quake around his hips. “It’d eat you alive. Little savage.”

His tongue drags up your throat when your last moan shatters, teeth catching your chin in a soft bite. He holds you pinned with one huge palm at your lower back, the other still pressed between your legs, two fingers dragging your release out while you pant for breath that won’t come fast enough.

“Perfect,” Sukuna huffs, words soaked with rough laughter that rumbles in his chest. “Perfect garbage family for the end of the world. You. Me. Some half-feral brat chewing drywall while you beg me for more.”

Your head thuds against the tile when you shiver, your last pulse fading out with the last hiss of the warm shower dripping over both your backs. His hand slides off your clit slow, wet fingers dragging a trail up your belly to smear the mess across your skin like he’s marking you twice over.

And when your eyes flutter open, breath wrecked, your mouth splits into a crooked grin you can’t hide. The heavy ache inside says you’ll never be clean again, no matter how hot the water runs.

When your legs finally stop twitching enough to hold your own weight, Sukuna peels you off the wall like he’s unhooking fresh meat from a rack. Your feet slap the warm puddle at the bottom of the shower. His massive palm stays hooked under your chin, thumb brushing your jaw like he’s wiping the last proof of you off his skin. He doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you move.

“What’s your name,” he rumbles, voice rough with the scrape of all the filth that came before. The water drips off his shoulders in thick trails, steam rising from his bare chest where old ink coils around slabs of muscle you know now too well.

You blink the water out of your lashes, chest heaving, your mouth curling around the word like you’re daring him to laugh at it. “Yours if you keep feeding me.”

He huffs, a sound so low it could be a laugh or a threat if you cared enough to pin it down. His thumb slides to the corner of your mouth, smearing spit across your cheek before he drags it back down to your throat. He nods, eyes narrowed, pupils thin and sharp as they rake your battered face.

He doesn’t step away. Instead he shoves you back into the wall with his hips, cock already hardening where it brushes your belly. Your legs quake when you try to stand but his arm hooks under your knee, hiking it over his hip.

Your moan splits the stale air as he sinks back inside you, fresh heat mixing with the old pulse of everything he left dripping from your cunt. Words shatter behind your teeth when he leans in, mouth hot and open over yours.

The next fuck drags the hiss out of the cracked tiles. You lose count of how many times you come apart, your raw throat scraping curses and laughter into his shoulder. He fucks you until you’re begging for water again, until your name is nothing but a bruise in his mouth.

༒︎

When you wake later, it’s still there. Echoing in the hiss of old neon buzzing outside. You’re draped across a sticky counter in the dining area now, one of his old long-sleeved shirts swallowing your shoulders. The sleeves hang past your fingers where they wrap around a battered plate piled with half-burned meat and bread so stale it might break your teeth. You don’t care. You chew like you haven’t eaten since the world cracked open.

Behind you, Sukuna leans against the counter with his arms crossed, eyes drilling into your spine like he’s daring you to choke on the food he keeps throwing your way. He’s shirtless, fresh scars partially hidden under the dark ink that winds up his chest. One of his lower hands scratches the edge of his jaw while the other toys with a grease-stained rag. He looks bored, maybe even starved for whatever you’ll spit at him next.

The bell over the door chirps its rusted hinge alive. Both your heads jerk at once. The dry wind leaks in around two shadows, big enough to block the ruin of the sunset spilling through the cracked glass.

The first man steps in like the wind itself owes him something. He’s tall, so tall he has to duck under the broken frame, wild silver hair sticking out from under a battered pair of pilot goggles strapped over his forehead. His eyes cut bright and sharp behind tinted lenses, the grin he wears split wide and careless like he’s always known something you haven’t. He drags a dusty bomber jacket off one shoulder, boots scuffing the cracked tile as he whistles at the two of you.

The other drifts in behind him. Dark hair tied low at his nape, a few strands stuck to the sweat at his temple. His jacket’s older, black leather patched and stitched where the world’s torn it up. Eyes heavy, mouth soft but not soft enough to be safe. A cigarette smolders between his fingers. The smell cuts through the stale diner air.

Gojo Satoru leans back on his heels, goggles sliding down to hang loose around his neck. He tosses you a grin that feels like teeth hidden in a gift box.

“Place still open?” he drawls, voice rolling through the dead air like a spark looking for dry tinder. “Or you two done playing house?”

Suguru Geto lets the door swing shut behind them, boot heel crunching the grit on the floor. His eyes flick over the half-eaten food on your plate, then up at Sukuna where the bastard hasn’t moved an inch behind you.

Your lips part. Sukuna’s hand comes down heavy on the counter beside you, cracked knuckles tapping once on the old laminate as the neon outside flickers alive.

The Last Diner on Dead Highway hums around you both. And that’s where it holds.

notes: me realizing they didn't even kiss (whoops)

[hrizantemy]

Nesta's boots.

In the second chapter of ACOTAR, Feyre makes a note of how shiny they are. In ACOSF, when Nesta returns to the cabin, her point of view shows them as being so worn that they had a holes in them. While the most obvious reason for this is retcon, I think there is a in-universe reason that's worth looking into, because it's not the first time something like that happened.

“I needed new boots, but Elain needed a new cloak, and Nesta was prone to crave anything someone else possessed.” ACOTAR, Chapter 1

In the first book, Feyre is written as someone practical, who is doing her best to keep her family alive. She also believes her sisters to be frivolous in their spending, which is shown when she mentions in chapter 2, that she feels the need to hide money.

“No, she just spent whatever money I didn’t hide from her" ACOTAR, Chapter 2

So, going back to the first quote, the fact that Feyre herself mentions Elain's need for a new cloak, already paints a picture of Nesta in our minds, of being the worst of the two sister, with the implication that Elain actually needs it while Nesta doesn't.

