#grown men wearing glitter

[emmuzka]

Finnish Kasmir's version of 2007 Eurovision hit, Ukraine's Dancing Lasha Tunbai.

This is a Finnish National Broadcasting company's feel-good show, where invited celebrities decide what favorite songs they want to hear live. You can see which of the guests get the idea and which ones not 😁

[kumkaniudaku]

Back Up

Summary: Terry gets much needed back up during a Christmas shopping outing.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Language

Previous: Spoiled

MASTERLIST

Bodies whipping past each other in a crowded department store made an already exhausting shopping session all the more uncomfortable for Terry. He hated being forced to mingle with the public, scooting past rude customers as they selfishly took up space between messy clothing racks and disheveled aisles. He’d already said more expletives than his mother would enjoy if she were with him and Patrice searching for gifts to round out their early Christmas haul. 

His wife had coaxed him out of the house with promises of his favorite hot meal and one of those Korean face masks he pretended to only kind of like for his willingness to act as her hired muscle for the afternoon. Lugging big boxed items and not so subtly shoving grown men who stepped in her path was his primary task. And, for the work he’d done in two hours, it had to be enough to earn a kiss or two as a reward for good behavior. 

Patrice and Terry stood side by side as she carefully and quietly scanned a printed spreadsheet lined with multiple names and items. 

“Hey, boo, did you see if that juicer back there was marked down? I wanna grab it for Mama.” 

Terry tinkered with the buttons on a display air fryer and shook his head. “I wasn’t looking, but everything in here seems to be on sale. Need me to go back for you? I don’t mind.”

Despite his disdain for the current circumstances, he’d gleefully double back to fulfill Patrice’s wishes. She reached out to stroke his muscled arm as a thank you for his effort.

“No, that’s okay, baby. How about you meet me over by the tableware instead so we can divide and conquer? I need to grab a new cutlery set so we can throw ours out and then get out of here. Promise. I know you’re ready to eat.”

“And go the hell home,” he grumbled. “I don’t understand how you deal with all this.”

His deep scowl, usually a deterrent for strangers looking to avoid conflict, only made him look like an adorable petulant child to Patrice. A grin spread across her face as she approached him to smooth her palms across his broad chest. 

“I know, Pooh. You’re doing a great job, though. All cute and patient for me.” 

Praise from her for even the simplest tasks never failed to switch off his defenses and soften his heart into jelly. If asked, he’d vehemently deny that he enjoyed being cooed at like a child, but Patrice caught the uncontrollable happy twinkle in his eye as she pushed up on her toes to kiss his cheek. 

He attempted to regain his composure to save face. “You’re talkin’ to me like a baby.”

“Not just any baby. You’re my baby.” More pecks on his stubbled jaw made Terry groan and roll his eyes as he slowly gave in. Sweet talk had prevailed and he was back to being wrapped around her ring finger like the shining wedding band she’d been wearing for a little over a month. She pinched his cheek and smiled in triumph knowing the battle was won. “I’ll be quick, I’ll promise. Two minutes!”

“So we cool with only two minutes now?”

Patrice mirrored Terry’s cheeky grin as she backed away in search of her final gift for the afternoon, leaving him proud of his suggestive joke. 

He prayed they could hit 120 seconds on the dot for the first time in their lives. His feet ached. His stomach growled louder than the Michael Bublé songs playing over the store’s speakers. His patience was thin. If he wasn’t in the comfort of home within 45 minutes, he’d have to introduce the public to a version of Terry no one should have to meet. 

Following Patrice’s instructions, Terry mosied toward a glittering section full of discounted crystal and fine china. Where others saw Patrice as a complex maze of desires, feelings, and unmeetable demands, Terry knew exactly what she liked. Natural textures and earthy tones kept their home grounded in nature to match her love for the small flower garden she kept in the backyard. Every kitchen accessory, big and small, revolved around the coveted ivory dinner set she purchased with her first check as an educator. Forks and spoons would be no different. Terry didn’t need another hand slap and stern lecture to learn that lesson.

His fingers tracked option after option on cluttered shelves until he found two sets of flatware that fit her strict specifications. Sleek? Check. Matching her favorite plates and blows? Got it. He prided himself on making her decisions easier and this latest attempt was his best to date.  

Grabbing the first set was a piece of cake. He slid it from the shelf with no issue to place into the already-packed shopping basket. The second attempt came with a struggle as another, much daintier hand attempted to tug his wife’s prize from his grasp. 

Terry looked down to find a small, frail older woman with ivory skin and a tight frown looking back at him with contempt. He tugged a little harder, but she pulled back. 

Not wanting to cause a scene for fear of being seen as the angry Black man terrorizing fellow patrons, he tried placating the older woman with a polite smile and disarming chuckle. “This is for my wife, actually. You know how that goes. I’m happy to give it to you if she chooses otherwise, though.” 

The attempt at a friendly tone and winning smile did little to deter his unlikely adversary. What charm he thought he possessed only seemed to make her angrier. She eyed him up and down, thin lips twisted into an indignant smile as she attempted to nab the item a second time to no avail. 

“But you already have one,” she complained, pointing at the item in his basket. “You can’t have another.” 

“I’m not trying to have two. She’ll make a decision and put back what she doesn’t want.”

“So, you’re just gonna hold it?” 

Terry regarded her with a blank stare. “…Yes.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Will you be the one to stop me or what?” 

There wasn’t much left in Terry’s tank for niceties. Greying hair and crepey skin wouldn’t do much to stop a tongue-lashing if static was what she was after. 

The woman stood firm, reaching to grab the item from Terry’s hand but missing when he snatched it back. She raised her voice. “I’m going to have security come over here and make you give it up.”

“Ma’am, I truly do not care who you call. Stop trying to put your hands on me.” 

“Or what?” She was challenging a nearly unshakeable man. He didn’t budge and it left her incensed. She attempted another angle. “Call your wife over here. Go on! I want to talk to her face to face.” 

He scoffed and shook his head. “Nah. You don’t want that. Call security. It’s better for everyone involved.”

“Call her over here!”

“I’m not about to let you piss her off and ruin the rest of my day. Let’s figure something out.”

She had no idea what she was asking for, the kind of trouble she was welcoming into her life. Terry tried to reason with her. He tried to compromise to keep the peace. But, as Patrice rounded the corner to find an unfamiliar woman embroiled in a verbal tussle with her man, time had just run out. 

“Oh, no ma’am,” Patrice started with the look of a protective mother in her eyes. “You better figure that out and quick. We’re not playing that game. What’s the problem?” 

Fear gripped the older woman as Patrice approached. Terry slowly placed the second set of utensils in the basket and scoffed. Whatever happened next was up to God and whoever his newest foe served.

“I told you,” Terry reminded, shaking his head. “Good luck.”

“Is this your husband?” 

Patrice moved to stand in front of Terry with the juicer in tow, acting as a human shield. She spoke low and slow. “And what about him? What exactly is your issue?” 

Terry watched the exchange with bated breath. Her calmness was a war tactic she employed to size up her enemy. At any moment she might explode and leave you shell-shocked.

“He has two sets of flatware in that cart saying he’s waiting on you to decide. That’s not fair! Choose one,” the woman accused, her voice rising in a feeble attempt to intimidate Patrice.

“That’s not how shopping works! We’ll buy every single one of these motherfuckers if we want to! Who gon’ stop us?”

“With cash, too,” Terry mumbled in support.

The woman clutched invisible pearls, feining disgust at the use of adult language. “What a foul mouth! That is not the way you speak to people. Especially not your elders. ” 

“Baby, if you keep talking to this one behind me crazy, my mouth will be the last thing you need to worry about.”

“Is that a threat?” 

She should’ve prayed for a threat. A threat would’ve been the easy way out - a free pass to avoid making an enemy of someone with such an intense passion for using quick wit and a slick tongue to eviscerate her opponents. 

Patrice calmly turned to thrust the heavy juicer into Terry’s arms without a word before turning to make her point clear. He shook his head in pity. Poor woman. She’d tell this story to her family at dinner later, looking for sympathy when what she really needed was the foresight to recognize when she encountered the verbal assassin he called his better half.

Silently, he mouthed Patrice’s favorite opening statement in time with the words leaving her lips.

“Let me tell you something.” Terry smiled to himself, knowing he had her down to a science. Patrice pointed a manicured finger in her direction for extra emphasis. “I’m sure we’ll never meet again, but hopefully this will help you the next time you think about running up on someone you don’t know. Don’t you ever holler at my husband or your ass’ll have to cash that check your mouth wrote this afternoon. Have I made myself clear or are you so deprived of the sense God gave you that you need a demonstration?”

This time, Patrice’s heavy suggestion to drop the issue before it could escalate and retreat to another section of the store was received with renewed clarity. The woman huffed in defeat. Terry and Patrice watched her reluctantly pluck another option from the shelf and scurry away with her tail between her legs. Patrice tracked her with her eyes and a scowl that looked just like her husband’s on her face until the coast was clear. 

Terry watched her try to physically reset by rolling her shoulders down and back, but her face betrayed her once she turned to face him. 

She reached for the sets of cutlery and examined both under harsh fluorescent light. “These are nice. I think I like the left more though.” 

“Treece.” 

“Mmm, but the left is a little bulky now that I look at it. Maybe the right? Which one did you like?” 

“Patrice.” Terry used his index finger to tilt Patrice’s head upward and redirect her attention. The corners of his lips lifted into a small smile before leaning down to kiss her nose. “Thank you, Piggy. I had it, but I love when you back me up. What you want as repayment tonight?” 

“Mmmm, my feet hurt a little. Think you can work your magic?” 

He hummed in response. “I was gonna do that anyway for myself. Pick something else.”

“I want you to help me pick eating utensils so we can get out of here,” Patrice laughed to discharge the tension growing between them. “Left or right?”

“The left is my choice. But I’ll buy every single one of these motherfuckers in here if you want ‘em.”

His callback had both of them dissolving into a fit of giggles that only stopped once another patron browsing the aisle forced them to make a quick decision and make a move to return to their side of town. 

In the car, Patrice playfully jabbed a finger into Terry’s arm as they pulled out into mall traffic. “Don’t you go tellin’ my mama and daddy about this. I don’t have time for their mouths today. And stop letting people talk to you crazy in the first place. I’m serious, Terry.”

“Yes ma’am. You have made yourself abundantly clear.” 

“Shut up!” 

Silly jokes about the absurdity of hemming up an old woman passed between the pair as they sat in a bumper-to-bumper jam were interrupted by an incoming call on the car’s Bluetooth system. 

“How you doin’ mama,” Terry answered as soon as the call connected, leaving Patrice to entertain herself. “I got Treece in the car. You know she threatened to stop feeding me if I didn’t go shopping with her. Crazy, ain’t it?” 

“That’s what she should do! No way she should be out there with all these holiday crazies by herself.” 

Patrice nodded in agreement. “Thank you, Ms. Dee. You get the biggest gift under the tree this year.” 

“Oh, thank you, Treecey Girl!”

“Hold on, hold on,” Terry interjected. “Treecey is a holiday crazy! Let me tell you how she just threatened an old lady about some forks and knives today.”

“Terrence, don’t sit up here and lie. My girl is way too sweet for that.”

“Hand to God, mama. Almost body slammed somebody’s grandma.” Terry bore all of his teeth in an impish grin as Patrice’s eyes grew wide. 

“Snitch,” she mouthed at him before responding to Diedra. “Okay, threatened is an over-simplification. She was yelling at your son and I stepped in!” 

“Yelling!? Girl, start at the top.” 

The message ‘I can’t stand you’ typed into a note and flashed in his direction made Terry choke back laughter as he listened to Patrice defend her actions. Though he knew what he was doing, in his mind, she should’ve been more specific in her instruction. 

She never said he couldn’t tell his mama.

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[sukuna-ryo]

Jjk Men in Fairytale Retellings

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𝕮𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆 𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔 <3

(10k words)

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Content Warnings: Cinderella Choso × Fem Prince Charming Reader. This is kinda genderbender. The women follow male gender norms and men follow female gender norms, but they're still women and men respectively. And yes, choso is wearing a dress and panties, that's intentional.

Explicit Sexual Content, MDNI. P in V. Unprotected Sex. Oral (f & m receiving). Face Sitting. Size Kink. Overstimulation. Exhibitionism. Slight Dub-Con. Idk what else to add, tell me if I missed something.

Thank you @daymarenightdream1 , @h0n3ysgh0st and pinkie for being my beta readers and helping with the cw.

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𝔒𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔞 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢, in a world where gender norms are not quite what we're used to, there lived Cinderella Choso. He was a soft-spoken, kind-hearted boy who somehow managed to make even the simplest dresses look elegant—duh. His days were filled with chores, thanks to his stepmother, Kenjaku, and his two over-the-top stepsisters, Eso and Kechizu, who treated him more like a servant than family.

That morning, Cinderella Choso was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the already spotless floor, when Kenjaku sauntered into the room, holding a cup of tea like it was a trophy.

“You missed a spot,” Kenjaku said lazily, gesturing vaguely at the floor with the kind of smugness only a true villain could pull off.

Choso paused, tilting his head to inspect the gleaming tiles. “Where?”

Kenjaku raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of tea. “Emotionally. The floor doesn’t feel clean.”

Choso blinked at him, then decided not to respond. He wasn’t sure what that even meant, and honestly, he didn’t care to find out. Arguing with Kenjaku was like trying to reason with a storm—it was loud, exhausting, and always left him feeling worse.

In the other room, Eso and Kechizu were bickering loudly over their outfits for the royal ball that night.

“I’ll win over prince Y/N for sure,” Eso declared, holding up a sequined gown that sparkled so brightly it practically blinded Choso from where he was standing. He twirled dramatically, nearly knocking over a vase in the process.

“You? Win over the prince? Don’t make me laugh,” Kechizu snapped, holding a pair of heeled slippers like they were some kind of weapon. “I’ll be the one to catch her eye. You don’t even know how to walk in heels.”

“Better than you!” Eso shot back, his voice rising in indignation.

Cinderella Choso just kept scrubbing, doing his best to tune them out. This was normal, after all. He’d grown up in this chaos, surrounded by people who seemed to thrive on drama. The royal ball wasn’t meant for someone like him, anyway. It was for people like Eso and Kechizu—people who fit into that glittering world. He wasn’t bitter about it. Just… resigned.

By the time the house had emptied and the carriage had rolled away, Cinderella Choso found himself sitting by the fireplace, the only sound the faint crackle of the flames. He stared at the mop leaning against the wall, considering whether he should name it. At least it wouldn’t talk back.

The room felt emptier than usual, and though he wasn’t one to dwell on things, a small part of him couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like—to dress up, to dance, to be seen as more than just the boy in the shadows.

But that kind of life wasn’t meant for him. Or so he thought.

Then, with a loud poof that sent soot flying everywhere, a man appeared. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and shirtless, because apparently magical beings don’t believe in modesty. Tattoos coiled up his arms and across his chest, and he had this grin that could only be described as “murderous.” His pink hair was messy in an I-don’t-care way, and he had sharp, glowing eyes that made Choso immediately question if this guy was here to help or hurt.

“Ugh, look at you,” the man said, sneering as he glanced around the room. “Pathetic. Sitting in a pile of ash like some tragic little loser. No wonder your life sucks.”

Cinderella Choso blinked, taken aback. “Uh… who are you?”

“I’m your Fairy Godmother,” the man announced, planting his glowing staff on the ground with a thud. “But you can call me Sukuna. Let’s get this pity party over with so you can go embarrass yourself at the ball.”

Choso frowned. “Aren’t Fairy Godmothers supposed to be… you know, nice?”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “I’m nice enough to show up and fix your dumpster-fire life, aren’t I? Be grateful.”

Choso just stared. Sukuna, clearly unbothered, started waving his staff around like he was conducting an orchestra. “Alright, enough whining. Let’s make you look less… tragic.”

He raised his staff without waiting for an answer, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like an insult, and in an instant, Cinderella Choso’s plain, soot-stained dress shimmered and transformed. The fabric turned into a soft, flowing baby-pink gown, delicate as a rose petal, with subtle silver accents that sparkled under the flickering firelight. The sleeves were sheer and billowy, giving the outfit an ethereal touch, and the neckline was modest yet elegant, perfectly suited to someone as shy and unassuming as Choso.

His hair, which had been loosely tied back in a messy bun, now fell in smooth waves down his back, held in place by a small, glimmering clip shaped like a crescent moon. On his feet were glass slippers—simple and lovely but with heels that looked slightly impractical, as if designed by someone who didn’t care much about comfort.