“I glanced at Nesta’s still-shiny pair by the door. Beside hers, my too-small boots were falling apart at the seams, held together only by fraying laces.” ACOTAR, Chapter 2

This perception of Nesta is practically set in stone by the description of those boots, in comparison's to Feyre's. I do think it's worth noting that, while we get the description of the boots the second Nesta mentions them, we don't get a description of Elain's coat, and the condition it's in. All we see is her whining about how cold she'll get.

However, in ACOSF, the description of the boots that we get is entirely contradictory.

“There in the corner sat a pair of worn, half-rotted shoes. Her shoes. One of them was bursting at the toe’s seam. She’d worn those shoes—in public. Could still remember mud and stones creeping in.” ACOSF, Chapter 55

To begin with, I think it's important to consider what each pair of shoes was put through to get them in that condition.

Feyre, as a hunter, spent a lot of her time in the forest throughout the year. She's setting up traps, stalking potential prey, and carrying it back, either to town or to her cabin. I imagine that she also skins and preps the meat while wearing her shoes, especially during winter, meaning they often get covered in all sorts of substances that would cause them to fall apart faster.

Meanwhile, Nesta spends her days, largely, in the cabin. Perhaps she steps outside every now and then, perhaps she goes into town some days. But, for the most part, she doesn't put her shoes through half the amount of stress Feyre does.

If we also consider that neither of them probably have particularly good quality shoes anyway (I'm sure in such a poor village, there's a cap on the quality of the products they sell, since most people wouldn't be able to afford them at a certain point, so there wouldn't be a point in stocking it, if vendors even have the ability too), then it makes sense why Nesta's shoes may seem better off than Feyre's, from her perspective.

This wouldn't be the last time Feyre's view on wealth is skewed.

"Velaris was by no means poor, its people mostly cared for, the buildings and streets well kept. My sister, it seemed, had managed to find the only thing relatively close to a slum." ACOFAS, Chapter 4

'Relatively close', she said.

So not a slum. Not even particularly run down. Maybe somewhat outdated, I imagine, but not violating health or safety codes, in any way. The streets themselves don't seem to be particularly dirty either. It's very likely that the area itself is safe too. I mean, this singular city has the, supposed, most powerful fae in their court living there. They all see their High Lord regularly, you never know if the spymaster is lurking in a dark corner, and the entire IC seem to have way too much time on their hands. Mor spends half the books at Rita's, for God's sake. And they all treassure Velaris on a personal level, so it's understandable that crime would be very low there, and why crime rates in places like Illyria and the Hewn City are much higher.

Both of these instances show just how skewed Feyre's perception of wealth is, which shouldn't be surprising. Feyre's inability to read shows how uneducated she was, even before her family lost their wealth. Frankly, I think Nesta has a better perception of money than Feyre ever did.

Nesta was raised to be a Queen. The human lands seem to be based off of Medieval Europe, so the roles of Queens in universe are likely to reflect that. Mor confirms at least the second part in ACOWAR.

“But she was human. And a queen—who needed to continue her royal line, especially during such a tumultuous time.” ACOWAR, Chapter 66

This means that a Queen's main role, aside from providing heirs, would be running the royal household, managing the finances, hiring staff, etc. There were times when they may take part in religious ceremonies, and, depending on their circumstances, politics. But, largely, their main duty was to run the royal household.

“You would need ten thousand ships,” Nesta said, her voice breaking. “You would need an armada. I have calculated the numbers. And if you are readying for war, you will not send your ships to us. We are stranded here.” ACOMAF, Chapter 57.

Nesta proved in ACOMAF, when she calculated the number of ships that would be needed to evacuate the people inhabiting the mortal lands on Prythian.

So, logically speaking, who would've been running their household while living in the cottage? I doubt their father, who's track record shows how terrible he is with money, would be doing it. Feyre's perception of wealth has been shown to be skewed too. This leaves Nesta and Elain. Weather or not Elain has the skills to do that is unclear, at this point, which means the most likely person was Nesta. Even after they were given money by Tamlin, the person running their newly restored household would, probably, be Nesta. After the last time it's unlikely she would trust him with such a sum of money again. Nobody would be there to help them if he lost it.

This leads me to the question, what exactly was Nesta spending money on?

When Feyre mentioned hiding money, she mentioned that she did it because Nesta spent it, but, to the best of my memory, we never learn what she bought with it. Is it possible Nesta struggled to adjust after losing their wealth, and made some impulse purchases? Yes. In fact, I'd say it's likely that she did, which may be what Feyre is basing her opinion of Nesta's spending habit on. However, it's also likely that as time went on, she started to help manage finances. Replace things that Feyre refused to because she didn't think they needed to be replaced, like Nesta's boots.

We also know that it was likely Nesta, and perhaps Elain, who handled domestic labour in their household. This would include fixing torn clothes. It's unclear exactly how long Nesta and Feyre had the same pair of boots, but even for someone who didn't leave their home much, they would begin to rot eventually, especially if they're low quality. It also wouldn't be surprising if, as part of the domestic labour, Nesta tried to clean, fix or polish their clothes and shoes however she could, but with Feyre heading to the forest every day, I doubt it would work as well on hers than Nesta's or Elain's.

With all of this in mind, it makes sense why, from Feyre's point of view, Nesta's boots look fine, better than fine, even, from her perspective. And now, with sudden access to hoards of wealth, Feyre has essentially gone from zero to a hundred in less than a day. She never experienced the middle ground, that most people live with, leaving her feeling entitled, and out of touch by the time we get to ACOFAS, and maybe even in ACOSF too. Its why she seems so jarring, like she forgot her roots entirely.