Cinderella Choso blushed as he glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. “It’s… nice,” he murmured, smoothing the fabric nervously. “I like it.”

“Of course, you do. I made it,” Sukuna said, crossing his arms and grinning smugly. “Now, let’s get you out of here before I change my mind.”

He waved his staff again with dramatic flair, and a nearby pumpkin swelled and stretched until it became a sleek, elegant carriage. A group of rats squeaked in protest as they were magically transformed into well-groomed horses, their tiny tails vanishing with a poof.

“Rules are simple,” Sukuna said, grabbing a sparkly mask from thin air and tossing it to Choso. “Be back by 3 a.m., or everything goes back to normal. That includes your dress, your carriage, and probably your dignity. Got it?”

Choso nodded, clutching the mask tightly.

“And for the love of everything holy, don’t embarrass me out there,” Sukuna added, glaring at him. “You’re wearing a baby-pink dress to a ball. The bar for failure is low.”

Cinderella Choso felt his cheeks heat up but chose not to respond. Instead, he carefully climbed into the carriage, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the skirt of his gown.

Sukuna watched him go, leaning casually on his staff. “Good luck, kid,” he muttered, his voice softer but still teasing. “You’ll need it.”

As the carriage rolled away into the night, Cinderella Choso took a deep breath, his heart racing. He had no idea what to expect, but for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to feel a tiny spark of excitement.

And so, Cinderella Choso was off to the ball, and somewhere along the way meet you—Prince Charming, the most ridiculously charming woman in the kingdom.

The grand ballroom was in full swing. The soft glow of chandeliers cast a golden haze over the room, bouncing off delicate, crystal glasses and glinting across the polished floors. Guests drifted in and out of conversation, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of the orchestra.

Cinderella Choso stepped into the room, his eyes wide, taking in the scene around him. The extravagant gowns, the glint of jewelry, the laughter that echoed from the walls—it all felt so far removed from his reality. He stood just inside the doorway for a moment, trying to steady his breath. The pink dress he wore clung to him in a way that made him feel exposed and small. His heart raced in his chest, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd made a mistake even coming.

But then, you appeared.

You stood near the edge of the ballroom, casually talking to someone, but when you turned, your gaze locked onto him across the room, and everything seemed to stop. You were in a sharp, midnight-blue suit, tailored perfectly to fit your figure. It was sleek and elegant, with just the right amount of softness, your presence commanding attention without being overwhelming. Your face was soft, your hair neatly styled, and there was a quiet confidence about you that made it impossible for Cinderella Choso to look away.

You didn’t say anything at first, just let your eyes meet his, studying him, before a gentle smile curved your lips. You took a few steps towards him, weaving through the crowd like you owned the space. The sound of the music, the chatter, all faded away, leaving just the two of you in the center of it all.

“Hello,” you said, your voice smooth and warm as you gently took his hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Y/N.”

His heart skipped a beat, his cheeks flushing. “I—I’m Cinderella Choso,” he stammered, not sure where to look.

You smiled, your gaze lingering on him. Cinderella Choso felt a rush of heat flood his face under the intensity of your gaze. His hands fidgeted nervously at his sides, unsure of where to look.

“You look absolutely stunning tonight,” you said, your voice smooth and genuine, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. The compliment made his heart race in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words to respond.

His voice was soft, almost inaudible, as he mumbled, “T-Thank you... I—I’m not used to... being noticed.” His cheeks were burning now, and he wished he could shrink into the floor.

You chuckled lightly, your smile only growing warmer. “Would you care to dance?” you asked, your voice inviting.

Cinderella Choso hesitated, his mind racing as his heart hammered in his chest. It took him a moment to realize that he was actually standing there, face to face with you, and he still hadn’t said yes. Finally, after a long pause, he nodded, his hand trembling as he reached out to take yours.

As you led him to the center of the ballroom, the music swelled into a slow waltz, and he could feel the tension in his body, the unfamiliarity of the situation, the soft pressure of your hand in his. His heart drummed against his chest as you moved fluidly in rhythm with him. Your body was warm against his, your movements confident and graceful, but you never rushed him.

The dance wasn’t perfect, but with every step, you guided him, never letting him falter. You made him feel safe in the way you held him, steady and sure, your presence somehow grounding. When you looked at him, it wasn’t with judgment or expectation, but with genuine interest, like you were seeing him for who he truly was, beyond the awkwardness he felt.

“You’re doing just fine,” you whispered softly, your voice light, teasing him just a little. “I’m impressed.”

Cinderella Choso’s chest tightened, but not in discomfort. There was something about the way you made him feel—important, seen—that took away the nervous edge in his body. His smile was shy but genuine. “I’ve never danced like this before,” he admitted softly.

“Then I’m honored to be your first,” you said, your smile deepening. It wasn’t just kind—it was sincere. “We’ll make it memorable.”

You guided him with such care, as though it was second nature for you to put others at ease. The music slowed, but your hand stayed firmly on his back, the pressure warm and comforting. When the song ended, you didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, your fingers lingered on his hand, a soft touch that sent a strange warmth through him.

“Shall we get some air?” you asked, offering your arm.

Cinderella Choso nodded, his heart still racing. You led him through the grand hall, down a corridor that seemed to be untouched by the noise of the party. The castle was vast, but you knew it like the back of your hand, guiding him through secret passageways, showing him hidden corners.

The tension between you was thick, crackling with every glance, every touch. You weren’t making it obvious, but Cinderella Choso could feel it. It was in the way your fingers brushed his every now and then, in the soft smiles that lingered a little too long. He wasn’t sure if it was the intimacy of the moment or something else, but he couldn’t look away from you.

You led him outside to a secluded garden, bathed in moonlight. The scent of flowers was intoxicating, filling the air with a sense of magic, of something otherworldly. You took his hand again, pulling him gently along a narrow path that led to a hidden entrance behind thick vines. There, behind the foliage, was a secret garden—a place no one else knew about.

A beautiful pavilion stood in the center, its walls draped with delicate flowers, the entire structure seemingly carved from nature itself. Inside the pavilion, the floor was cushioned; and soft, fluffy pillows of various sizes scattered across the cozy bed. The space felt intimate, a retreat far away from the watchful eyes of the ballroom.

“This is…” Cinderella Choso’s voice trailed off, his heart skipping a beat as he took in the scene. It was serene, quiet, and so completely different from everything else in the castle. “Beautiful.”

You smiled, removed your shoes, and sat down on one of the larger pillows, motioning for him to join you. “It’s my secret hideaway. Only a few people know about it.” You patted the cushion beside you. “I come here when I need to think, to be alone.”

Cinderella Choso hesitated, then took off his heels and sat down beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your body, but not quite close enough to touch. The silence between you two felt thick, comfortable, like you were both holding your breath.

“I’m glad you showed me this,” he said softly, finally breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, almost unsure, but sincere.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice lower now, almost intimate. “I don’t usually bring anyone here.”

Cinderella Choso turned to look at you, his heart beating faster at the intensity in your gaze. The world outside seemed distant, fading into nothing as you both stayed there, in this small, secret place. You leaned a little closer, and the tension in the air seemed to wrap around you both, like a fine thread drawing you closer.

The world outside could wait. Here, in this hidden garden, nothing mattered. Only the unspoken connection, the pull between you, the undeniable chemistry that was now crackling in the air.

“You know,” you said, voice low and teasing, “If you’re not careful, I might just keep you here forever.”

Cinderella Choso’s breath hitched, and for a moment, everything stopped. He was so close to you now, the distance between you two shrinking with every word, every breath. His pulse raced, and for the first time that night, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The moment your lips met his, Cinderella Choso froze, his breath hitching in his throat. For a second, it seemed like he might pull away, his hands hovering uncertainly at your sides. Then, as if something gave way inside him, he grabbed your waist and kissed you back, his movements sudden and unrestrained.

At first, it was clumsy and rushed, his lips pressing hard against yours as if he wasn’t sure how to keep up with the storm of emotions. His breathing was uneven, shallow gasps breaking through the sounds of your kisses. His hands moved hesitantly but firmly, clutching at your waist and back, desperate to pull you closer.

You melted into him, your hands threading through his hair and pulling him even closer. You could feel his nervous energy in the way he moved, but it only made you smile against his lips. You tried to slow his pace, letting him match your rhythm, trying to ground his frantic energy with the soft, deliberate way your lips moved against his.

When he broke away to breathe, his face was bright red, and he couldn’t meet your eyes, his gaze darting everywhere but at you. You cupped his face gently, guiding him to look at you. “Choso,” you murmured softly, and his eyes widened, his blush deepening.

Before you could say anything more, he surged forward again, more determined this time. His kisses were rough and messy, his inexperience showing in the way his teeth grazed your lips and his hands fumbled to hold you. But you didn’t mind—it was raw, unfiltered, and so very him.

You let out a soft gasp as his lips found your neck, his movements hurried and unpracticed. Your hand slid down to his back, soothing the tension in his shoulders, your touch steadying him as he pressed closer.

Still, whenever he glanced at you, his shyness crept back, softening his frantic movements for just a second before his hands and lips found you again. You tilted his chin up, brushing your thumb over his flushed cheek, and his trembling grip on you tightened in response.

Suddenly, Choso pushed you down on the cushioned floor and climbed on top of you. His wayward tongue grew more unruly in your warm mouth, his actions sending heated shivers to your core. He mewled through his erratic kisses as his fumbling, frantic hands began pulling at your clothes and undressing you.

His movements were quick, almost frenzied, as if driven by a force he couldn’t control. Your royal attire almost tore as he threw it to the garden floor. He pulled back for just a moment, and you opened your eyes only to see the wild, frantic look in his eyes, wide and unblinking, filled with raw urgency and need, as if he couldn’t bear to wait another moment.

His eyes were locked onto the delicate curves of your frame, his gaze particularly lingering on the flushed swell of your breasts and the hardened nipples. His eyes followed his hands as they shamelessly traveled every which way on your body making you gasp out in pleasure. Choso was panting above you, his chest rising and falling as unrestrained desire flickered in his eyes, and it made you shiver with excitement.

His hands moved to his own clothes next. Choso fumbled with the fabric of his dress, his movements rushed and impatient, tugging at the delicate seams and buttons crafted by Sukuna’s magic. He huffed in frustration, tugging harder, and managed to peel off a few layers of the dress. The outer fabric loosened, revealing the smooth undershirt beneath, but the enchanted material still resisted fully giving way. Despite his best efforts, only parts of the intricate outfit now hung messily off his shoulders.

Noticing the frustration on his face, you gently called out through your heavy breaths, "He-hey, slow down. There's no need to rush."

But as if your voice had yanked the beast's attention back to you, Choso's head snapped in your direction. You don't know what happened next, or how, but Choso's mouth was back on your skin. His undershirt joined your clothes on the ground, and a manic, whimpering Choso was pressing kisses all over you. Biting and sucking on your skin, he was leaving large hickeys and bruises as his mouth travelled lower and lower until he found your leaking pussy.

Choso whined loudly, and the vibrations sent jolts of electricity to the steadily building coil in your core. Your entire body shuddered as though someone had pulled your soul out when he started sucking your folds with full force. It felt as if he was making out with your pussy in the same rough and messy way he was kissing you moments ago, his ceaseless actions stimulating your clit as well.

It felt like your mind was unraveling, every coherent thought dissolving into the overwhelming sensation that consumed you. Your flickering gaze drooped down to Choso. His ears and neck were flushed red, eyes tightly screwed shut, with moans and deep groans escaping his lips as if he was the one receiving pleasure, and maybe he was.

It was getting too much, the overwhelming feeling was unbearable. You forced words out of your half-open mouth, trying your best to sound lucid, "Ch-cho... Choso s-stop. Slow down b-baby, 's too much..."

Your voice comes out shaky and breathless. But it's as if your words are swallowed by the air between you, his movements remain relentless, driven by an intensity that seems to blind him to everything else. Your protests falter, mingling with your uneven breaths, as his focus stays singular, unwavering, like he’s caught in a trance that nothing can break.

His tongue thrusts into your quivering hole, as his nose keeps on nudging the sensitive nerves of your clit. He was so shy at first. You didn't think he had much experience in these affairs when you brought him to the hidden garden, but his performance was making you second guess. Still, he seemed inexperienced with how uncoordinated, aimless and chaotic his movements were. But the sheer force in his actions made stars flicker behind your eyes.

The pleasure surged through you, sharp and unrelenting, until it overtook every part of you. Your body tensed, trembling uncontrollably, as your thoughts fragment into nothingness. It’s too much—blinding, deafening, overwhelming—until your mind can no longer keep up. Your senses give way, and the world around you vanishes, leaving you in a black void of sensation.

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, the warmth still buzzing under your skin. A fleeting moment of clarity starts to settle. Fuck, that was just from going down on you?—

But your thoughts are cut off as the sound of clothes rustling suddenly joins the deep, uneven breaths filling the garden.

You open your eyes to see Choso hastily yanking down his slacks and panties in one swift motion, the fabric bunching around his knees. Your eyes fixate on something else, unable to look away. It's beautiful, unlike anything you've seen before.

His cock that sprang out was a pretty cherry pink colour, with veins that trace along his shaft like rivers. Silky smooth skin covered the slight upward curve of his length. The head was a flushed, angry red, as though the heat had spread from within, coloring it with a deep, vivid hue. It pulsed with intensity, a clear sign of the tension building beneath the surface, with his precum dripping from the slit. And the size—wait. No, this can't be right. It's too much. He's massive.

Your eyes widen in realization, a wave of panic suddenly washing over you. Your hands grip the sheets as a small shred of fear claws at your chest, pulling you back to reality. No, no, no—this won't work. It won’t fit. You scramble away from Choso, twisting your body as you quickly turn on your knees to distance yourself. But you feel his hand grip your ankle and yank your body straight back to him.

Your back is pressed against his chest as you feel Choso's entire body weight press down on you, pinning you in place and leaving you unable to move. Then you feel two things sink into you, Choso's teeth in your shoulder and his massive cock in your pussy. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes as his size overwhelms you, stretching you far beyond what you're accustomed to. It's almost too much, your body tensing as it struggles to accomodate the intensity of him. Each movement only deepens the sensation, both pain and pleasure pushing you to the edge of what you can handle.

A deep guttural groan echoes from Choso's throat straight into your ear. He completely stills for a moment as if he too seems to need some time to adjust to the feeling of being inside you. Then he's rambling, babbling in his pussydrunk state.

Choso's voice was shaky, breath coming in quick gasps as he muttered, "This—this feels so good... so tight... can't... can't get enough of you." His hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white, his words slipping out in a desperate breathless rush. "You feel... incredible. I don't know how much longer I can... this is—this is everything... "

Choso starts plunging into you, his hips snapping against yours, each movement fast, hard and deep. The familiar tightness slowly takes hold in your core. With every thrust the pain melted away and only mind numbing pleasure remained.

Your words tumble out in a frantic, incoherent rush, your body trembling as you clung to the sheets. "I... can't... so good, Choso, feels too good... please, don't stop... don't stop, please..." Your voice was shaky, breathy, barely above a whisper, as if the sensation was overwhelming your every thought.

You're practically mewling as each wave of pleasure blurs the edges of reality, leaving you teetering on the brink of madness. Your body trembles uncontrollably, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as if you were drowning in ecstasy. The intensity was almost too much, a raw, primal force that left you clutching desperately at the remnants of your sanity.

Your body moves against him on it's own, joining in on his rhythm. Choso moans in your ears, and the voice sends more uncontrollable shivers to your core. You force your eyes open as much as you could through the haze of your blinding pleasure and turn your head to the side to look at him. Choso was completely feral, his expression raw and intense. You swore you could see hearts in his eyes, his gaze burning with something wild. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, and he was moaning and whimpering, while mercilessly thrusting in and out of you. He was completely out of control.

His sheer size was making you feel everything as his cock slid against you, reaching every corner and hitting your sweet spot again and again. Your pleasure builds hard and fast, and snaps before you could comprehend it. Your mouth hangs slightly open, drool escaping and pooling on the sheets below your cheek as your head spins with overwhelming pleasure. Your thoughts are scattered, each sensation mixing together, leaving your brain in a muddled haze, unable to focus on anything but the dizzying rush of pleasure flooding your senses.

You orgasm sets off Choso's own as your pussy tightens around him, trembling and quivering, and he cums inside you with a loud moan while giving slow, messy thrusts. The warm liquid pools inside, filling you, and spills out around the base of his cock and on the sheets. Tears stain Choso's cheeks as he starts crying, sniffles and sobs mixing with his moans, and you feel the warm drops on your shoulder.