1. The Boots as Narrative Symbol: A Mirror of Perception

The contrast between Feyre’s perception of Nesta’s shiny boots in ACOTAR and Nesta’s actual memory of her “half-rotted” shoes in ACOSF is more than just a continuity oversight — it reflects a fundamental truth of the series: that Feyre is an unreliable narrator.

That line — “Nesta was prone to crave anything someone else possessed” — comes from Feyre’s internal monologue, not from Nesta’s actions. Feyre is projecting resentment. Her situation is horrible, and she’s young and desperate. And instead of seeing Nesta’s refusal to adapt as a trauma response or a psychological defense mechanism (which we later learn it was), Feyre interprets it as selfishness.

“I glanced at Nesta’s still-shiny pair by the door.” — ACOTAR, Chapter 2

But then in ACOSF, we get:

“There in the corner sat a pair of worn, half-rotted shoes. Her shoes. One of them was bursting at the toe’s seam.” — ACOSF, Chapter 55

That is a full-circle moment. It's not a contradiction — it's a correction. A window into how one character (Feyre) perceived things through her own bias, and how reality was far more complex. This shift matters because it reframes how we’re meant to understand Nesta. It’s the moment where the “spoiled, cold sister” trope begins to fracture, and the truth of her silent, lonely survival comes to light.

2. Wealth, Class, and Skewed Perception

You're absolutely right that Feyre’s perception of wealth is deeply skewed, both before and after her transition into High Lady. Her family was rich once, but she was a child — likely shielded from the logistics of how wealth was managed. When that wealth collapsed, she learned one thing: survival requires control. Her obsession with control — of food, money, her sisters’ choices — became a coping mechanism.

“No, she just spent whatever money I didn’t hide from her.” — ACOTAR, Chapter 2

But what Feyre sees as “frivolous spending” could very well have been basic necessities. In a household that was falling apart, with no income, and no parental guidance, it would have made sense for Nesta to try and replace things. To buy soap. Or fabric. Or, yes, a slightly better pair of boots to last the winter. And Feyre’s disdain isn’t rooted in logic — it’s rooted in resentment, which becomes increasingly clear with time.

Let’s not forget:

“Velaris was by no means poor… My sister, it seemed, had managed to find the only thing relatively close to a slum.” — ACOFAS, Chapter 4

This isn’t Nesta seeking out squalor — it’s Feyre projecting class-based judgment. It’s Feyre, who now lives in palaces and wears Night Court couture, acting like someone who used to be poor but now has the luxury to sneer at others from a safe distance. Her “relatively close to a slum” line isn’t just ignorant — it’s classist. It’s a reminder that Feyre hasn’t actually unlearned the trauma of being poor; she’s just buried it under wealth.

3. Nesta’s Financial Role and Domestic Responsibility

You hit on something truly important when you said Nesta was raised to be a queen — because that would have included education in household management. Queens in medieval and early modern European societies often oversaw everything from royal expenses to household inventories. They were expected to know how to run a court, a kitchen, and a staff. Even without fae-level magic, Nesta likely had early training in reading ledgers, assessing quality, and making judgment calls.

“You would need ten thousand ships,” Nesta said, her voice breaking. “I have calculated the numbers.” — ACOMAF, Chapter 57

Feyre, in contrast, couldn’t read at the beginning of ACOTAR. She admits this. So why is she the one assumed to be the practical, financially literate sister?

It’s because Feyre tells the story. She frames herself as the martyr, and her sisters as burdens. But who’s doing the mending? Who’s buying the salt? Who’s maintaining the hearth while Feyre is in the woods?

It’s likely Nesta did what she could — in a home where she had no real resources, no parental support, and no mental health help. Her “frivolity” may well have been the bare minimum of caretaking — but because Feyre sees it as excessive, so do we.

4. Symbolic Labor and Feminine Expectations

The boots symbolize more than class — they symbolize expectation. Feyre was expected to labor physically, while Nesta was expected to serve aesthetically and socially. When Feyre’s labor was visible (bruises, blood, boots falling apart), it was “real.” When Nesta’s labor was invisible (sewing, budgeting, scrubbing a floor, fighting to maintain dignity), it was “useless.”

Sound familiar?

It’s a gendered double standard that echoes through both human and fae society in the series. Feyre became the “masculine” heroine — bow-wielding, hunting, sacrificing. Nesta was the “feminine” failure — bitter, cold, broken, and ornamental. But both girls suffered. Both survived. And only one was allowed to be praised for it.

5. Feyre’s Arc Toward Elitism

By ACOFAS and ACOSF, Feyre isn’t just removed from her roots — she’s romanticizing them. She frames her past as a hardship she alone endured, without acknowledging the nuances of what her sisters went through. Her judgment of Nesta’s apartment, her flippant dismissal of Illyrian or Hewn City culture, all reflect a Feyre who has adopted the classism of her new station. She means well. She’s trying. But she’s also deeply out of touch.

And here’s the hard truth:

Feyre never had to learn how to live in the middle. She jumped from poverty to divine wealth, from hunter to High Lady. She never had to rebuild slowly — so she can’t fathom what it means when others do.

Conclusion: The Boots Were Never Just Boots

They were a symbol. Of perception. Of judgment. Of class. Of trauma.

Feyre’s narrative taught us, early on, that she was the only one struggling — that her sisters were dead weight. But as the series unfolds, and we finally get the chance to see through Nesta’s eyes, we realize the truth is so much more complicated. Nesta didn’t just let her boots rot. She let herself rot. She wore them into the mud and let them fall apart, just like she did with her body.

Because that’s what happens when nobody saves you. And nobody sees you.

So yes — the boots matter.