Both yours and Choso's breaths come in ragged, uneven bursts. Your haze is slowly about to lift, and the trembling in your limbs was just about to subside, but Choso flips you over to face him and starts moving again. He's still hard inside you despite his powerful orgasm and how much he came. His movements pick up their speed, and he whines while sliding in and out of you.

Overstimulation grips your body, and you squirm and thrash underneath him. Choso grips your hips to force your body still as he moves faster and deeper inside you. "Choso... i-it's... too much," you gasp.

He leans down and pecks your lips, and breathes into your mouth, "I know... me too..." before capturing your lips in a deep, bruising kiss. His desperate actions over you don't stop, whining through his own overstimulation, as he pulls multiple orgasms out of you till you lose count and your highs start bleeding into each other.

Every time your vision goes black because of pleasure, and you drift in and out of consciousness in exhaustion, Choso fills you up with his sticky seed till you overflow and he's shooting blanks, while pressing kisses all over your body. This goes on for what feels like an eternity, and your body felt completely drained, every muscle heavy and limp, yet there was a comforting warmth that enveloped you, a deep sense of contentment, your mind floating in a blissful haze.

Choso, now calmer and free from his earlier fluster, was covering you with gentle kisses, murmuring soft "I love you"s as you lay there, blissfully tired and unable to move. His touch was tender, each kiss filled with quiet affection, as if he was trying to memorize every moment.

Suddenly, the deep toll of the palace bell echoed through the night. Choso froze, his eyes widening in alarm as he remembered fairy godmother Sukuna's warning—3 a.m. was the deadline, and the magic would soon start unraveling.

Panic flickered across his face as he sat up abruptly. “I have to go,” he whispered, his voice thick with urgency and regret.

You reached out weakly, your fingers brushing his arm. “Wait... wait till morning,” you mumbled, your voice slurred with exhaustion. There was more you wanted to say—something about a curse, about needing him to stay—but the words came out as incoherent murmurs, fragments of a plea lost in the haze of your tiredness.

Choso hesitated, his expression torn, but the chime of the bell spurred him into action. He scrambled off the pavilion, hastily pulling on his dress. He paused for a moment, looking back at you with a mix of longing and sorrow.

“I love you,” he said one last time, his voice soft but firm, before slipping out of the garden and into the night.

The next morning arose with a bright yellow glow from the east. You stir in the sheets of the pavilion, before slowly opening your eyes to the beautifully painted glass ceiling. The birds were chirping in the hidden garden, and the scent of the numerous flowers swirled in the air.

The memories of the night before came rushing to your mind, every fragment crystal clear except one: his face. You had tried your best, through your exhaustion, to get Cinderella Choso to stay with you till you could see him again in the morning, but he left anyway.

You tried to tell him—to get but a word in—that you were cursed. A long time ago, a lady of magic, offended by the king, had cursed her only heir: you. According to the curse, every morning, you forgot each and every face you saw the day before, including your own.

It was a well-guarded royal secret that only a few were privy to. And you wanted the man who stole your heart (along with the strength in your legs) to know it too. He was gone now, and it would be difficult to find him with just a name without the face. But there's something else you remember, something that even a curse couldn't erase from your mind: his beautiful, glistening pink dick.

Scrambling out of the sheets and into your clothes, before smoothing your hair down the best you could to make yourself somewhat presentable, you stepped out of the garden and went to the palace in search of your aide.

The air in the aide’s office was heavy with the scent of parchment and ink, the flicker of candlelight illuminating his focused face as he worked through a stack of documents. He barely looked up as you entered, his pen scratching against the paper.

“Where did you disappear off to last night?” he asked, his tone curious but not pressing.

You waved a dismissive hand, brushing off the question. “It’s not important,” you replied, stepping closer. “I need you to summon the royal painter immediately.”

The aide blinked, finally setting down his pen to look at you fully. “The royal painter? What for?”

“Just do it,” you said, your tone brooking no argument. His brow furrowed, but he nodded, reaching for the small bell on his desk to summon a servant to deliver the orders.

Moments later, the royal painter, an older man with streaks of grey in his beard, shuffled into the room, looking a little confused.

The painter gave a short bow, his expression perplexed. “Your Highness, what service do you require?”

You stepped forward, clasping your hands together in determination. “I need you to paint something from my memory,” you said, your voice steady. “A man’s dick.”

The painter sputtered and blinked rapidly, visibly startled by the peculiar request. “A p-penis, Your Highness?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, your tone leaving no room for doubt. “It’s vital.”

Though clearly appalled and confused, the painter nodded, pulling out his tools and setting to work as you described every detail of Cinderella Choso’s cock. You spoke with precision, recalling the faint lines on his shaft, the slight upward curve of his length, the veins running along the length, the pinkish red flushed head that was a darker shade than the rest of this cock, and the soft sheen of his skin. The painter’s expression grew more incredulous with each stroke, but he remained silent, committed to the task.

When he finished, you scrutinized the painting, your heart leaping at how perfectly he had captured it. “Good,” you said with a nod. “Now make several copies of it. As many as you can manage within the next hour.”

The painter hesitated, glancing at the aide as if hoping for an explanation. When none came, he sighed and got to work, summoning his apprentices to assist.

As you waited, a royal guard entered the room, bowing deeply. “Your Highness, the King has summoned you to the throne room.”

You inhaled sharply, straightening your posture. “Very well,” you said, smoothing your attire once more. “I’ll return shortly,” you told the aide before following the guard out.

The throne room was as grand as ever, the King seated at its center. Her piercing gaze bore into you as you entered, the tension in the air palpable. “You’re late,” she said, her voice sharp.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” you said, offering a polite bow.

The King leaned forward, her expression severe. “I summoned you to discuss a matter of great importance. The princess I told you of last night, of the neighboring kingdom, the one you danced with at the start—he would make a fine royal spouse. The union would strengthen our ties and secure our future.”

You hesitated, the memory of Cinderella Choso flashing through your mind. “I met someone last night,” you said, your voice unwavering. “I fell in love with him, and I’ve decided I’m going to marry him.”

The King’s expression darkened, frustration evident. “You would throw away a carefully arranged alliance for some man you met at a ball? Do you even know who he is?”

“I do not,” you admitted, “but I will find him.”

The King’s hand clenched the arm of her throne, her face reddening. “You’re being reckless,” she snapped. “This marriage is crucial to the kingdom’s future!”

“Then perhaps you should have been clearer about that before inviting every eligible suitor to the ball,” you retorted calmly.

"Besides, with the amount of cum inside me right now, I doubt any kingdom would want to marry off their princess to me when my belly swells in a few months." You add with a faint smirk on your calm face.

"You!" The king's anger reached its peak, and before you could say another word, she clutched her chest, her face twisting in pain. “Your Majesty!” a servant cried, rushing to her side as she collapsed into the throne.

You didn’t linger. Turning on your heel, you left the chaos behind, your resolve unshaken.

By the time you reached the training grounds, the knights were gathered in neat rows, their polished armor clinking softly as they practiced their drills. You held up the paintings in your hands, ensuring they all saw the image clearly.

“This is the man I’m looking for,” you announced, your voice carrying across the courtyard. “Compare this painting to the dick of every man in the kingdom. Find him, no matter how long it takes.”

The knights saluted in unison, determination in their eyes as they accepted their copies.

Turning to the aide, who had followed you silently, you gave your next order. “Make an announcement,” you said. “Tell the kingdom I met a man at the ball last night, and he’s stolen my heart. We’ll find him with these paintings. Any man whose dick matches the image will be married to me.”

The aide hesitated, his brow furrowing in concern. “Your Highness, are you certain—” Although he was used to your antics by now, this one was far too ridiculous to not question.

“Do it,” you interrupted, your tone leaving no room for doubt.

As the knights dispersed and the aide hurried off to carry out your orders, you felt a strange mix of determination and trepidation. Somewhere out there, Cinderella Choso was waiting—and you wouldn’t rest until he was by your side once more.

The days turned into weeks, the search spanning every corner of the kingdom. The knights traveled tirelessly, comparing the painting of the glistening cock to every eligible man they encountered, but no match had been found. Each negative report brought a growing sense of worry, a restlessness that kept you pacing through the corridors of the palace late into the night. The weight of your promise pressed heavily on your shoulders. What if you had lost him forever?

Finally, the aide presented the list of remaining houses. “This is the last one,” he said, handing you the parchment with a weary expression.

Your eyes scanned the address. A modest home tucked into the farthest corner of the kingdom. The final hope.

“I’m going with them,” you declared. The aide opened his mouth to protest, but your determined gaze silenced him. The next morning, you rode out with the knights, the journey long and arduous as the distant town came into view.

Meanwhile, in that very house, Stepmother Kenjaku paced the floor, his long robes rustling with every turn. The news of the prince's search had reached even the farthest corners, and Kenjaku was determined to seize the opportunity. He had spent weeks preparing his two daughters, Eso and Kechizu, for the inevitable visit.

“You must be perfect,” he told them sternly, inspecting their dicks. Eso winced as Kenjaku pressed a scale to his cock, the length was far from satisfactory. Kechizu groaned in frustration as another mixture of oils and creams was slathered onto his dick in a desperate attempt to make it more appealing.

“Remember,” Kenjaku said with a wicked grin, “if one of you marries the prince, we’ll live in the palace, and our troubles will be over.”

“Yes, Mother,” they chimed in unison, their faces contorting into forced smiles.

When the knock finally came, Kenjaku hurried to the door, his heart racing. He opened it with a deep bow, his oily charm seeping through every word. “Your Highness, what an honor! Please, come in!”

You stepped inside, your knights following as Kenjaku led you to a modest sitting area in the hall. You settled into the soft couch, your posture regal despite the humble surroundings.

“These are my daughters, Eso and Kechizu,” Kenjaku announced with exaggerated pride as the two boys stepped forward, their hands clasped demurely before them.

You glanced at their faces and had to fight the urge to recoil. The sharp angles of their features and their overly powdered skin were anything but appealing. Their forced grins only made them look more unsettling.

“They’re definitely not the man I’m looking for,” you said flatly, not even bothering to compare the painting. “There’s no need.”

Kenjaku’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you sure, Your Highness? They’ve been preparing—”

Your sharp gaze cut him off. “According to the records, there are three daughters in this household.”

Kenjaku’s expression tightened, but he quickly masked his displeasure with a nervous laugh. “Ah, the third,” he said dismissively, waving a hand. “He's not truly my daughter, Your Highness. A stepchild of my late husband from her first marriage, nothing more than a servant. Hardly worthy of your attention.”

“Call him anyway,” you ordered, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Kenjaku hesitated for a moment before turning to a nearby servant and barking out the order. Moments later, the sound of footsteps descending a creaking staircase filled the air.

When Cinderella Choso appeared, your breath caught in your throat. His disheveled hair framed his face, strands sticking out wildly, and a smudge of ash darkened his cheek. He wore a simple maid’s outfit, the hem fraying slightly at the edges, but none of that mattered.

The moment you saw him, the memory of that night came flooding back in its entirety. His face—his beautiful, soft features, the gentle curve of his lips, and the warmth in his eyes—had been restored in your mind as if the curse had never taken hold. He was the man you’d fallen for, the man whose cock you had spent weeks searching for.

Cinderella Choso looked up slowly, his expression a mixture of caution and something softer—a quiet joy that flickered to life the moment his eyes met yours. A faint blush rose to his cheeks, his lips parting slightly in surprise as he instinctively ducked his head, his hand brushing nervously against the hem of his apron.

“Why... why is the prince here?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. Though confusion lingered in his tone, there was an unmistakable warmth in his gaze, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were standing before him.

You maintained your composure, though your chest tightened at the sight of him. Giving no sign that you recognized him, you said firmly, “I will personally check him,” standing from the couch with an air of authority.

Kenjaku’s eyes widened in alarm, but he quickly plastered a thin smile on his face. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

Cinderella Choso’s blush deepened, his dark eyes darting between you and the knights before returning to you, lingering just a moment longer than before. His fingers twitched nervously, and he bit his lip, a flicker of shy delight breaking through his confusion.

You stepped closer, your gaze steady and unwavering as it met his. “Where is your room?” you asked, your voice calm but commanding.

“The... attic,” he replied hesitantly, his words faltering under the weight of the moment. His hand rose as if to gesture toward the stairs, but he paused, seeming momentarily flustered by your nearness.

“Lead the way,” you instructed, your tone firm but not unkind.

Cinderella Choso nodded, his movements tentative but obedient. His face was still tinged with a soft pink hue as he turned toward the staircase. There was something in the way he carried himself—a nervous energy paired with a quiet joy, as though he were both overwhelmed and thrilled to have you in his home.

You followed him, your heart pounding in your chest with every step as the narrow staircase creaked beneath your feet.

As you ascended the creaking staircase, the air between you grew heavier, laden with unspoken emotions and tension. The narrow space seemed to close in, your footsteps echoing softly behind him.

Cinderella Choso’s shoulders were tense, his fingers gripping the hem of his apron as if it were his lifeline. His head was slightly bowed, and his messy hair shifted with every step he took. You watched him closely, the faint blush still dusting his cheeks, the nervous sway in his movements unmistakable.

Breaking the silence, you spoke, your voice low but clear. “I hope you remember me.”

Cinderella Choso froze mid-step, his foot slipping slightly on the next stair. He let out a startled squeak, his hands flailing briefly before he caught himself against the bannister. “Y-yes!” he stammered, the word escaping his lips in a hurried rush. His voice cracked slightly, and his entire body seemed to jolt with embarrassment.

But he didn’t look back.

His ears were burning red now, the flush creeping down his neck as he straightened up and hurried the rest of the way. His steps were uneven, almost frantic, as though the very act of facing you might undo him completely.

You bit back a smile, watching him fumble, his shyness endearing in a way that only made your heart ache more for him.

The attic was dimly lit, with only a small window letting in a pale stream of light that softened the space. Despite its modest size, the room was neat and organized, every corner reflecting a quiet diligence. A small dressing table stood to the side, its surface polished clean, with a few simple trinkets placed meticulously. A wardrobe leaned against the wall, slightly worn but sturdy, and a collection of books was stacked neatly in one corner.

The bed, just barely large enough to accommodate Cinderella Choso's broad frame, was tucked under the window, a faded but clean rug beside it. The air was still, carrying the faint scent of the ash smudged on his cheek and the warmth of the space he'd made his own.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, it was as if the world fell away. All pretense dissolved in an instant. You stepped toward him, and he barely had time to process before your lips were on his, the kiss urgent and consuming.

Cinderella Choso froze for the briefest moment, his body stiffening. But then his hands found your waist, and he melted into you, a soft whimper escaping him. His touch held the same urgency as the night of the ball, trembling slightly, but the sheer need in him breaking through his shyness.

Your hands roamed his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your fingertips. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but they moved against yours with increasing desperation. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer, as though you feared he might disappear again.

Together, you tumbled onto the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress as he fell back. The window's light framed his flushed face, his hair falling messily around him as his wide eyes met yours. His breaths were shallow, his chest rising and falling quickly, but his hands never left you, roaming across your back, your hips, your thighs, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Breaking from the kiss, you hovered above him, your breath mingling with his as you stared into his wide, vulnerable eyes. “Why did you leave that night?” you asked, your voice trembling, not with anger, but with a deep, aching hurt. “I told you to stay.”

Cinderella Choso looked away, his cheeks flushed as if the memory stung him even now. His hands rested on your waist, his grip firm but gentle, grounding him. “I... I didn’t want to,” he admitted softly, his voice raw with regret. “But I didn’t have a choice. It was magic.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flickering across your face. He hesitated for a moment, then continued, his words tumbling out nervously, as though he feared you wouldn’t believe him. “The fairy godmother gave me everything for one night—just until 3 a.m. After that, everything... everything would go back to the way it was. My clothes, my life, all of it. I had to leave before it all unraveled.”

His gaze flicked back to you, searching for your reaction, his face tinged with shame. “I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he whispered. “I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.”

You studied him for a long moment, your hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over the faint smudge of ash still there. “Believe me, I know,” you said, your voice laced with understanding, a sad smile tugging at your lips.

His brows knit in confusion, but you shook your head gently, your fingers tracing the soft line of his jaw. “That’s a story for later,” you said softly, leaning in to press another kiss to his lips. Whatever questions he had about your words or your curse could wait. Right now, you were here, together, and that was all that mattered.

Just like that your roaming hands were back on each other again. Cinderella Choso kissed you with more fervour than before. His lips frantically moved against yours. His tongue slipped inside, the soft muscle gliding and tangling with your tongue.

Your breathing grew shallower, and your heart thundered in your chest as Choso's soft, desperate whimpers filled the air. His hands fumbled at the buttons of your coat, trembling as he worked to undo them, his touch clumsy with need.

But you caught his wrists, stopping him in his tracks. “Uh-uh,” you said, your voice firm, though a teasing smile tugged at your lips. “I’m not letting what happened that night occur again. You went wild, Cho—You'll let me call you that, won't you? I’d like to leave this house walking on my own two legs if I can help it.”

His eyes widened, his face flushing a deep crimson as he sputtered, “I-I didn’t mean—”

You silenced him with a quick peck on his lips before reaching for a piece of cloth from his wardrobe. His confusion deepened as you looped the fabric around his wrists, tying them securely to the headboard.

“Wha—what are you doing?” he stammered, his voice trembling with equal parts apprehension and excitement.

You smirked, leaning close so your breath ghosted over his ear. “Maintaining some control over the situation this time,” you said, your tone playful yet commanding. “I think we both know you lose all sense of restraint when you’re left to your own devices.”

Cinderella Choso whimpered, his hands tugging weakly at the bindings as you straddled him. His eyes darted down to his maid outfit, and he seemed suddenly hyper-aware of the fabric against his skin.

Taking a moment, you leaned back slightly, your gaze trailing over him appreciatively. “You know,” you said, tilting your head as your lips curved into a grin, “You look really cute like this.”

His blush deepened, and he turned his head away shyly. “D-Don’t tease me...”

“Oh, I’m not teasing,” you replied, your fingers tracing the ruffled hem of his skirt. “We could do this from time to time—have you wear something like this again.”

Cinderella Choso’s wide eyes snapped back to yours, his lips parting in a silent gasp. His embarrassed whimper made you chuckle softly, leaning down to kiss him again, savoring the way he melted beneath you, utterly at your mercy.

You pulled at the knot of his apron, undoing the fabric. Your hand slid to the back of his neck, slowly unzipping the dress, and he shivered at the touch. You give him a sweet, soft smile but the look in your eyes betrayed what you were about to do next. His eyes grew wide with panic and anticipation, his lips parting slightly as he took in small breaths.

You quickly slip his dress off next and settle between his legs. His pretty white panties had a not so innocent wet spot that only grew larger in size the longer you looked at it. Choso lets out a small whine and your devilish gaze met his excited, wide-eyed stare.

"Wha—what are you going to do?" He stammered, and his eyes dart between your lips and the bulge in his panties that was peeking through the translucent fabric.

You grin even wider and chirp, "Exactly what you're thinking right now."

Choso gasps when you pull down his panties, and his hardened cock springs out. It looks exactly like you remembered it—big and smooth with a gorgeous pink tint that's redder at the head. The paintings didn't do justice, the real thing was much better.

You bring your hand up to touch his tip and he shivers. Choso was trying his best to stay still, anticipating what's to come. But when you softly kiss the tip of his cock, his entire body shudders. A loud, high-pitched moan escapes his lips when you sink down your mouth on his length as much as you could.

You use all your strength to tightly grip his thighs with both of your hands, forcing him to stay still while you bring your head up and then glide it back down, taking him deeper this time.

The head of his cock touches the back of your throat and you slightly gag. Your eyes glisten with tears, but you don't stop. You start bobbing your head up and down on his length, which elicits a series of strangled moans and gasps from choso.

Your lips slide up his length, a mix of your spit and his precum covering the shaft. You suck at his head, then hollow your cheeks and go back down. Your actions pick up their pace, head rapidly bobbing, adding to his building pleasure.

With a loud cry, choso cums. The warm liquid that filled your mouth was salty with a slight sweet taste. Your hand replaces your mouth, moving up and down, helping him ride out his high.

You look up at him. His eyes are tightly shut, mouth parted as his chest heaves with the deep breaths. As he calms down, his half-open lidded eyes meet yours. You sweetly smile at him and tease, "Did you like that?"

Choso turned his head to the side and tried to hide his face in his bound arms, flushing this time with embarrassment.

"Yes," he muttered in a small, shy voice.

He then asks, "Are you going to untie me now?"

You shake your head, a playful smile on your lips. "Nope. We're not done yet."

You sit up and start unbuttoning your clothes. Choso's eyes follow your every action as you slip out of your coat, your shirt, and then your pants. You're sitting above him, straddling him, with nothing but your underwear on. Choso's eyes seem too bulge out of his head, and his ears burn redder at your half-naked form, as if he hadn't already seen it before.

You take off your bra next and your breasts spill out. Choso's gaze is fixed on the sight, then trails down to your panties and the noticable wet patch on it. You pull them down, there's a lewd string of your slick connecting to the fabric. Choso gulps at the sight, his Adam's apple bobs on his throat.

"Would you like a taste, my sweet Cho?" You tilt your head and drawl while looking at him. He nods frantically at your words, whining desperately.

"You're so big baby, and as much as I love it, you'll have to loosen me up a little before I take you inside, yeah?" Choso blushes at your words and whimpers, "Ye-yes, please."

You rise and move up to his shoulders, placing your legs on each side and settle your pussy down on his face, careful not to smother him.

Choso moans softly as he eagerly starts licking at the slick dripping down on his tongue. His knuckles turn white the moment his bound hands grip the headboard tightly. His eyes are closed, face flushed like a plum, and his soft whines and groans fill the air, mixing with your moans of pleasure. He looks so obscenely gorgeous between your legs.

Choso's tongue laps at your folds. You reach down and push your fingers in your pussy, and start pumping them in and out in an attempt to stretch yourself out. Choso sucks and lightly bites at your clit and it sends jolts of electricity down your spine. Your back arches as you push yourself deeper to his mouth, the coil in your core ready to snap. You're close, so close.

Choso lets out a low groan, sending vibrations to your sensitive flesh. He's hard again, precum dripping from the slit. He bucks his hips up when he gives a harsh suck to your clit that sends you spiralling, waves after waves of pleasure washing over you as you hit your high. You get off him and collapse to the side, both of you panting side by side.

You don't waste another moment; getting up and aligning your warm, sensitive pussy with his dripping cock and sink down on him, overstimulation be damned. A loud whiny moan echoes in the room, coming from you or him you don't know.

Once you started bouncing on him, Choso felt as though every inch of his skin was alive, buzzing with a heat so powerful it left him dizzy. His mind felt hazy, thoughts muddled, unable to cling to any single thread of rationality. The pleasure overwhelmed him entirely, a thick fog of sensation clouding every rational thought, as if his brain were melting beneath the weight of it, leaving only pure, unfiltered bliss.

Your warm, tight, wet cunt gripping him like a vice felt like it was milking him dry. You lean back, your palms resting on his thighs behind you as you use all your strength to ride him. Your breasts bounce with every movement, and the view is so lewd for our poor baby Choso that he feels like he's gonna cum right then and there.

You through your head back, mouth open as you drool and pant above him. All that sword training paid off, because you couldn't possibly have lasted without all the built up stamina. Choso's loud moans and groans, mixed with your own, ring in your ears, adding to your lust and fueling you to go faster and harder.

Choso throws his head back into the pillow, hands holding the headboard in an iron-grip, as his biceps flex and abs tightens, and he cums hard. His ropey liquid filling you up, and you follow right after, still riding him through both your orgasms.

You pant hard, body slacking to the side, and you look at him while you try to catch your breath. Choso is a mess, tears and drool is dripping from the sides of his face. His jaw is slack, and his face, neck and chest is flushed red. Little sobs escape his lips along with the gasps.

You quickly move to untie the cloth around his hands and collapse on top of him. You hold him close as you pepper his face with kisses. "You okay, baby?" You ask in a soft voice. But just then, before you could react, Choso flips you over. He's looking down at you with the same crazed look in his eyes that he had the night of the ball. Fuck! You made a mistake untying him.

Choso pins both your wrists above your head with one hand, and grips one of your legs up with the other, before thrusting himself back into you. "Cho-choso!?" You call out, startled. His eyes are blown wide with a wild look in them, no coherent thought behind the gaze.

"M-more... more pl-please. Not enough... This is not enough... need more..." He babbles. So you weren't walking out of this house on your own after all. The pleasure he gave you that night was soul-crushingly good, and you loved every moment of it. As much as you want it again right now, there's an entire knight squad waiting for you downstairs, dammit.

He holds you down while ramming his cock deep inside with full strength. His thrusts get meaner with each stroke, pumping pleasure out of you. He leans down, shoving his tongue in your slack mouth, swallowing all your moans. Oh fuck it! The knights can wait.

Each pulse of pleasure that rolled through you felt like a wave of heat, washing away any coherent thought. Your body trembled, each nerve alive, and your mind seemed to blur, its sharp edges softening into nothingness. Every sensation was amplified, the euphoria so intense that it felt like your very mind was being devoured by the pleasure, each wave more intoxicating than the last.

Choso didn’t stop, not until both of you were exhausted and sticky with sweat and cum that came from all the countless orgasms, the intensity of the moment lingering in the air between you. His movements were relentless, driven by an overwhelming need, and each time you thought he might slow down, he only pushed forward.

It was like that night all over again. You drifted in and out of the haze clouding you with each mind numbing high. The sun was setting when you both finally stopped, the golden light spilling through the window and casting a warm glow over everything. The room, once filled with the erratic energy, now felt quiet, the fading daylight creating a peaceful contrast to the intensity that had come before.

Choso was sleeping peacefully on top of you, his soft breaths rising and falling gently against your chest. His weight, comforting and familiar, made your heart swell with adoration. You watched him, his face serene in sleep, so different from his earlier untamed frenzy, and a wave of tenderness washed over you as you held him closer, not wanting to move, wanting to cherish the moment forever.

In the following days, the kingdom buzzed with excitement, preparations for the royal marriage taking center stage. The streets were filled with banners and flowers, and the air was thick with anticipation. Cinderella Choso, now at your side, was treated with the same reverence as any princess, though his gentle nature remained unchanged. You spent your days together, savoring the quiet moments, laughing, and talking about the future; and with his cock buried deep inside you when no one was around.

The royal wedding was a grand affair, a celebration of not just your union, but the love that had brought you both together. As the days passed, you realized that the magic and curse had only led you to something far greater than you could have imagined.

And so, with Choso by your side, you lived happily ever after, finding a peace that had once seemed impossible.

---

Check out the m.list. Which one should I write next?

Do not copy, plagiarise, translate or repost any of my content.

Likes, reblogs and feedback is appreciated <3

»»———-　....................　———-««

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

[bullet-prooflove]

All That Glitters: Part Two - History - OA Zidan x Reader (feat: Scott Forrester)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @trublu2u @mrspeacem1nusone @greenies-green @rosaliedepp @whateversomethingbruh @anime-weeb-4-life @daydreaming-belle @burningpeachpuppy @scarlettsakura @divergent146 @upsteadlogic @malindacath @skyesthebomb @kilikonakapamana @yezzyyae @redpool @stxrryswvrld @district447 @@soultrysworld

Companion piece to:

All That Glitters - Omar suffers after a tough case.

By the time you come on board the scope of the operation has grown exponentially. You’re talking dozens of tender age girls being trafficked through New York, Budapest, Paris and countless other cities worldwide.   

Dotcom millionaires, judges, senators, the list of rich and powerful men involved in this thing just goes on and on and at the centre of it is Colin Kent, international sex trafficker. The man who has just absconded to Croatia, with fourteen-year-old Sunny, a girl he’s been using as his plaything.

When you get boots on the ground in Zagreb you don’t expect to see Scott Forrester waiting for you at the Europol offices. You knew you’d be meeting with a flight team; you just had no idea that it would be his. You’d lost track of him after he’d left your division.

It’s clear he doesn’t expect to see you either, you can tell by the way he says your name.

“When they said they were sending a specialist I had no idea it was you.” He says almost apologetically as he shakes your hand.

You’ve changed since he last laid eyes on you. Your hair’s a little longer, a little darker. You’ve gained a couple of pounds, it looks good on you, healthy. You have more tattoos than he remembers, he can see the bright colours decorating your forearms as you push up the sleeves of the white jumper that you’re wearing. Beside you OA clears his throat and it’s in that moment that Scott realises the two of you are more than just colleagues. There’s a protectiveness in the other man that he recognises because he's been there, in the exact same place.

There’s no time to reminisce, you hit the ground running. Scott doesn’t expect any different. You were tenacious when he worked with you seven years ago, that hasn’t changed.

“How do the two of you know each other?” OA asks him when they’re alone in the conference room. They’re sticking photographs of the girls to the glass wall, trying to figure out how many of them are in play. The scope of the investigation is growing, what started off as one girl has become over a hundred and it just keeps getting worse.

OA’s question is one that Scott’s been dreading because it takes him back to the worst night of his life. He’d been running the operation that landed you that apartment. It had been him who’d decided to use you as the UC, him who’d found you brutalised, half naked in that bed. He’d thought you were going to die that night. He’d sat in the chapel and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that you’d pull through, that you’d make it back to him. In the aftermath of the surgery he’d sat by your bed, while your father flew in from Delaware, bore the brunt of his wrath when he told him what had happened.

“We worked together.” Scott says quietly, his focus fixated on the task at hand. “Before I took a job with the fly team…”

He sees the moment that it dawns on OA. He exhales suddenly, his arms crossing over his chest, his head dipping low. Scott can’t imagine what the other man must think of him.  

“You’re that Scott.” He says knowingly. “The one she was with when…”

He trails off because he can’t bring himself to say the words and Scott doesn’t want to hear them.

“Yea.” Scott says quietly. “I’m that Scott.”

-

You dream about that night. The sky-blue dress you were wearing, the blood trickling down your face into your eyes, the sound of the material ripping under Tribeck’s hands as he undressed you. More than anything you remember the pain, the degradation.

It’s Omar that wakes you, his soothing voice breaking through the nightmare as his palm cups the side of your face, guiding your gaze up to meet his.

“You’re safe.” He whispers, his lips kissing away the salt that trails down your cheeks. “You’re safe here with me, no one can hurt you, it’s just the two of us.”

He goes through the breathing exercises. In for five, hold for five, out for five, the same way you do when he has a bad night. It takes a while for you to calm down, for your breathing to regulate, for your heart to stop pounding against your chest.

“It’s Scott, isn’t it?” He says softly as he holds you close. “Seeing him again brings it all back.”

“We were together a year before it happened.” You tell him, the grip you have on his t-shirt tightening. “It was his op, his decision to use me as the UC…”

You trail off because everything after that is fractured. Your world had fallen apart and Scott, he couldn’t look at you without seeing what had happened that night, without feeling responsible. It’s been seven years and he still harbours that guilt. It’s in the way he keeps his distance, the two of you have barely been in the same room since you landed in Croatia and you know that’s by design.

“You need to absolve him.” Omar whispers into your hair. “It’s the only way you’ll  both be free of it.”

His palm comes to rest on the back of your neck, his thumb stroking over that delicate little spot, the one that he knows soothes you. He feels the tension start to seep out of your body, your muscles unfurling as you tuck yourself in against him.

“Tomorrow.” You say quietly. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[sopiao]

hii! hopefully you’re not swamped with requests or studies 😓

but can i request a hyper fem reader (uses she/her) that also wears a mask just as much as ghost? always wearing pink, gets her nails super long and glittery, pink gun, pink knives with stickers. like she is only ever seen in a mask. only way she can express herself is through make up and the 141 always notices little details or changes. even after killing and enemy and there’s blood across their face and mask but still mange to look so cute and bubbly.

could you use the callsign you use? i feel like shark would totally fit this!

have a good day!! ^^

-🧸

OMG???? LIKE?? YESS???????

I FUCKING LOVE RHIS IDEA SM!!

(dw bbg- studies r getting better :))

141 with a hyperfem masked female reader

When your first recruited and joined the task force everyone just stops and stares when you walk into the room.

They’re confused when your face is covered, only eyes being visible, makes them even more intrigued with you.

They’d 100% unconsciously move to the side to make a path for you when you walk by.

I feel Soap would be very interested and excited whenever you get new nails, always super sparkly, pink, pastel, and covered in charms and pearls.

Soap is always the first one to see and the one to pick out your next colors. His favorite combo being pink and green.

Shark would call everyone baby girl when they’re all grown men with balls (hopefully y’all saw that tweet).

“Is you LGB? cuz your gun pink” -Gaz

Constantly leaves glitter everywhere you walk.

Definitely gave everyone ‘1 whore 1” pins with a hello kitty with a pink AK behind her for Christmas. Which they all wore on their vest.

You would give out stickers as a form of praise and reward like teachers would to kindergartners.

Price would keep all the stickers you give or just leave behind in your path.