[contentloadingandstuff]

Gym Headcanons - Lisa & Ningguang x Male!Reader

A/N: I hope you'll like this one! All the others WIPs are staring daggers at me though... CW: Nothing notable.

Going to a gym? Lisa will pass, thank you. 

All the sweat and all the effort could, if she had to exert herself at all, go towards other things than gaining muscles. What would she use them for anyway? Her strength doesn't come from raw, brutish power, but rather from her brilliance and knowledge. 

For Lisa, getting some gains would be a bad thing as far as her appearance is concerned. She feels great as she is - of healthy weight with some delectable fluff on her belly, thighs and butt. A girl's got to have some meat on her bones, doesn't she? It's perfect for touching and resting your weary head on those plushy thighs. She won't ruin that especially since you're far from complaining about her assets. 

Even if she won't train, Lisa will care for her diet, and will keep an eye on yours too if you ask her to. She'll buy more of her natural yogurts, fruits, granola and other healthy foodstuffs. You'll be in good hands - Lisa will buy you shakes and foods with lots of protein to help build that dazzling body of yours. 

If at any point you find yourself tempted to cheat, she’ll gently remind you of your goal and help you resist. 

She's a vegetarian herself, but will not, to any extent of the word, force her views upon you. She just dislikes the taste of meat, especially when it's fried. The heartburn she feels after is straight up awful. Still, she won't object to making you hearty meals with all the love she has. After all, she has all the time in the world. 

Although she wouldn't ever come to the gym herself, it's different with you there. Lisa will gladly tag along to keep you company whenever she can. She won't hesitate to do her research, helping you in maintaining the proper position and form as you train. Need a break? She'll pass you the water and take away the weights (according to her ability). Feeling tired or bored? Lisa will be there, keeping a conversation or reading out loud to you - this way you train both your mind and your body. She'll get you whatever help she can offer. 

Is she accompanying you to gawk at your bare chest, your tensing, sweaty muscles, hear your masculine groans of exertion as you lift inhuman weights and give it your all? See you doing what men do, pushing yourself to the limit to become bigger, better, faster and stronger? Perhaps. Is that an invalid reason? Not at all. 

After a certain amount of these trips, the mage will start eyeing the exercise mats with increasing curiosity. Of course she wouldn't do any actually tiring exercises, but it wouldn't hurt to stretch a little, would it? Being flexible has a few uses Lisa can't think of, most of which involve you~

The first few times would render her limbs and joints crying in pain as years of “rust” come off. It would surely leave her grumpy the next day, but it's alright - you'll do your duty and massage her pains away, won’t you? 

When going at them, Lisa likes to do stretches that let her poor back get some lovely relief. Every time she begins the cobra stretches of the day, she can't help but sigh in satisfaction. The first one's the best, no doubt about that. On the other hand, those exercises that require her to lean down are the cause of her pains rather than the relief. Toe touches aren't easy, and things like forward folds are the stuff of nightmares, the mere thought of which is enough to make her spine ache.

Ningguang isn't one to work out either. She’s on a strict diet, planned out for her by the best dietitian and cooked by the best chef Mora can buy. Each of her meals has its calories counted to the letter, and - should the situation demand it - Ningguang is capable of counting them herself. Even when there's no label, she's able to judge it with impressive accuracy. 

It's thanks to this attentive lifestyle that she can flaunt her wasp waist. Even if a person's worth is more in merit than appearance, impeccable beauty can go a long way too. Oftentimes just her looks alone can charm an interlocutor, leading to favorable outcomes. 

Eating this little has a downside, coming in the form of low energy levels. She can push pencils all day long, but even short jogs can find her out of breath after a while. Ningguang gets tired and sore fairly easily, making it no surprise that she avoids straining herself. 

She avoids training, but that doesn't mean she simply sits around looking pretty. Each of her mansions is equipped with a rich and well stocked gym for use at yours and hers leisure. Before you came they were mostly gathering dust, but your interest in training reminded her of that purchase. It was nice to see they finally had a use. 

Sometimes, on a slow day, Ningguang will bring out her sport gear and join you in the training room. Most of her time she'll do stretches or use the treadmill, since these don't increase muscle mass that much - the high class canon of beauty doesn't include muscle girls, nor does she see the appeal if truth is told. She's the Tianquan, not some… sea captain. 

Besides, that would be threading on your territory. Why be muscular if you're the muscle man here? If you're strong, then she'll be swift and agile. Perfectly complementary, wouldn't you say? 

When it comes to date ideas, a gym date is a unique one to be sure, but she doesn't mind. It gives both of you a chance to show off your hard earned physiques and spend some quality time together. Ningguang enjoys you spotting for her, even if she won't do the exercises by herself. The attention is always appreciated. 

She wouldn't admit that to anyone, but she enjoys goofing around with you. Using her as a dumbbell or doing push-ups with her casually sitting on your back is both amusing and quite flustering - getting a first hand experience of your strength never fails to get her a little red. But don't tell anyone, or else…!

Sometimes when she needs to think, Ningguang visits you and simply enjoys your presence in silence. There's something hypnotic about you going about your business and the repetitive motions of the equipment. Many times she watched you in silence, only to mutter a silent ‘got it’ before getting up and thanking you with a kiss. Each time after she left the room you were left fairly confused. Confused, but happy to be of help nonetheless.

Thanks for reading!

[jjwolves]

Hey!!!

Just wanted to request something and say that I really like your writing and your sona! Really silly

Anyway, if you can, may I have some general ‘x reader’ headcanons for Bellham/Suspicious Man from DBBQ?? I don’t see a lot of content of him on tumblr or anything else, and its a shame, I REALLY LIKE HIM!!!!

Thanks you!!!

SAMADHI ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

What: 5 Headcanons for Suspicious Man X Reader

Who: Suspicious Man from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~900 Words, ~4 mins

Warnings: Stalking (?)