—

“Soap!” You walk into the rec room, not even bothering to look for him, just calling out his name (not the obnoxious loud kind of yell). He immediately would drop whatever he’s doing, a conversation, a game, a task. Knowing by your tone and excitement in your voice that you already have a new set.

“Oohh! Even better than the last” He says, smiling when you lay your hands out for him, he smiles even more when he sees that you picked charms that he recommended.

“I liked last weeks better, had more glitter” Ghost sudden appearance made you both jump. Almost bumping into him since he was leaning over your shoulder behind you.

Sometimes during briefing, you’d rest your head on one hand and the other would be around Soap’s shoulders, ever so often scratching his head and ruffling his hair like a dog. Some recruits would mistake you two as a couple, they’d comment how they can tell you’re the more dominant one.

—

Ghost would always be next to you, sometimes by coincidence, but mostly by preference. Whenever you two walk into the room together you always call him your twin or your mini-me.

“Can’t tell the difference, huh?” You asks the latest recruits, elbow resting against Ghost, pointing between the two of you. Even though there’s a very obvious height difference, your dramatic lashes and pink eyeshadow boomed through your balaclava, you had pink guns and knives in your holster, pink and yellow glow sticks on your belt, and Ghost was a 6’4 built like a Greek God british man.

But the rookies are too intimidated by both of you that they’re too scared to even disagree. Just nodding vigorously as you skip away with Ghost following behind.

—

“Take cover!” You yell, tossing a grenade across the barrier, signaling you’re teammates about the blow. Within seconds the ground shakes and you can hear bodies being thrown due to the impact. Unexpectedly to them a cloud of pink and glitter exploded along with the grenade.

“What the fuck?” Gaz looks up after a light layer of glitter dusts on top of him. The rest of them looking up and seeing the pink in the sky.

“Rest in pink” You bow your head to pay your respect.

—

“Shark..” Price speaks up beside you, the rumbling of the truck going on rocky terrain constantly rocks your body against his. You immediately snap to look at him, almost making jump from your crazed but happy eyes.

“Why don’t you wipe all that off, sweetheart?” He asks, holding out his handkerchief for you, motioning to the blood that’s splattered across your mask and whatever it could touch on your uncovered part of your face.

“No”

“Why not?” Gaz asks, from your other side.

“I don’t wanna smudge my makeup :(“

—

“Shark, did you do something different with your makeup?” Gaz asks once you walk into the meeting room to meet the rest of them. Yes, you did do something, there are little white and magenta accents in your eye lashes. Gives your eyes and lashes a highlight of color.

“Why yes I did. Thank you for noticing, sweetie” You pinch his cheek and sit on the empty seat next to him.

“You changed your highlighter too” Ghost speaks up from next to you, he can tell with your eye shadow and slight nose contour that you switched to a more finer and brighter highlighter.

“Did you change how you do your eyeliner? Looks bolder” Soap asks, inspecting your eyes closer.

“I think you look nice overall, hun” Price chuckles at how they inspect and comment on every little change of your appearance. Your just proud that you’ve taught your boys well, being able to know the names of every makeup technique and step.

—

“You got a little bit of Shark on you” Price interrupts Ghost mid sentence to point out the small patch of glitter on his shoulder.

A couple days later Ghost stops him for the same thing.

“Cap, you got a lil Shark on you” He taps him on the back and shows a small strawberry sticker that was stuck on his vest.

[ainsellshadewalker]

oopsie, sorry totally didn’t see that message till today. This is about the platonic yandere x-men post i requested. For clarification i wanted yandere x-men 97( if you can do that), and just X-men( no brotherhood pleas), and in terms of characters i was looking forward seeing in particular, i think mostly Scott, hank, remy, hell maybe storm too i think there so underrated

Kay, Kay!

Let's start with some background and basics.

Like many mutant youths, you ran away from home once you realized your parents would never accept you. You've tried to suppress your mutation to appease your parents but it has grown to be too painful for it to be a permanent solution. You could store energy and release it in an assortment of ways. You could decide if it would be a permanent or temporary fixture and what forms it could take. You created butterflies of light, self-sustaining stars, little rabbits that left embers in their wake. You truly could make whatever you wished. But even though it was such a wonderful gift your parents refused to see you as nothing more than a freak that should not be accepted, so you ran.

You should've taken the time to give your plan more thought. So focused on escape you forgot how cold the nights would get and were left shivering in a corner of a dark and dingey alley.

That is how Scott found you and so soon after losing Nathan. Could you blame him for getting attached? For seeing you as a second chance at fatherhood? He couldn't even bear to give you the chance to say no to accepting help. So he took you away to the mansion and decided that it would be his responsibility to guide you. He often can come off as patronizing but well-meaning. He doesn't mean to treat you like a little kid, but you remind him so much of what he could've had. So you let him read your bedtime stories, leave kisses on your forehead, and wear the pajamas he was so kind to gift you even though they are childish in nature. And if he seems to coax you into calling him dad surely you're just looking too far into things.

You were such an inquisitive soul always looking to learn more. How could Hank not love you? You latched onto science so quickly and looked up at him as if he made the stars when he explained things to you. And how quickly you understood what he taught! Normally he wouldn't allow anyone into his lab unless they had a reason to be there. You were the sole exception. It was to the point that whenever you were in the lab with him the others weren't allowed to take you away unless they wanted to deal with an angry Beast. Nobody ever wants to deal with that.

Remy adored how clever and mischievous you were. Ma Lapin is what he likes to call you. Buckets of water and glitter glue mixture from doorways was your first prank. It took everyone at least three weeks to figure out it was you. Remy after that started to show you tricks of his trade. His obsession grew from there. Whenever you left the mansion he was never too far behind. Not that you knew that. He has taken out quite a few creeps who eyeballed you a little too much, or at least what he considered a creep. The human eye is so easily drawn by pretty lights after all.

Ororo's obsession started by finding you frightened in the dark. It was storming so hard that the windows shook. Why wouldn't you be frightened? And how could she not see you as smaller than you are? You were under a table shaking while little stars floated around you. She had to say farewell to so many people already and she does love being the protector. So, whenever a storm approaches you find shelter with her. If she creates a few of them, well, that isn't anything you need to know about. Just stay safe tucked into her arms while she runs her fingers through your hair and coos at you.

**This was fun! I hope you enjoy it!**

[moonspirit]

can we get some aruani wedding headcanons please 🙏👀

Hello!

But AruAni wedding headcanons 🥺

I like to think that Aruani's "real" wedding, i.e. the one that's not there just for a political display will be a very quiet one with just their closest friends: the Ambassadors + Levi & Co.

Well.... As quiet as it can be, anyway. Jean, Reiner, Connie and Gabi are ready to bring the house down.

It will be a open-air seaside wedding! Either a remote beach or a cliff overlooking the sea, complete with the wind whipping at their clothes and the sea stretching vast and wide, endless to the horizon. Big, beautiful clouds float in the sky, changing colours as the day draws on.

Whether sandy beach or rock-studded grassy cliffside, it means Annie's wedding dress will be short-with the hem somewhere around the calves or below knee-for ease of movement. She's quite happy with that, really. The easier it is to manspread, the better.

But the rest of the dress is a fucking pain in the ass. Stupid strapless bra, stupid underwires, stupid everything. If she could, she'd have gotten married in a hoodie and shorts.

She can't seem to get rid of Hitch and Pieck's fussing over her hair and clothes and pooh-poohs their hard work (secretly she's grateful because she couldn't have done shit on her own).

Meanwhile Armin is a panicky, teary, sobbing MESS.

He's also driving Jean nuts with his fidgeting - everything on his person has to be perfect for Annie! Perfect tie! Perfect suit! Perfect flower-in-pocket thingy! It gets so bad to the point that Mikasa has to tie him up with rope and make him sit still in a corner.

Hitch has also been drinking right from sunrise and shows no signs of stopping. After bothering Annie, she's taken to sitting at a table and admiring everyone that passes by, man or woman. Reiner is very scared of her.

Onyankopon is officiating and he's got the perfect vows ready and whatnot.

Levi doesn't want wine, he wants TEA, and he's satisfied when he's got it. He also watches everyone around him in their suits and dresses, and feels a tad sad that his kids are all so grown up now.

Not very sad when Gabi's cheekily threatening to wheel him into the sea or tip him off the cliff tho. RIP Papa Levi, your parenthood will never cease.

Close to the time of the wedding, Armin's nervous and jumpy in his room, head in his hands and telling himself to calm down. Nobody understands why he's so anxious. (The real reason is because he's minutes away from being called "Annie's Husband" and the poor boy's so happy he's having heart palpitations).

I think there has to be a secret medical team on standby.

Annie, on the other hand, is very quiet in her room, sitting before the mirror. On either side of her are Pieck and Hitch, also quiet after their endless teasing. Annie's dazed. This is really happening? A day has come when she's actually getting married? She didn't even think she'd live this long, but here's a big bouquet in her hand and the dress she's wearing is finely tailored. Pretty. Beautiful.

After a long silence staring at each other through the mirror, the three of them start crying.

But nevermind any of that. The only one doing the real heavy work here is Mikasa, alternating between Armin's room and Annie's, telling them both firmly "You can do this." like it's a mission.

At the flowery arch altar(?) thingy, Armin's ready to receive Annie and so anxious he's sweating bullets.

But when Annie makes her appearance, being walked by Connie (ye, he's the best), there are TWO men who burst into tears. None other than the bridegroom and also Reiner, because he's pathetic and emotional.

It's a bit annoying really.

Also Armin's maybe struggling to breathe. Somebody please check his pulse.

But can anyone really blame him tho? She's BEAUTIFUL!!!!! Outshining the glittering sea.

Not only him tho. The blush on Annie's face is powered by the fucking sun.

And can anyone blame her?! He's DASHING!! It should be criminal for a man to look that good.

(*whispers* she's gonna jump him later in the night before he's even unbuttoned his suit)

When Annie meets Armin at the altar, Mikasa's the one that's the most proud. She's got tears in her eyes. It's a beautiful wedding, and these two are so dreadfully, horribly, terribly in love. There's a small pang of sadness in her but overall, she's incredibly happy for her little brother.

When prompted for the "I do's", Annie's a bit breathless when she says it while Armin's honestly doing his best not to say it before Onyankopon's even asked him.

The kiss is suspiciously too innocent.

Pieck loudly snickers from the back that they shouldn't be anywhere near the newlyweds that night.

The post-wedding shenanigans are insane!!!!!

DANCING AND DRINKING EVERYWHERE!! Best man and Best Woman speeches, plenty of embarrassing flashback stories, plenty of laughter, plenty of everyone getting very pissed off at each other.

If it's by the beach, the boys carry Armin off and throw him into the sea.

The same with Annie tho Mikasa tells her to wear some granny panties in advance. Hitch isn't having any of it. The fuck do you mean granny panties?! Why?! Well, to protect against sand in the coochie ofc. Hitch still won't have it because ugly.

FUCK THE WEDDING SUITS AND DRESSES AND EVERYTHING! ITS TIME TO SPLASH AROUND IN THE WATER!!!!

Everyone is soggy and wet and very hot

The Ackermans too are no match for the waves. SOGGY AND WET AND HAPPY, I TELL YOU!!!!

... Ah, there is a wedding cake.

But Connie mixes up birthday and wedding etiquette and ends up slapping it on Aruani's faces.

Falco accidentally drinks alcohol again and passes out. Why is he always accidentally getting wine in his mouth? Smh.

To be as annoying as possible, everyone keeps Armin and Annie away from each other as best as they can. Not a moment together! CRIMINAL!

When they assemble to take a photo together, the photographer spends at least 20 minutes under the camera cloth ordering adjustments in their positions. It's frustrating. Reiner's boobs are blocking everything else, ugh. Fucking hell, Reiner.

(But when the photo finally comes out, days later, it's so beautiful. All of them, grinning bright and some caught mid-laugh, hair and clothes windblown, flowers in their hands, holding each other close, sunlit and golden and so very happy.)

Well into the night and finally alone at last, Annie finds, that instead of being relieved, she's even MORE annoyed.

Because Armin's being insufferable.

He's all "wife this" and "wife that" and "my beautiful pretty adorable wife" and she's so embarrassed she could just. die.

But no. No die. Only wedding night activities 🌚🌝.

[poemsfor-her]

A GUIDE TO FINDING YOUR OWN STYLE: PART. I Y2K ୨୧ ׅ ۫ 𖹭

The Y2K Era became well-defined by 1997, replacing the Core '90s Era which had been known for its grittier aesthetics such as Grunge. The Spice Girls' single "Wannabe" was released in the U.S. and gained international popularity, leading to a new era in teen pop. Y2K fashion calls back to the biggest trends of the late 90s and early 2000s. It blends the pop culture of the millennium with bright colors and kitschy aesthetics to create an unapologetically maximalist look. One of the key fashion points of the y2k wave are: low raised jeans, crop tops, small handbags and mini skirts. POC POPULARIZED THE STYLE. The fashion icons of the y2k era were Destiny's child, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton and Christina Aguillera.

I. TYPES OF THE Y2K STYLE ୨୧ ׅ ۫ 𖹭

1. CYBERCORE

Y2K (also known as Kaybug or Cybercore) is an aesthetic that was prevalent in popular culture from roughly 1997 to 2004, succeeding the Memphis Design and Grunge eras and overlapping with the McBling, UrBling, Surf Crush, and 2K1 aesthetics. Named after the Year 2000 problem, it is characterized by a distinct aesthetic period, encapsulating fashion, hardware design, music, and furnishings shining with tech optimism—sometimes literally. Some of its aspects include tight leather pants, shiny clothing, silver eye shadow, spiky up-dos, Oakleys, gradients, translucence, and Blobitecture. Most Y2K aesthetics rely on the use of technology and slick futuristic looks, signaling the optimism for the 3rd Millennium or 21st Century. The Y2K Era ended around 2004 and was succeeded by the Frutiger Aero era. This style is full of mostly gray, blue, green and black colors. One artist that i think perfectly describes the cybercore concept are XG in their newest concept photos alongside with AESPA that can sometime miss the concept they mainly do.

2. MCBLING

The McBling aesthetic went into full swing around late 2004 with the release of the movie Mean Girls, the popularization of Myspace, the popularization of emo via Green Day's American Idiot, the phasing-out of 2K1, the iPod becoming a huge status symbol via Apple's silhouette ad campaign, the premieres of Laguna Beach and Lost, and Gwen Stefani starting her solo career, further hastening the end of the Y2K era. McBling was concurrent or overlapped with a number of other 2000s aesthetics, such as UrBling, Surf Crush, 2K7, and Frutiger Aero.This led into the ElectroPop 08/Hipster/Jersey Shore Era, which lasted from about 2008 to 2013. On social media in recent years, the McBling aesthetic has grown in popularity, albeit it is often lumped with or mistaken for the Y2K aesthetic. The colors of this style are: pink, white, silver and gold.

3. DARK Y2K

Instead of lighter and brighter colors, like pinks and pastels, the Dark Y2K aesthetic heavily revolves around colors like black, grey, deep blue, dark purple, and dark green. However, hot pinks are also seen in Dark Y2K fashion. The Dark Y2K visual focuses on freedom and youth, and rebelling. Visuals that are typically seen in the aesthetic are low-rise jeans and belts, with lipgloss and sometimes even glitter eyeshadow. Some of the styles worn could even be viewed as provocative.The 2003 film Thirteen can be seen as an influence to Dark Y2K fashion and visuals, with its main characters wearing cropped tops, low-rise jeans with a noticeable thong, and studded belts. The main characters are also seen rebelling and sneaking out, and getting tongue and bellybutton piercings.

II. MOVIES AND TV SHOWS TO WATCH

1. Y2K

— bratz: the movie

— fast and furious

— clueless

— any bratz content

2. CYBERCORE

— men in black

— the matrix

— charlie's angels

— x-men

— any superhero movie

3. MCBLING

— mean girls

— white chicks

— wild child

— the house bunny

— legally blonde

4. DARK Y2K

— twilight

— jennifers body

— skims

— thirteen

— girl, interrupted

III. SONGS TO LISTEN TO

1. Y2K

— devil - slayyyter

— gimme more - britney spears

— summertime - flo

— sugarcoat - natty

— attention - newjeans

— tokyo drift - teriyaki boyz

2. CYBERCORE

— stereo love - edward maya

— lovefool - the cardigans

— hello kitty - slayyyter

— any hyperpop song

3. MCBLING

— rumors - lindsay lohan

— faboulous - sharpay evans

— he said she said - ashley tisdale

— queencard - gidle

4. DARK Y2K

— all the things she said - t.A.T.u

— bang, bang, bang - soho dolls

— take me away - avril lavinge

— brutal - olivia rodrigo

— no celestial - le sserafim

— teen idle - marina and the diamonds

information provided by aesthethics.wiki

with love, 𝒯

[pigeonwbraces]

I frickin love my Aus Sally, i purposely made her the opposite of how the fandom majority sees her and I love her now lol.