Suspicious Man is confusing, and it’s not remedied by the fact that he rarely elaborates on anything he says unless prompted, and even then, you need to ask the right questions. It follows, then, that you hadn’t even realized that you two were dating until you were halfway through an admittedly romantic glowing bonsai tree-lit dinner and he said, “I’ve been waiting. To find someone like you. For. A while.” Taking a break from eating a gourmet Medicine Branch, you asked what he meant. “Well. I am glad. That our paths. Crossed. Crossed? Intertwined.” Deciding to get bold, you elected to ask if he loved you, because you were pretty sure you loved him. He was such a unique guy; you doubt he’d make fun of you or be rude about it. His ominous smile grew a little wider, two sets of hands interlocking conspiratorially. Was he feeling amused or bashful? Hard to say. “Yes! I thought that I. Was being obvious.” He was not.

Suspicious Man is a creature of hedonism and scholarship. When he’s not experiencing the highest cosmic highs of senses, he’s busying himself with extensive study of anything he feels would be worth learning. He’s extremely knowledgeable, and as such, he seems to know a lot of things about you that you don’t recall ever telling him. “It is habit. For us. To go. Where I want to go. So. We must go. Where you. Want to go. Which is presumably. Presumably? The Blooming Heaven Well.” Well, you did want to go there—it’d been one of your favorite places in all of your travels. But how did he know that? “I study. Things that. I like. That fascinate me. Hehehe!” You should recoil, but you like him too much, so you squeeze one of his hands instead. It’s only for a moment, but his mouth drops the shady smile and adopts a surprised ‘o’. “You know. Feeling this is. Different. Than reading about it.”

It’s not long before he introduces you to his favorite place, a dark winding place of bookshelves and pipes and dust which floats off of the floor and forms little shapes for you. And deep, ominous bells playing far away, yet echoing all around you. It’s creepy and macabre, but knowing Suspicious Man gives you the sense that he’s showing you something personal and close to his heart, so it takes on a warm, intimate atmosphere. One of his favorite things to do here is feast on strange but delicious food with you. Flesh branches dipped in candle sauce. A cornucopia of colored triangles. Gray biscuits with ghostly faces on them lathered in some sort of psychedelic glaze. It is completely epicurean. It’s absolutely an endless chasing of the senses. But being together for a meal gives it a sense of wholeness, like there’s meat beneath the spice that is pleasure. Like there’s substance to this time spent. Suspicious Man thinks that he might have found a new favorite activity. “I think. We’ve found our own. Form of. Enlightenment?”

It might not come as much of a surprise to anybody, but Suspicious Man might be a little… evil. He enjoys putting hexes on entities who annoy him. He likes vexing and mocking his bell servants. At the very least, his evil tendencies are directional—he’d never do anything to hurt you or even inconvenience you. He does like to test you, though—see if you’d like to have a taste of the dark side. Not necessarily because he dislikes your goodness. In fact, he enjoys it. He simply likes to offer you the experience, like offering someone a glass of wine after you’ve already poured yourself some. Once, after you had been rudely denied passage by a doorkeeper entity, you found them tied up and squirming around in red string, suspended above the ground of Suspicious Man’s realm. Suspicious Man handed you a cursed talisman and playfully wiggled your arms around. “What. Ever. Will you do?” You were pissed at the entity, sure, but it wasn’t worth cursing them and turning them into a mango or whatever this talisman did. You elected to set the doorkeeper free. “Sad choice! But fair choice. Either way. I like your choices.” Sometimes his minions seem a bit relieved when you're around; it's like he kicks them around a little less whenever you're watching. Whether he's doing this to see if you'll say something or because he cares what you think, you'll never know.

Your incredibly sinister boyfriend has a funny habit of tying the red strings on his fingers into different shapes when he’s talking. You want to see the limits of his special ability. He gives an amused sigh. “Okay then. Let us. See.” You want him to do… a bunny! He fiddles around for a few moments before forming a rabbit’s face. “What an. Interesting creature. You’ve chosen.” OK, now do a spider. The result is a bit wonky but it definitely looks the part. “I am. Quite fond. Of this one.” Hmm… Now he should do an ENA. He creates a very simple outline of an ENA’s face. “I have. Studied them. Them? Extensively. A face is. Easy. Easy? Enough.” OK. You tell him that, since he’s done so well with the other ones, he should come up with one that he wants to do, and you’ll guess what it is. He takes a few moments to pull the strings in different directions, thoughtful. When he’s done, it’s a cartoony rendition of your face. His other hands pull the strings into hearts. You blush. “I think. This one is quite. Enchanting. If I do say so, myself.”

A/N: I kind of headcanon him as someone who is, like, the opposite of a Buddhist. Like he understands the entrapments of the physical world and of desire but willingly flies headfirst into it because that is how he chooses to exist. A very intentional self-destruction (or perverse kind of self-fulfillment).

[paperbackpanic]

Hii since requests are open can uh i ask for jeff the killer with a cannibal s/o ??

this is my first time requesting lol kinda nervous even tho its anonymous lol,, also your works are really good! i really enjoy them:))

Jeff with a Cannibal S/O!

A/n: this is so fun! Thank you I really put a lot of passion in my writing and seeing that people enjoy it makes me happy!! I really appreciate all the compliments and asks and requests with all my heart it makes my life more worth living knowing people see me and appreciate my work. Anyway! I already did something like this with Cody(X-Virus) if you want to check it out!

I'm so sorry for the long wait and kind of poor quality (u can request again if you'd like it redone) I've been so full of University/college work is killing me (is being fun tho I love my major!). I'm also having a lot of physical pain and idk if I'm sick, if I'm just exhausted, if I'm anemic or something else entirely different

🥩 a bit creeped out but because his brain haven't got haywired enough to break the natural defense mechanism "you shouldn't eat other humans" that everyone has.

🥩 Doesn't judge but won't partake in it either, sure he will stay in the same room as you when you cook but he won't eat it

🥩 you bite him. Constantly. He's chocked that you haven't just bit a piece off

🥩 Will bring you meat if you ask him, if is not too complicated of course. An arm? An leg? Sure, a heart? A kidney? Ask EJ he can't be bothered to dissect the body he did this too much in science class and he hated it

🥩 If you try hard enough you can convince him to cook for you, he doesn't like to cook at all so it's a hard task but when he does it turns out surprisingly good. He has a secret seasoning that he keeps hidden and no one really knows what's in it, he only confirmed it had salt and pepper.

🥩 You'll threaten bitting his fingers off and eating them raw if he's pissing you off. He'll say "it will taste like burnt meat, go ahead" which it kinda does when u lick him but this men is stinky so you don't know if it's just the filth or if he really tastes like that

🥩 If he dies you will eat his heart, it's a promise. He'll put yours in a jar.

🥩 People taste differently, depending on their lifestyle and stuff (I assume at least, is kinda like that with cows, the more stress-free they're the better the meat is). Sometimes he'll ask you to describe what different people taste like and what do you think the other creeps would taste like

🥩 You've made a rank of who you're going to eat first in the mansion, he's creeped out a lil bit but think it's fair (he's not on the list so he's more chill with it)

🥩 he thinks you're weird as shit but that's why he loves u

[alexmey-does-an-arts]

re ur egg post. aren't eggs a kind of fetishised commodity? in marxist philosophy within capitalism an egg has inherent value as a commodity that can create more capital for capitalist and is detached from the value of the labour and the being (a chicken) who created it. the labour of animals is not valued at all under capitalism. even egg laying hens are eventually killed and eaten and, once they have been sexed, boy and girl chicks are separated at birth and the boys are put in macerators (blenders basically) and ground up alive (or put in gas chambers etc) as they are not useful for laying eggs and farmers do not usually bother to raise them for slaughter for 'meat'

commodity fetishism is a very intersting part of marxist theory and can be applied not just to objects but also to living (or often dead- we kill over 60 billion farmed land animals a year, that's not including farmed fish, bycatch or wild animals) animals

DO YOU DEADASS THINK LIVE CHICKS ARE BEING PUT INTO GAS CHAMBERS

there's TONS of stuff i could say to debunk each line of this but frankly its NOT worth my time but oh my god. the line "boy and girl are separated at birth and the boys are put in macerators (blenders basically) and ground up alive (or put in gas chambers etc)" is the absolute funniest sentence ive ever gotten to read. why is 'meat' in quotes? what is the "etc?" how does marxism even play into this? WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ME EATING HARD BOILED EGGS?

THIS IS MY FAVORITE ASK OF ALL TIME.

anyway for any of my followers who don't know as much about poultry raising basically every single word of this ask is absolute bullshit me and my family have been raising chickens for eggs and meat for decades nobody is putting the chicks into blenders alive. (not to mention that it's pretty difficult to sex chicks until they're quite a bit older)

[botanyshitposts]

Opinion on the US's Cogs damn obsession with corn?

don't know what you're talking about specifically but my understanding of US agricultural policy in general is that being a farmer in capitalism sucks and has since colonization and for a long time the US government tried to make it suck less with subsidies which sometimes work (because people get paid predictably regardless of demand and its less like gambling with crops) but sometimes go over really badly (because then too many people grow it and the price per bushel goes down and then government has too much corn) and then a couple times they got rid of all the subsides and related regulations and that REALLY didnt work (because then the price just crashed hard and with nothing to compensate them a bunch of farmers, many of whom were in debt for other farming-related reasons, couldnt get paid and actually had to foreclose their farms, which accelerated the long-standing trend of farms getting foreclosed on and then being bought out by bigger farms that then ended up running INSANE multi million dollar operations, sometimes even on farms in other states where the owners do not live, in communities they do not contribute to) and they had to backpedal on it and then eventually they just started on the current system where you simply pass a farm bill every 10-12 years instead of yearly or biyearly and that way you simply dont have to think about it, and then when it is election time you go stand by a cornfield for a while for tv. it does not fix the huge enormous farms buying out smaller farms problem or any of the complicated related problems but it DOES put it off for longer which is more important.

sometimes also you (USAID for instance) can give the too-much-corn you have from farm subsidies to a foreign country as a 'gift' and say youre just being a helpful little guy, but in the process of doing so undercut the local farmers in that country because they cant compete with free stuff but that's cool because then the foreign country can't really survive as well without US agricultural aid and you can manipulate them to do imperialism better AND you have more demand for the corn which might raise the price per bushel in the US. also sometimes the corn is fed to livestock en masse because the meat is worth more and sometimes its made into gas or high fructose corn syrup, and sometimes the price is so low per bushel that the insurance on the field is worth more than the actual corn.

but. i CANNOT stress enough that the most important thing about corn is that you can stand next to it on tv and if you cant do that, maybe you can stand next to a guy who is around it a lot and say you are helping him.

in my relatively uneducated opinion the most epic way to solve this complex multi-century interdisciplinary push and pull of supply and demand would be to just pay farmers a salary through the state since youre already paying out massive state subsidies for crops you dont need anyway and the farmers are performing a vital service and that way you can guarantee people a consistent salary AND control how much of each thing gets planted so you dont have a massive stockpile at all times AND you reward individual people instead of paying out large amounts of money to whatever massive operation sells the most corn by virtue of being big, but if you dont want to do that then the second best thing is to just pass another mediocre farm bill whos inflexible 10-ish year lifespan makes it impossible for it to respond well to changes in market demand and that way you can just put off making tough decisions and instead stand next to a guy and a cornfield on tv again. which as we have covered is the most important part of american agriculture

[deleteddewewted]

Supermarket Romance p2

Modern! Titus x Gn! Reader

S: Titus goes back to the supermarket as he needs ingredients for a new recipe that his gyms security guard recommended trying. He gave himself the liberty to wear a hoodie this time as he wasn't feeling all too well. He wasn't expecting to see you again nor that you asked him a question. (Cairon makes a brief appearance here!)