I feel like the Creepypasta fandom has this overly Pure and innocent view of Sally, with the frilly dresses bows and sweet innocent attitude even not allowing any shipping with her as odd as that is.

I've seen many people headcannon her as Aroace Wich Is fine if you just like it or are even self projecting a bit cuz I've seen people do but, butttt ive also seen a pretty big amount of people headcannon her as Aroace specifically because of the SA in her story, and that's never really sat right with me just cuz it kinda sends the message of

If you've been SA'd in the past you'll never feel love or want to even think of anything romantic or sexual again. Which admittedly can happen as a trauma response but it's not all the time people have many different trauma responses and for my Sally I wanted to lean away from that.

My Sally isn't some innocent girl who can't defend herself and wears all these frilly dresses and needs to be covered at all times, she's not afraid to wear things like Tanktops crop tops shorts heels and just generally more revealing stuff like most of the fandom tends to portray her as, tho obviously it's not to the overly sexualized and inappropriate type of revealing stuff I'm just saying Sally isn't held back by the SA she's grown up and she's not ashamed of her body and not afraid to wear more revealing stuff like Tanktops as it's not what you wear NO ONE deserves SA or is asking for it just by wearing shorts or a crop top and you shouldn't be expected to be innocent and completely covered at all times it's okay to wear whatever it's up to the adults to not be creepy about it.

She's still girly overall loves pink and ribbons and glitter but she's not some innocent child she knows what happened to her was wrong and she's trying to move on from it and live a normal life, she's also not stupid and can defend herself another thing that buggs me is how many people make characters like Masky or Toby or slender always come to her rescue making sure no man can hurt her again but to me that just takes away her agency, saying she needs all the men in her life to protect her when she can protect herself they should be guiding her and teaching her how to fight properly not just doing it for her.

She also likes romance talk my Sally is Bisexual as just because you were SA'd doesn't mean you can never love or want to be loved again shes a normal bisexual girl who gets crushes and sure she still feels awkward and is very cautious especially around men but still she likes to fantasize about going on dates and getting valentine's gifts and that's okay XD

Uh I hope I explained this well im not trying to offend anyone and I'm pretty bad at explaining my thoughts but I tried sorry it might not come off as I intended so feel free to ask questions I'll be glad to attempt some clarifying.🫠

[andromeda-pleiades]

Veiled Vengeance

As I promised here is my batman Fic, this will probably be the only chapter I post on (this) tumblr so here is the link to The other tumblr

WORD COUNT: 3,262

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x F!OC

The chandeliers glowed like constellations above the grand ballroom of Wayne Manor, their golden light reflecting off the polished marble floors. The scent of champagne and expensive perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the murmur of Gotham’s elite, their laughter and clinking glasses filling the vast space. It was a symphony of excess—one Bruce Wayne had long since grown tired of.

Standing near the bar, a tumbler of untouched whiskey in his hand, Bruce surveyed the room with the detached gaze of someone watching a play he had seen too many times before. The same men in tailored suits boasting about their latest acquisitions, the same women draped in glittering gowns, exchanging pleasantries laced with venom. He found it exhausting. Hollow. A stage where everyone wore a mask—even him.

His patience was wearing thin when his gaze caught on someone different.

A young woman moved through the crowd with an effortless grace that didn’t quite match the servitude of her role. She balanced a tray of drinks with practiced ease, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable. Her brown skin gleamed under the warm glow of the chandeliers, and her deep brown eyes, sharp and assessing, held an intensity that set her apart from the other servers. Long, neat dreadlocks were pulled back from her face, emphasizing the quiet confidence in her movements. She wasn’t impressed by the wealth surrounding her. If anything, she looked as though she were walking through a lion’s den, completely aware of every predator lurking within.

Bruce had spent years honing his ability to read people. This woman—she was neither intimidated nor starstruck by the glittering display around her. That alone intrigued him.

Across the room, Latoya Campbell felt the weight of someone’s gaze. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling; men at events like this often let their eyes linger too long, mistaking her presence as an invitation. But she had learned how to ignore them, how to make herself invisible when necessary. She had grown up in Gotham’s underbelly—she knew what kind of men surrounded her here.

Still, something about this particular gaze made her pulse tick faster.

When she finally glanced up, her breath hitched for just a moment. Bruce Wayne.

He wasn’t just watching her—he was studying her. That unreadable expression, that unwavering focus. It was different from the other men at the gala. It wasn’t lazy arrogance or entitled interest. But it still unsettled her.

A lesser woman might have flushed under that gaze, but Latoya merely lifted her chin and forced herself to focus. She had a job to do, and she wasn’t about to let Gotham’s most eligible bachelor throw her off balance.

“You move like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing,” a deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

Latoya turned, and there he was. Up close, Bruce Wayne was even more striking—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes. He had the presence of a man who was used to being the most powerful person in any room, but there was something else beneath the surface, something heavier. She ignored it.

“I’d hope so, Mr. Wayne,” she replied coolly. “I’ve been doing this long enough.”

His lips twitched, as if amused. “That’s a shame. You seem a little too sharp to be waiting tables.”

Latoya’s fingers curled slightly around the tray. She had heard variations of this before—from men who thought they were charming, men who believed a girl like her should be flattered by their attention. She wasn’t.

“Pays the bills,” she said simply, shifting her weight in preparation to move on.

Before Bruce could respond, a sharp voice cut in. “Excuse me, waiter, I need another glass of wine.”

Latoya turned to see a woman in a designer gown, holding out an empty crystal flute with a practiced air of entitlement. She didn’t even look at Latoya, her manicured fingers twitching impatiently.

Latoya had barely reached for the glass when the woman took an awkward step, her heel catching on the hem of her dress. The movement sent her wobbling, and in the process, she knocked into Latoya’s tray. A glass of champagne toppled forward—straight onto Bruce Wayne’s pristine suit.

Gasps rippled through the nearby guests.

Latoya’s stomach clenched. She had dealt with difficult situations before, but spilling champagne on one of Gotham’s most powerful men wasn’t something she could brush off.

The woman who caused the spill looked scandalized. “You idiot!” she snapped, her embarrassment twisting into anger. “Do you have any idea how much that suit costs?”

Latoya braced herself for Bruce’s reaction. She expected irritation at best, a condescending remark at worst. What she didn’t expect was the easy chuckle that left his lips.

“It’s just champagne,” he said, dabbing his lapel with a napkin. “No harm done.”

Latoya blinked, momentarily thrown by his indifference. Most men here would have turned the moment into a spectacle, using it as an opportunity to demean her. But Bruce had barely reacted.

“You handled that well,” he remarked, looking at her again with that same quiet intensity.

Latoya arched a brow. “I’m used to it.”

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “Then I imagine you have some interesting stories about nights like this.”

Latoya hesitated. The idea of swapping stories with Bruce Wayne felt absurd. But there was something disarming about the way he said it, as if he actually cared to hear what she had to say.

Still, she kept her tone guarded. “Plenty. But I doubt they’d interest you.”

Bruce smiled. “Try me.”

The night wound down, the music growing softer as the crowd began to thin. Latoya finished stacking empty glasses at the catering station when she felt it again—that quiet presence, that gaze that was neither predatory nor dismissive.

Bruce Wayne was still here.

She should have ignored him. Should have kept her head down and gone about her business. But instead, she found herself crossing the room, approaching him with an ease that surprised her.

“Mr. Wayne,” she said, tilting her head. “Still here?”

He smirked. “I could say the same about you.”

“Work isn’t done yet.”

Bruce nodded, as if that answer made perfect sense. “So, about those stories…”

Latoya exhaled, shaking her head with amusement. “Fine. You want a story?” She leaned slightly against the bar, feigning nonchalance. “Last year, I worked an event for a foreign diplomat. His security was strict, which meant we had to follow every protocol to the letter. But one of the guests—a man with more money than common sense—decided he didn’t like the wine selection. He thought bribing me would get him a special bottle.”

Bruce raised a brow. “And did it?”

Latoya scoffed. “I don’t take bribes. So I told him I’d check with my manager.” She smirked. “Instead, I told security he was acting suspiciously. They dragged him out in front of everyone.”

Bruce chuckled, shaking his head. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Latoya studied him for a moment before giving a small, genuine smile. For the first time all evening, she wasn’t looking at Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. She was looking at someone who—despite everything—felt a little more real than the rest of them.

She wasn’t sure what to make of that yet.

But she had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time they spoke.

The soft chime of the diner’s bell rang as the door swung open, ushering in a cold breeze from Gotham’s dimly lit streets. Latoya barely looked up from where she was stacking menus behind the counter. Late-night shifts at Penny’s Diner were quiet, save for the occasional police officer grabbing coffee or a trucker stopping in for a meal. She liked it that way—less noise, fewer entitled rich folks.

So when she glanced up and saw Bruce Wayne stepping through the door, she nearly dropped the menus.

He was out of place here. The low hum of an old radio, the cracked linoleum floors, the smell of grease and burnt coffee—it was the opposite of the glittering ballroom from the gala. Yet there he was, wearing a casual dark coat over his broad frame, looking around as if he had been here before.

Her fingers tightened on the menus as she exhaled, steadying herself. This was too much of a coincidence. Gotham’s richest man didn’t just stumble into diners like this. He had come here for a reason.

For her.

“Table for one?” she asked, schooling her expression into something unreadable.

Bruce smiled slightly. “Seems that way.”

He sat comfortably, glancing at the menu even though she doubted he had any real intention of ordering.

"You know, there are about fifty high-end cafés between here and Wayne Tower."

"And yet, here I am."

She narrowed her eyes. “Right. And you just so happened to end up at Penny’s Diner out of the other cafes?”

His smirk deepened. “Maybe I was in the neighborhood.”

Latoya let out a quiet scoff. “Uh-huh.”

Bruce chuckled, but she didn’t return his smile. He was persistent, she’d give him that. He waited as she took an order, slid a plate across the counter, and filled another cup. Only then did she sigh and finally meet his eyes.

A beat of silence stretched between them before Bruce leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Alright, you got me. I wanted to see you again.”

Latoya’s lips pressed together. She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or irritated. “You could’ve just said that instead of pretending to enjoy bad coffee.”

Bruce chuckled. “Fair point.”

She studied him for a moment before sighing and pulling out her notepad. “Fine. Since you’re here, what do you want?”

Bruce pretended to think. “What do you recommend?”

Latoya arched her brow. “Leaving.”

He laughed, and to her surprise, it was a genuine, warm sound. Something about it made her chest tighten. She had met all kinds of men—arrogant, entitled, manipulative. Bruce was different. He was still a billionaire, still part of the world that looked down on people like her, but… there was something else there. Something real.

“You’re not making this easy, are you?” he asked, still smiling.

“I don’t make anything easy,” she replied, but there was the smallest hint of amusement in her tone.

The scent of stale coffee and the hum of the diner faded into the background as Latoya stared at Bruce, his presence tugging at something buried deep within her. Her grip tightened around the notepad, and for a fleeting moment, she was no longer in Penny’s Diner—she was eight years old again, sitting at a wobbly kitchen table under the dim flicker of a dying lightbulb. That was the night she first learned that kindness didn’t put food on the table.

Flashback: Crime Alley

Her parents had been good people. Hardworking, honest—too honest. They had come to Gotham hoping for something better, only to end up scraping by in a rundown apartment in what is now known as Crime Alley. Her father, Lawrence, worked three jobs, while her mother, Elise, took shifts wherever she could—cleaning houses, waiting tables, anything to keep the lights on.

But no matter how hard they worked, it was never enough.

She remembered one night in particular. The fridge had been nearly empty, and Lawrence had come home later than usual, his knuckles bruised. Elise had wanted to take him to the clinic, but they couldn’t afford the bill. Instead, they sat at the table in the dim light, pretending everything was fine.

Latoya had watched them, her small hands curled into fists under the table. She hated it—the struggle, the helplessness. She had promised herself that night that she would never be weak. Never be in a position where someone else could decide if she ate or not.

And she had kept that promise.

Back to the Present

Bruce was still watching her, waiting for a response.

Latoya exhaled and tucked the notepad back into her apron. “Fine. I’ll get you some coffee. But don’t expect me to refill it.”

Bruce grinned. “I’ll take what I can get.”

As she walked away, she realized something unsettling.

She didn’t mind that he had come looking for her.

Bruce didn’t stop at one visit. Over the following weeks, he returned to Penny’s Diner often—sometimes late at night, sometimes in the quiet mornings before the city had fully woken. At first, Latoya treated his presence with the same wary skepticism as before, but slowly, the edges softened.

Their conversations became longer. What started as casual banter turned into something deeper. Bruce asked about her past, her ambitions, the things she cared about. He listened in a way that felt intentional, as if he genuinely wanted to know her, not just impress her.

One evening, as he walked her home from her shift, she caught herself saying something she hadn’t meant to share.

"You know, I used to sit on the rooftops as a kid, watching the lights come on across the city. My mom hated it—said I was asking for trouble. But up there, everything felt... smaller. Like Gotham wasn’t so heavy."

Bruce glanced at her. "You still do it?"

She hesitated. "No. Feels different now. Less like freedom, more like keeping watch."

She regretted the words immediately. It was too much, too personal. But Bruce didn’t press, didn’t smirk like he had figured her out. He just nodded, as if he understood. And for some reason, that made her feel more exposed than if he had asked a dozen questions.

Their dates were never extravagant. Bruce seemed to know that expensive restaurants and luxury gifts wouldn’t impress her. Instead, they met at quiet spots—late-night diners, bookstores with hidden corners, and even the park when the city felt too suffocating. They shared stories, childhood memories, regrets, and dreams neither had dared to say aloud before.

One night, as they sat in his car overlooking the city, Bruce asked, “If you could do anything, no limitations, what would it be?”

Latoya thought for a moment before answering, “Help people. Kids like me who never got a fair shot.”

Bruce turned his gaze to her, something unreadable in his expression. “You already do.”

She scoffed lightly. “Serving coffee and carrying trays isn’t exactly changing the world.”

“You see people. You care. That’s more than most.”

For the first time, she didn’t have a retort.

She just looked at him and realized she was falling for Bruce Wayne.

The streets of Gotham were alive with their usual nocturnal energy—distant sirens wailing, muffled music spilling from clubs, the low hum of conversation from people lingering outside high-end restaurants. Latoya had long since learned to navigate the city’s dual nature, where wealth and crime existed side by side, often indistinguishable from one another.

She had finished her shift at the Wayne gala nearly an hour ago, but instead of heading straight home, she found herself walking through the city, letting the cool night air ground her. The encounter with Bruce Wayne still lingered in her mind, which irritated her more than she cared to admit.

Men like him didn’t occupy her thoughts. They existed in a world separate from hers, no matter how much they pretended otherwise.

Yet, for all his wealth and reputation, he hadn’t acted like the other men at that gala. No lingering looks meant to make her uncomfortable. No condescending remarks meant to remind her of her place. And then there was the way he had laughed off the champagne spill—easy, unbothered, like it hadn’t mattered at all.

It made no sense.

Lost in thought, she barely registered the group of men loitering near the alleyway up ahead until she was almost too close to adjust her path. Their laughter was low and sharp-edged, the kind that made her instincts bristle. Three of them, maybe four. All dressed too casually for this part of the city, their postures loose, waiting for something—perhaps someone.

Latoya exhaled through her nose, keeping her stride even. She wasn’t new to this. She knew how to handle herself. If they were looking for trouble, they wouldn’t find an easy target in her.

“Hey, sweetheart,” one of them called as she passed. “You look a little lost.”

Latoya didn’t even glance in their direction. She knew better than to engage. Attention encouraged ego, and ego was dangerous when mixed with the wrong kind of man.

But just as she thought she had cleared them, another voice—lower, more deliberate—cut through the night.

“Not even a smile? That’s cold.”

She tensed, her fingers twitching at her sides. Still, she kept walking.

“Latoya.”

She froze.

That wasn’t possible. None of them should have known her name.

She turned just enough to get a better look at the speaker. He was lean, sharp-featured, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Recognition struck like a hammer.

“Kane.”

The last time she had seen him, she had been a teenager, barely scraping by in Gotham’s underbelly. Back then, Kane had been just another street hustler, someone who knew how to work the system well enough to avoid serious trouble.