W: PTSD episodes, Depression, Anxiety Disorders, Reader is a broke Artist, Titus works as an Analyst for a company, Ableist comments (From Titus and to Titus)

Previous / Next

He didn't know what to think about his appearance at the moment. If anything, he was trying to not think about it. He was wearing shorts, which he usually wore for semi-formal occasions, and a hoodie, which he had for the gym. His leg was acting up again, the weather and his lack of use of his knee brace created bigger problems for him. He knew he should have worn it the last time he worked out but he felt too embarrassed to wear it out in public. He thought people would stare or pass judgment if he did so he left it in his gym bag. He didn’t think to much about it anyways. He just needed to grab a few things to make a recipe that the security guard at the gym he goes to suggested.

Cairon was a hulking figure, especially for a security guard. He was an ex veteran like himself, was younger than Titus by a few years, and he was discharged after losing his arm during an explosion. The man seem to take his injury in stride unlike Titus. He constantly encouraged Titus, was motivational to all who walked in, made sure to keep everyone in check. Cairon was a ray of sunshine that Titus couldn’t seem to damper. Not that he wanted to but it was a little much at times. Cairons eagerness to help and be there became overwhelming at times but Titus also welcomed it. The man approached him first after all, made sure to help him find the locker room and the private gyms if he ever needed a moment to himself. Titus thought the younger man might have picked up on his disability and that’s why he was being kind but no, Cairon picked up on Titus’ discomfort for overly loud and crowded spaces. Ever since their first meeting Cairon has been a constant presence in Titus’ life and the older man appreciated that. He even told Titus that he should wear his brace and that not wearing it would just make things harder on himself.

Titus was paying the price for it now. His knee more than anything was killing him and his entire leg felt like it was ready to collapse under him while he gauged the prices of the cabbage. He leaned on his other leg instead, hoping to gain some relief.

"Are they any good?" A voice asked from beside him. He turned to look at the person but didn't see anyone. He looked down instead and found you staring at the cabbages.

"Im thinking of getting one but im not sure. I don't think ¢.76 the pound is worth it for a cabbage." You rambled on. He didn't know what to think, he kind of just blinked at you hoping that his brain would help him push the words out of his mouth. What was he supposed to say? This wasn't the first time he's talked to you but this was the first actual conversation he was contemplating having with a stranger.

"Hmm, i think its cheaper at the corner store." You turn around and just leave, not even bothering for a response from him.

Titus just watches you leave, the words stuck in his throat as he turns back around and processes what happened. Your scent was something he picked up. You smelled nice, earthy even. He wanted to ask what cologne or perfume you used. Maybe it was your body wash. It was comforting and reminded him of one of his bunk buddies who was into hygiene and always looking presentable.

He didnt keep track where you going but every so often he did bump into you. You seemed to be on a tighter budget than last time, only grabbing a few items that where on clearance or expiring soon. He noticed that you had a lot of meat in your basket and ziplock bags. Maybe you were freezing them so they would last longer, he thought to himself. Now that he thought about it, his recipe did call for meat and he was yet to get any.

His hands began to sweat and his hands trembled as he thought about it. He could use this as his excuse to talk to you, to introduce himself and be pleasant. His therapist had suggested he start socializing with other people outside of his work and gym. He could do this, he told himself. He siked himself up, took a few deep breathes, and walked over to you.

You were looking at some potatoes, thinking if it was worth buying them since there was no way you would be able to preserve them. Your fridge was having issues and you were worried about the moisture in your apartment. Either way, the potatoes would mold quickly and it would be waste unless you tried eating only that for the next week and a half. The thought made you sick.

“Excuse me.” A man’s voice came from behind you. You jolted before moving to the side hoping you hadn’t taken too much space so he could grab whatever he wanted from the produce section. But he never reach forward to grab anything. Instead, he was facing you. You swallowed hard before turning to face the man. It was the kind stranger who gifted you the ice cream from last time. He looked menacing, he practically loomed over you and his clothes didn’t help disuade that feeling.

“Hey there, stranger.” You replied. You hoped that your nervousness wasn’t noticeable. You felt like you were practically sweating buckets. His gaze was intense, his eyes half lidded and looking into your soul as his face betrayed no emotion.

“Is there any good sale on the meats?” His question didn’t feel like a question, more like an observation. You didn’t know how to feel about it. The man gave ex con or ex military vibes and it was starting to make you nervous just how big he was.

“Uh…yeah, there’s some good deals. It’s half off if you get the clearance stuff. You just need to ask butcher for the cuts you want.” You felt awkward and out of place. Not an unusual feeling but it was made more intense by the man in front of you. He didn’t even react to the information you age him, he merely blinked at you before nodding his head and thanking you.

“Thank you for the information. I’ll make sure to check with the butcher.” He looked like he was going to take his leave, his body already turning to leave, but he stops himself.

“My name is Titus.” It was your turn to blink at him. Titus. The name was so… pristine. Elegant even. It sounded so modern yet old and it flowed with a nice bounce. You could practically taste the pronunciation of his name on your tongue.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Titus. I’m Y/n.” You offered your hand to him but he ignored it and walked away instead. You sighed and turned back to the potatoes.