Now, he looked… sharper. More dangerous. The casual arrogance remained, but there was something else in his stance—confidence backed by power.

“I was starting to think you forgot about us,” he said, taking a slow step forward. His companions shifted, subtly closing in.

Latoya kept her face unreadable. "Just trying to make a living."

Kane exhaled smoke slowly. "Ran into Roscoe the other day. Remember him? Tried to go straight, got himself a real job. Funny thing, though—he’s back in Gotham now. Working for me."

She didn’t let her expression slip, but her pulse quickened. The message was clear: No one leaves.

Latoya’s stomach tightened, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she shoved her hands in her pockets and smirked. “Guess some people just can’t stay away.”

Kane chuckled, but his eyes stayed cold. “Guess not.”

A prickle of unease crept up her spine, but she forced herself to stay still, to keep her breathing steady. “What do you want?” 

Kane tilted his head. “Just catching up. Seeing how an old friend is doing.” His gaze flicked over her, assessing. “You clean up nice. Catering now, huh? Funny, didn’t picture you as the type to serve drinks to men who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.” 

Latoya clenched her jaw but refused to rise to the bait. “Didn’t picture you as the type to still be running with gutter trash, but here we are.” 

The men around him bristled, but Kane merely laughed. “Still got that mouth on you.” His amusement faded slightly, his expression turning speculative. “You always did know how to survive. I respect that.” 

She didn’t respond, her muscles coiled tight. She needed to end this conversation before it veered into something more dangerous. 

Kane watched her for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. “Alright. I won’t keep you. But if you ever get tired of playing the good girl, you know where to find me.”

She turned and walked off, but the tension coiled in her stomach didn’t ease. She kept her steps even, but her eyes scanned the reflections in shop windows, the movement in her peripheral vision. She wasn’t being followed—yet. But she knew better than to assume she was in the clear.

Her fingers twitched toward her phone. She could call Bruce. But then what? Ask for help? No. She wasn’t that person. Not yet.

Instead, she slipped into a crowded bus station and took the long way home, making sure no one followed.

[andromeda-ophiuchus]

Veiled Vengeance

When Latoya crossed paths with Gotham's most eligible bachelor, Bruce Wayne, she never imagined their love would intertwine her with the shadowy world of Gotham. As secrets unravel and tragedy strikes, Latoya is forced to confront her own ideals of justice, pushing her down a dangerous path. Torn between love, family, and vengeance, she must decide whether to fight alongside the man she loves or against the system he protects. or How 23 years with Bruce Wayne really messes with your mind, ideals, and life

here is the link to AO3

WORD COUNT: 3,262

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x F!OC

The chandeliers glowed like constellations above the grand ballroom of Wayne Manor, their golden light reflecting off the polished marble floors. The scent of champagne and expensive perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the murmur of Gotham’s elite, their laughter and clinking glasses filling the vast space. It was a symphony of excess—one Bruce Wayne had long since grown tired of.

Standing near the bar, a tumbler of untouched whiskey in his hand, Bruce surveyed the room with the detached gaze of someone watching a play he had seen too many times before. The same men in tailored suits boasting about their latest acquisitions, the same women draped in glittering gowns, exchanging pleasantries laced with venom. He found it exhausting. Hollow. A stage where everyone wore a mask—even him.

His patience was wearing thin when his gaze caught on someone different.

A young woman moved through the crowd with an effortless grace that didn’t quite match the servitude of her role. She balanced a tray of drinks with practiced ease, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable. Her brown skin gleamed under the warm glow of the chandeliers, and her deep brown eyes, sharp and assessing, held an intensity that set her apart from the other servers. Long, neat dreadlocks were pulled back from her face, emphasizing the quiet confidence in her movements. She wasn’t impressed by the wealth surrounding her. If anything, she looked as though she were walking through a lion’s den, completely aware of every predator lurking within.

Bruce had spent years honing his ability to read people. This woman—she was neither intimidated nor starstruck by the glittering display around her. That alone intrigued him.

Across the room, Latoya Campbell felt the weight of someone’s gaze. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling; men at events like this often let their eyes linger too long, mistaking her presence as an invitation. But she had learned how to ignore them, how to make herself invisible when necessary. She had grown up in Gotham’s underbelly—she knew what kind of men surrounded her here.

Still, something about this particular gaze made her pulse tick faster.

When she finally glanced up, her breath hitched for just a moment. Bruce Wayne.

He wasn’t just watching her—he was studying her. That unreadable expression, that unwavering focus. It was different from the other men at the gala. It wasn’t lazy arrogance or entitled interest. But it still unsettled her.

A lesser woman might have flushed under that gaze, but Latoya merely lifted her chin and forced herself to focus. She had a job to do, and she wasn’t about to let Gotham’s most eligible bachelor throw her off balance.

“You move like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing,” a deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

Latoya turned, and there he was. Up close, Bruce Wayne was even more striking—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes. He had the presence of a man who was used to being the most powerful person in any room, but there was something else beneath the surface, something heavier. She ignored it.

“I’d hope so, Mr. Wayne,” she replied coolly. “I’ve been doing this long enough.”

His lips twitched, as if amused. “That’s a shame. You seem a little too sharp to be waiting tables.”

Latoya’s fingers curled slightly around the tray. She had heard variations of this before—from men who thought they were charming, men who believed a girl like her should be flattered by their attention. She wasn’t.

“Pays the bills,” she said simply, shifting her weight in preparation to move on.

Before Bruce could respond, a sharp voice cut in. “Excuse me, waiter, I need another glass of wine.”

Latoya turned to see a woman in a designer gown, holding out an empty crystal flute with a practiced air of entitlement. She didn’t even look at Latoya, her manicured fingers twitching impatiently.

Latoya had barely reached for the glass when the woman took an awkward step, her heel catching on the hem of her dress. The movement sent her wobbling, and in the process, she knocked into Latoya’s tray. A glass of champagne toppled forward—straight onto Bruce Wayne’s pristine suit.

Gasps rippled through the nearby guests.

Latoya’s stomach clenched. She had dealt with difficult situations before, but spilling champagne on one of Gotham’s most powerful men wasn’t something she could brush off.

The woman who caused the spill looked scandalized. “You idiot!” she snapped, her embarrassment twisting into anger. “Do you have any idea how much that suit costs?”

Latoya braced herself for Bruce’s reaction. She expected irritation at best, a condescending remark at worst. What she didn’t expect was the easy chuckle that left his lips.

“It’s just champagne,” he said, dabbing his lapel with a napkin. “No harm done.”

Latoya blinked, momentarily thrown by his indifference. Most men here would have turned the moment into a spectacle, using it as an opportunity to demean her. But Bruce had barely reacted.

“You handled that well,” he remarked, looking at her again with that same quiet intensity.

Latoya arched a brow. “I’m used to it.”

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “Then I imagine you have some interesting stories about nights like this.”

Latoya hesitated. The idea of swapping stories with Bruce Wayne felt absurd. But there was something disarming about the way he said it, as if he actually cared to hear what she had to say.

Still, she kept her tone guarded. “Plenty. But I doubt they’d interest you.”

Bruce smiled. “Try me.”

The night wound down, the music growing softer as the crowd began to thin. Latoya finished stacking empty glasses at the catering station when she felt it again—that quiet presence, that gaze that was neither predatory nor dismissive.

Bruce Wayne was still here.

She should have ignored him. Should have kept her head down and gone about her business. But instead, she found herself crossing the room, approaching him with an ease that surprised her.

“Mr. Wayne,” she said, tilting her head. “Still here?”

He smirked. “I could say the same about you.”

“Work isn’t done yet.”

Bruce nodded, as if that answer made perfect sense. “So, about those stories…”

Latoya exhaled, shaking her head with amusement. “Fine. You want a story?” She leaned slightly against the bar, feigning nonchalance. “Last year, I worked an event for a foreign diplomat. His security was strict, which meant we had to follow every protocol to the letter. But one of the guests—a man with more money than common sense—decided he didn’t like the wine selection. He thought bribing me would get him a special bottle.”

Bruce raised a brow. “And did it?”

Latoya scoffed. “I don’t take bribes. So I told him I’d check with my manager.” She smirked. “Instead, I told security he was acting suspiciously. They dragged him out in front of everyone.”

Bruce chuckled, shaking his head. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Latoya studied him for a moment before giving a small, genuine smile. For the first time all evening, she wasn’t looking at Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. She was looking at someone who—despite everything—felt a little more real than the rest of them.

She wasn’t sure what to make of that yet.

But she had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time they spoke.

The soft chime of the diner’s bell rang as the door swung open, ushering in a cold breeze from Gotham’s dimly lit streets. Latoya barely looked up from where she was stacking menus behind the counter. Late-night shifts at Penny’s Diner were quiet, save for the occasional police officer grabbing coffee or a trucker stopping in for a meal. She liked it that way—less noise, fewer entitled rich folks.

So when she glanced up and saw Bruce Wayne stepping through the door, she nearly dropped the menus.

He was out of place here. The low hum of an old radio, the cracked linoleum floors, the smell of grease and burnt coffee—it was the opposite of the glittering ballroom from the gala. Yet there he was, wearing a casual dark coat over his broad frame, looking around as if he had been here before.

Her fingers tightened on the menus as she exhaled, steadying herself. This was too much of a coincidence. Gotham’s richest man didn’t just stumble into diners like this. He had come here for a reason.

For her.

“Table for one?” she asked, schooling her expression into something unreadable.

Bruce smiled slightly. “Seems that way.”

He sat comfortably, glancing at the menu even though she doubted he had any real intention of ordering.

"You know, there are about fifty high-end cafés between here and Wayne Tower."

"And yet, here I am."

She narrowed her eyes. “Right. And you just so happened to end up at Penny’s Diner out of the other cafes?”

His smirk deepened. “Maybe I was in the neighborhood.”

Latoya let out a quiet scoff. “Uh-huh.”

Bruce chuckled, but she didn’t return his smile. He was persistent, she’d give him that. He waited as she took an order, slid a plate across the counter, and filled another cup. Only then did she sigh and finally meet his eyes.

A beat of silence stretched between them before Bruce leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Alright, you got me. I wanted to see you again.”

Latoya’s lips pressed together. She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or irritated. “You could’ve just said that instead of pretending to enjoy bad coffee.”

Bruce chuckled. “Fair point.”

She studied him for a moment before sighing and pulling out her notepad. “Fine. Since you’re here, what do you want?”

Bruce pretended to think. “What do you recommend?”

Latoya arched her brow. “Leaving.”

He laughed, and to her surprise, it was a genuine, warm sound. Something about it made her chest tighten. She had met all kinds of men—arrogant, entitled, manipulative. Bruce was different. He was still a billionaire, still part of the world that looked down on people like her, but… there was something else there. Something real.

“You’re not making this easy, are you?” he asked, still smiling.

“I don’t make anything easy,” she replied, but there was the smallest hint of amusement in her tone.

The scent of stale coffee and the hum of the diner faded into the background as Latoya stared at Bruce, his presence tugging at something buried deep within her. Her grip tightened around the notepad, and for a fleeting moment, she was no longer in Penny’s Diner—she was eight years old again, sitting at a wobbly kitchen table under the dim flicker of a dying lightbulb. That was the night she first learned that kindness didn’t put food on the table.

Flashback: Crime Alley

Her parents had been good people. Hardworking, honest—too honest. They had come to Gotham hoping for something better, only to end up scraping by in a rundown apartment in what is now known as Crime Alley. Her father, Lawrence, worked three jobs, while her mother, Elise, took shifts wherever she could—cleaning houses, waiting tables, anything to keep the lights on.

But no matter how hard they worked, it was never enough.

She remembered one night in particular. The fridge had been nearly empty, and Lawrence had come home later than usual, his knuckles bruised. Elise had wanted to take him to the clinic, but they couldn’t afford the bill. Instead, they sat at the table in the dim light, pretending everything was fine.

Latoya had watched them, her small hands curled into fists under the table. She hated it—the struggle, the helplessness. She had promised herself that night that she would never be weak. Never be in a position where someone else could decide if she ate or not.

And she had kept that promise.

Back to the Present

Bruce was still watching her, waiting for a response.

Latoya exhaled and tucked the notepad back into her apron. “Fine. I’ll get you some coffee. But don’t expect me to refill it.”

Bruce grinned. “I’ll take what I can get.”

As she walked away, she realized something unsettling.

She didn’t mind that he had come looking for her.

Bruce didn’t stop at one visit. Over the following weeks, he returned to Penny’s Diner often—sometimes late at night, sometimes in the quiet mornings before the city had fully woken. At first, Latoya treated his presence with the same wary skepticism as before, but slowly, the edges softened.

Their conversations became longer. What started as casual banter turned into something deeper. Bruce asked about her past, her ambitions, the things she cared about. He listened in a way that felt intentional, as if he genuinely wanted to know her, not just impress her.

One evening, as he walked her home from her shift, she caught herself saying something she hadn’t meant to share.

"You know, I used to sit on the rooftops as a kid, watching the lights come on across the city. My mom hated it—said I was asking for trouble. But up there, everything felt... smaller. Like Gotham wasn’t so heavy."

Bruce glanced at her. "You still do it?"

She hesitated. "No. Feels different now. Less like freedom, more like keeping watch."

She regretted the words immediately. It was too much, too personal. But Bruce didn’t press, didn’t smirk like he had figured her out. He just nodded, as if he understood. And for some reason, that made her feel more exposed than if he had asked a dozen questions.

Their dates were never extravagant. Bruce seemed to know that expensive restaurants and luxury gifts wouldn’t impress her. Instead, they met at quiet spots—late-night diners, bookstores with hidden corners, and even the park when the city felt too suffocating. They shared stories, childhood memories, regrets, and dreams neither had dared to say aloud before.

One night, as they sat in his car overlooking the city, Bruce asked, “If you could do anything, no limitations, what would it be?”

Latoya thought for a moment before answering, “Help people. Kids like me who never got a fair shot.”

Bruce turned his gaze to her, something unreadable in his expression. “You already do.”

She scoffed lightly. “Serving coffee and carrying trays isn’t exactly changing the world.”

“You see people. You care. That’s more than most.”

For the first time, she didn’t have a retort.

She just looked at him and realized she was falling for Bruce Wayne.

The streets of Gotham were alive with their usual nocturnal energy—distant sirens wailing, muffled music spilling from clubs, the low hum of conversation from people lingering outside high-end restaurants. Latoya had long since learned to navigate the city’s dual nature, where wealth and crime existed side by side, often indistinguishable from one another.

She had finished her shift at the Wayne gala nearly an hour ago, but instead of heading straight home, she found herself walking through the city, letting the cool night air ground her. The encounter with Bruce Wayne still lingered in her mind, which irritated her more than she cared to admit.

Men like him didn’t occupy her thoughts. They existed in a world separate from hers, no matter how much they pretended otherwise.

Yet, for all his wealth and reputation, he hadn’t acted like the other men at that gala. No lingering looks meant to make her uncomfortable. No condescending remarks meant to remind her of her place. And then there was the way he had laughed off the champagne spill—easy, unbothered, like it hadn’t mattered at all.

It made no sense.

Lost in thought, she barely registered the group of men loitering near the alleyway up ahead until she was almost too close to adjust her path. Their laughter was low and sharp-edged, the kind that made her instincts bristle. Three of them, maybe four. All dressed too casually for this part of the city, their postures loose, waiting for something—perhaps someone.

Latoya exhaled through her nose, keeping her stride even. She wasn’t new to this. She knew how to handle herself. If they were looking for trouble, they wouldn’t find an easy target in her.

“Hey, sweetheart,” one of them called as she passed. “You look a little lost.”

Latoya didn’t even glance in their direction. She knew better than to engage. Attention encouraged ego, and ego was dangerous when mixed with the wrong kind of man.

But just as she thought she had cleared them, another voice—lower, more deliberate—cut through the night.

“Not even a smile? That’s cold.”

She tensed, her fingers twitching at her sides. Still, she kept walking.

“Latoya.”

She froze.

That wasn’t possible. None of them should have known her name.

She turned just enough to get a better look at the speaker. He was lean, sharp-featured, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Recognition struck like a hammer.

“Kane.”

The last time she had seen him, she had been a teenager, barely scraping by in Gotham’s underbelly. Back then, Kane had been just another street hustler, someone who knew how to work the system well enough to avoid serious trouble.

Now, he looked… sharper. More dangerous. The casual arrogance remained, but there was something else in his stance—confidence backed by power.

“I was starting to think you forgot about us,” he said, taking a slow step forward. His companions shifted, subtly closing in.

Latoya kept her face unreadable. "Just trying to make a living."