“Titus, what a lovely name.” You thought to yourself. You with an amused smile on your face, you walked towards the cash register to check out.

Titus sped walk away from the produce area as quickly as he could. His leg was killing him and the muscles in the appendage were set ablaze. But he ignored it. His heart was pounding in his chest and the air around him felt heavy. He spoke to someone new today and they didn’t run away! A small spark of joy bloomed in his chest as he went over the interaction in his head. You smiled at him, you spoke to him, you met his gaze. You weren’t disgusted by his appearance but instead you treated him like he was any ordinary man. It was thrilling to him. And yet, he wondered if you stayed cause you truly wanted to speak to him. His joy dwindled but he did accept that it was progress. His therapist was sure to be thrilled with this new development. In the mean time, he mulled over your name. He thought it was nice and fitting for you. You looked like your name, for however silly the thought was. A lovely name for a kind looking person. He wondered if this meant you would speak to him the next time you meet. If he could approach you. Would that ok? Would it be welcomed? Doubts consumed him but he pressed on. He made his way over to the small butcher shop in the store and asked for their clearance cuts. He grabbed a few he liked or thought would be easiest to cook and made his way to the front of the store to pay. He couldn’t spot you in any of the lines but he did spot you waiting at the bus stop once again.

He bagged and grab his things and and this way back to his car. As he loaded his things he noticed you get on the bus with all of your bags and leave. He wondered what kind do life you lived. What minute inconveniences might you have in your own life? What were your motivations? He shook his head and closed his trunk.

He sat in the drivers seat and gave himself a few minutes to prepare for the drive ahead of him. He hoped that this issue would go away sooner rather than later like his therapist had told him. But he knew better than to rush himself to drive when he wasn’t feeling well. He didn’t want to have to stop on the side of the highway again because of an episode. It would make the trip twice as long and twice as painful.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Can we get smth w cyprus and period secks 👁

Tw afab reader, Cyprus is a fuckin nasty man, with period blood and stuff, dub con,

Cyprus doesn't mind getting messy. The laundry services downstairs are free, after all. He only needs to buy his own washing detergent, which doesn't cost too much as the cheap ones does the job.

You would think that your period would put him off, but he's more of a dog than ever before. He would get excited, your blood would be a natural lube to prepare you with, the air would reek even more of sex and menstrual fluids. Cyprus would go down on you the same, having blood dribble down his chin and all over his chest. He would still fuck you with the same intensity despite having crimson painting all over his body, his bed, your body and even the fucking walls.

He will make you forget about your period migraines and cramps, making you cum over and over again; your body and brain will be molded to the shape of his cock and any pain will be either translated to the pleasure of orgasming or become strongly associated with it. Your uterus would contract tremendously during climaxes and empty its contents quicker. Instead of the usual 5-day shedding, your period will now last on an average of two days. Sometimes even one, because Cyprus literally fucks the uterine lining out of you.

He has an animalistic appetite for your blood clots sliding out of your pussy, you try not to gag when you realized that he would swallow them whole. It's not like you were given a chance to think anyways, he will have you cumming almost every few seconds while slurping up whatever you give him down there.

When he's finally done with you for the day, the room would look like a brutal murder scene. The slaps between his hips and yours were so vigorous that there were splatters of blood that reached the blades of his ceiling fan. Scarlet would paint your body and his as if someone poured a gallon of viscera on the two of you. The sheet that was once dry and off-white is now completely soaked and gored. Blood would crust his fingers and hair.

A triumphant grin would make its way to his handsome face, his teeth were heavily stained red, and his jawline tightened with dried and fresh blood. It's almost like you're looking at a cannibal who has just finished his dinner, he doesn't come close to looking this sanguinary after his most brutal fights.

You would push him away in the end, because his aftercare involves him kissing you on the lips and cuddling. It's gross and nauseating to be covered in rouge like this, but Cyprus doesn't mind. He loves it.

You and he would need to spend the next few hours cleaning up, though. You would be grumpily grumbling as you scrubbed the walls with a wet cloth, trying to get rid of your viscera. Whereas your boyfriend would be whistling to himself, enjoying his day while he balances himself on a step ladder; trying to clean the soiled blades of his ceiling fan.

You're grateful that he would be the one who brings down the bloodied sheets and fabrics because your nervousness and anxiety would make it look like you're trying to cover up a reckless homicide poorly. You couldn't believe that your body expelled that much redness without you dying from blood loss. But then again, it is to be expected. You're squeezing out around 5 days' worth of menstrual blood in a few hours.

It usually takes a few cycles to even get most of it out, his neighbors know that if he's hogging the machines for an unusually long time, that means he managed to fuck his girl during her period. Hence, they would cheer loudly, sometimes the noise even reaching upstairs. Where you would be mortified while mopping up the messy floor.

Cyprus would prepare dishes that mostly consist of lean meat, as he knows you need iron and protein to replace the blood that you lost. He would be happy, praising you as you were such a good girl to him. Cyprus would run you a hot shower, prepare cups of chamomile tea, and massage your back after the sex. Which may or may not lead to him eating you out again, ruining all his hard work to clean the sheets.

Well. At least you get to save money on painkillers and sanitary products.

You sighed, good thing he already told Jane that you're not coming in tomorrow. You don't know if you have the energy to work after that... blood fest. Especially when you're still sitting on your depraved boyfriend's face, his tongue still drilling into your exhausted cunt.

You shuddered every time he licked those sensitive bundles of nerves, frowning at how blood started pooling around his ears and soaking the blanket. You couldn't hop off him, his fingers are digging into the flesh of your thighs, forcing you to use him as a chair.

You hope that no one needs to use the washing machines later tonight.