Kane exhaled smoke slowly. "Ran into Roscoe the other day. Remember him? Tried to go straight, got himself a real job. Funny thing, though—he’s back in Gotham now. Working for me."

She didn’t let her expression slip, but her pulse quickened. The message was clear: No one leaves.

Latoya’s stomach tightened, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she shoved her hands in her pockets and smirked. “Guess some people just can’t stay away.”

Kane chuckled, but his eyes stayed cold. “Guess not.”

A prickle of unease crept up her spine, but she forced herself to stay still, to keep her breathing steady. “What do you want?” 

Kane tilted his head. “Just catching up. Seeing how an old friend is doing.” His gaze flicked over her, assessing. “You clean up nice. Catering now, huh? Funny, didn’t picture you as the type to serve drinks to men who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.” 

Latoya clenched her jaw but refused to rise to the bait. “Didn’t picture you as the type to still be running with gutter trash, but here we are.” 

The men around him bristled, but Kane merely laughed. “Still got that mouth on you.” His amusement faded slightly, his expression turning speculative. “You always did know how to survive. I respect that.” 

She didn’t respond, her muscles coiled tight. She needed to end this conversation before it veered into something more dangerous. 

Kane watched her for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. “Alright. I won’t keep you. But if you ever get tired of playing the good girl, you know where to find me.”

She turned and walked off, but the tension coiled in her stomach didn’t ease. She kept her steps even, but her eyes scanned the reflections in shop windows, the movement in her peripheral vision. She wasn’t being followed—yet. But she knew better than to assume she was in the clear.

Her fingers twitched toward her phone. She could call Bruce. But then what? Ask for help? No. She wasn’t that person. Not yet.

Instead, she slipped into a crowded bus station and took the long way home, making sure no one followed.

[thesissyhomemaker]

Every home is balanced when there's the strong male guidance and the gentle feminine touch exist together.

Boys that become feminized, either on their own volition or the guiding hand of a parent or significant other, need to pay especially close attention to how they maintain their feminine appearance, attitude, and touch. Your icky-male side may creep in from time to time! Following strict rules and guidance is essential. Cis girls do not generally need to follow these rules, as it comes instinctively to them, but you should definitely keep them in mind.

Hormones. This is the most essential thing. As soon as you are able, get on hormones. The sooner, the better. Even if all you are able to do is microdose, do it, as you can hide those changes for a long time.

Chastity cage. You should stay locked. There are some girls who don't, or don't consistently, but that's just inviting your boy side to creep back in. Find a high quality cage, give the keys to your husband, and stay locked. Staying locked will help keep you in a feminine and submissive mindset, and you should only be unlocked for hygenie and medical issues - and even then it should be a last resort.

There are a lot of terrible men out in the world - no doubt about that. But when you find a good one, you'll know it as his masculinity will make you look and feel more feminine by comparison. It's also not going to be a forced masculinity, but a gentle, confident manliness - not fake dominance, but subtle, assured charge of the home and relationship. By comparison, your femininity won't be forced, but will just be.

Feminine clothing. Not just a crop top here or there: dresses and skirts primarily. No pants or shorts. Again, cis girls can wear jeans or shorts, but you need to make an extra effort to be feminine. Plus, the feel of air through your dress and over your shaved legs goes a long way in the feminine feel. Take pride in your closet, and always look your best! It's also more economical and more endearing to make a lot of your own clothing, if possible. A sewing machine is a must have!

Underwear. Panties, obviously, preferably with lace. Bra's are also essential, even if you haven't grown breasts yet. If you have grown breasts, make sure it's a push up bra and that your cleavage is regularly visible. You are not to wear any kind of sports bra's or bralettes, unless it has underwire. No fetish wear either - you are to wear actual, substantive ladies' underwear. Lace and cute prints is essential. Take pride in your appearance, under and over!

Corsets. This deserves a post all of it's own, and unfortunately out of fashion, wearing a corset is vital for you. Not intermittently, but it ought to be an everyday part of your wardrobe. Nothing excruciatingly tight, but it should maintain your figure and help you move with feminine grace. Like I said before, I'll get into this on a separate post but a quality corset should not be uncomfortable and certainly shouldn't make you faint - it should be gentle, unyielding support and structure to your body.

Makeup. This is another way you need to distinguish yourself. Your daily makeup ought to be very considerable, and include extra touches such as fake lashes, glitter, blush, etc. Do your best to make sure no one outside of your husband sees you without your makeup done, and even he should not see you without it often. Take time during your day to practice different touches to your makeup when your husband is off at work, and always be made up and well dressed for his return home.

Cleanliness. Even if you don't have a husband or a boyfriend yet, it's worth keeping your living space very tidy and particular. If you invite a boy over and he sees that your home is a wreck - clothes and objects strewn about - what will he think of your potential as a wife? No matter what your situation is now, do your best to keep your living area tidy. Makeup organized, your clothes on hangers, surfaces dusted. It will help you have a clearer and less cluttered mind, too.

Housework. That's not all being a homemaker is, but it is worth considering. It's not just cleaning the house, although you should maintain your house with particularness. It's about brightening the home so that your husband and yourself always look forward to returning to the comfort of your living space. For example: rather than buying couch pillows online, sew them yourself. Pour over home and garden magazines to get inspiration on how to make your living space warm and inviting for you, your husband, and your guests.

Food. Again, not everything about being a homemaker is chores, and cooking certainly can become a pleasure. Your husband and family deserve home cooked meals, but most of all - you deserve them too. What's healthy for your husband is healthy for you! Take pride in the taste and appearance of your cooking. Also, being the homemaker does not mean your husband dominates in every way - the kitchen is your domain, and the menu is your call! Of course, if your husband has favorites or mentions he's hungry for something, prioritize it - but mainly, it's you. Do remember that during the daily meals, you ought to restrict your meals to dainty small dishes to sustain your energy through the day, but nothing more - with emphasis on vegetables, soy, etc.

Intimacy. Again, this isn't everything, but following your husband's lead is hugely important. Also remember, that his satisfaction comes first. He may enjoy seeing you be satisfied as well, but focus on him, and learn to anticipate his needs!

[themurderofcrowscollective]

More 141 nighttime shenanigans

So you remember Ghost walking around in a white sheet with sunglasses on right? I now present to you... More of that bullshit. Ghost, at 12 AM, somehow gaining a skateboard while wearing that ghost costume again: *Whistling some Green Day music through the halls.* Gaz, sleep-deprived as all hell: Do a kickflip! Ghost, also sleep-deprived: *Proceeds to do a kickflip and sticks the landing before skating into a wall and falling over like a pile of bricks.* Price: Quick gang, let's unmask this ghostly ghoul! Soap: *Yanks off the sheet before dramatically gasping.* He's... He's... HE'S... adorable! *Begins wheezing as he joins Ghost on the floor who is also giggling.* Price, doing the sign of the cross: I now pronounce you husband and dumbass, you may kiss the idiot. Gaz: *Wheezing with nothing left in his lungs, throwing glitter into the air like confetti over the two idiots on the floor.* Congratulations! Nik, who's on sleep-deprived-idiot-duty, sipping a cup of coffee: Wow. Horangi, also standing next to Nik: You should see them with pillows, it's like the funniest thing I've ever seen. Nik: Now I gotta see that. - - - Speaking of the idiots with pillows... It's again, 12 AM and the main four haven't had any sleep again (really rough mission that took more than a week to finish) and everyone is on edge, grumpy, planning murder or all three. This time Nik followed Horangi's advice and got a bunch of pillows in the lounge room, calling the four into the lounge. Ghost, glaring intensely as he walks in before seeing the mountain of pillows, only proceeded to flop into them and dig his way into the mountain, only letting his feet be seen. Soap walked in after and gasped before yelling 'DON'T WORRY SIMON I'LL GET YOU OUT!' and diving into the pillows before getting dragged into them by Ghost, followed by a muffled 'Nooo the pillow monster has taken meeeee' with giggles. Gaz and Price were last and had the bright idea to make a pillow fort so they ran off to get blankets and other items that would make a great pillow fort. Nik watched on as he chuckled, Horangi joining him after he put Konig to sleep. They both watched as four grown-ass men dismantled the pile of pillows and construct a really awesome looking pillow fort, before laying down inside and saying dumb jokes that had them giggling like teenagers. Ghost is great at fart jokes if he's sleep deprived. Horangi then proceeds to look at Nik: I have something they'll all like, hang on. *Proceeds to head back to his room and comes back a few moments later with squishmallows, about 10 of them in different sizes.* Nik: Wow... *He gets handed one and he instantly clings to it because goddamn it's soft.* Horangi, chuckling: Hey boys, I got something. *He crouches down and lifts up a flap of a blanket, shoving the squishmallows inside and ushering Nik to look inside.* As soon as Nik does, he sees Ghost cuddling with Soap as he uses a squishmallow for a pillow, Soap getting comfy and clinging to Ghost. Gaz and Price ended up passing out as soon as they hugged their own squishmallows, Gaz sleeping on top of Price who had an arm over his shoulders. Pictures were taken and eventually Nik joined in with them, sleeping next to Price. - - - The next morning, the lounge was off limits for the day to the recruits and only Horangi and Konig could enter, never being seen again until the next day when the pillow fort was dismantled and no one said a word about it... however they did get to keep the squishmallows and Horangi wasn't judging them as he had a few of his own still. - - - Again, more will be posted later

[lesboscarymarlowe]

pretty boy

part one (2016)

I wanna be a pretty boy with long, soft hair that I can put up in a bun and when people see me they'll say "look at that asshole with the manbun" and I'll laugh because yeah I am that asshole pretty boy with the manbun and it’ll be so wonderful that someone saw me and thought of me as enough of a man to add "man" to a previously gender neutral word, so that it’d be obviously acceptable for a man to have his hair up in a bun.

And I wanna be a pretty boy with a flat chest, a real cock and not this fake one made up of socks that no one would wanna suck on except maybe a fetishist but that's not what I want. Ibwanna be a real pretty boy with real pretty boy parts and not these parts that my mother and doctors and society insist are only for girls even though some boys can have these parts and some girls never have these parts and that's okay.

And I wanna be a pretty boy so all the other pretty boys see me and think "wow I wanna kiss that boy" and it won't just be straight boys who look at me when I walk past in fact straight boys will wanna avoid me because I'll be so pretty they won't be able to stand it they'll have to look away from me and my long, soft hair that's up in a manbun and my soft smile and the glitter that's on my cheeks and my ripped jeans and high heels and red lipstick because I'll be so pretty they'll realize that they aren't straight and that's terrifying for them.

And I wanna be a pretty boy who can take his shirt off at the pool without getting arrested and I wanna feel the water on my bare chest and feel how flat it is while I’m sitting on a reclining chair and covering my chest with sunscreen so I won’t burn and I'll ask my pretty gay boyfriend to put sunscreen on my pretty gay back because I don't want that to get burnt either and he'll laugh and mock me for being so pasty that i need 100 SPF sunscreen and I'll laugh at him and slap his leg and he'll grin and kiss me and the summer sun will shine down on both of our pretty gay bodies as we both can finally have our chests free to the world.

And I wanna be a pretty boy so when I look in the mirror I don't see a silly little girl in instead see a pretty, queer boy with pretty, queer eyes and pretty, queer lips and pretty, queer hair and a pretty, queer body and I want the world to see me as a queer boy and not a slutty girl or a boyish girl or a lesbian or a freakish girl or a quiet girl or whatever it is people see me as I don’t want that all I want is to be the slutty, freakish, quiet, queer, fabulous, nerdy, cute, lovely, ugly, annoying, hot, sparkly, handsome, obsessive, stupid, innocent, scary, pretty boy that I really truly am.

part two (2023)

I love to be a pretty boy, with curly pink hair and a deep voice. I love putting my hairy, DDD tits on display. I love what testosterone has done for my self esteem. I love my slutty outfits, I love my bimbo personality. I love the confusion when people hear my voice. They want oh so desperately to ask if I have a cock— Of course, polite society won’t say it in those words. I won’t tell them that I’ve grown a fat tdick in the past years, of course.

“Are you a transvestite or a real woman?” asked to me on the street. Fear in my heart as I don’t know what the “correct” answer is. I’m afraid of the violence being a pretty boy might bring upon me. Even so, I refuse to let the fear stop me from being who I’ve always meant to be. I might wear mini skirts, but I also wear steel-toed boots. Men will only learn that the hard way if they wanna push their luck.

“I want to be a pretty boy with long, soft hair…” You will, my love, you will be that boy. You will also be a girl, a woman, a man, a tranny, a faggot, a dyke. You will embrace all these parts of yourself and you will love each and every one, no matter what the world thinks of it. You will stop starving yourself and you’ll stop drinking and smoking and, okay, maybe you’ll become a bit of a stoner but that’s okay. You will be okay. You are okay.

And your pretty gay boyfriend is now your pretty gay fiancé and soon he will be your pretty gay husband. You’ll be his pretty boy wife and you’ll love every moment of it. He’ll still make fun of you for how easy you burn, but he’ll also find it hot how much you sweat in the sun (he’s a freak like that).

I am a pretty boy, a pretty girl, a slutty woman, an incorrect man. I am a queer, a tranny, a dyke, a faggot, a lesbian a transexual a homosexual a domme a bimbo a feral a butch a femme a cripple a retard a queer a queer a queer. I am a Jew and I am an atheist (agnostic?) and I love g-d and I hate her. I am everything and I am nothing.

I want to be an elderly dyke, living a long life with my gay little husband. I want to be a cantor, an art historian, a writer and a poet. I want to pursue knowledge until my dying breath. I want to be the queer who helps guide those younger than I, like all the elders who came before me. Who helped guide me, helped me embrace my true self.

I am so much more than I ever thought I could be. I am so, so young but I am excited to grow old. I finally want to die of old age.

When I look in the mirror, I no longer see that same broken reflection that haunted me in my childhood. I see the pretty queer boy with pretty queer eyes and pretty queer lips and pretty queer hair and a pretty queer body that I always knew I could be. I am the slutty, freakish, quiet, queer, nerdy, cute, lovely, ugly, annoying, hot, sparkly, handsome, obsessive, stupid, scary, pretty boygirl that I was always meant to be.

P.S. straight boys still like you, unfortunately:/

[rantsofamadam]

TW: Mentions of sh/suicide/sexual topics

Girlhood is going to kill me.

Girlhood sounds so fucking innocent.

So sparkly and fun.

What a girl. Just a girl.

Pretty, sparkling bows.

Pink glitter and smiles.

Feminine energy.

Being beautiful.

A passenger princess,

Taken care of so nicely.

Men swooning, skirts and dresses,

“Girls have it so easy. Just stand there and be pretty.”

Oh fuck you.

The word girl seems so-

Demoralizing.

I’m not a girl.

I’m not a woman.

I’m not a female.

I’m a goddamn person, cursed to forever be attached to the label of

‘Girl.’

Girl means blood.

It means a painful, bloody mess.

Every month. For a week.

No appetite. No sleep. No peace.

A stabbing, cramping, murderous sensation.

How many girls have wanted to stab themselves because of their stabbing pain.

How many girls have wanted to die because of their brain pumping out hormones.

How many girls have tried to die.

Curled up on the floors of their room.

And told “oh. It’s normal. It’s just your period.”

It’s my goddamn period I never asked for.

And here I am bleeding, furious and ready to die.

Tell me I’m irrational.

The scars on my arms will stay.

An endless reminder of how painful this existence is.

How the only thing I’m good for is making children. My bodies only purpose for being like this.

This chest I hate, this bleeding, soaking death organs only purpose is to create life.

I don’t. Want. A baby.

The very fact my body is capable of growing a human child terrifies the hell out of me.

If I got pregnant, I would kill myself.

That’s not even something I have to debate over anymore.

Yet every month I get constant, painful reminders of

‘Hey. This is what your body is made for. Remember? This is why you’re here. This is your purpose.’

Girl means sex.

To please whoever finds them pleasing,

A girl can never just be at peace with her body and find objective beauty in it, no-

Everything about a girl is sexualized.

Her body taken advantage of and fantasized. By herself. By others.

Grown to realize and come to know herself.

I hate my body,

But others love its shape.

So I guess…

This is what I’m made for.

We don’t wear makeup just for men.

We don’t wear fancy clothes just for attractiveness.

Some of us like girls.

And a rare few of us like ourselves.

Girl means impossible.

It’s impossible to be taken seriously.

To feel serious.

My entire existence is irrational, my anger right now will fade and not matter,

my entire life there will be those who will not take me seriously.

I don’t take myself seriously nearly as often as I should.

I’m an idiot. Because I’m a girl.

I’m a victim. Because I’m a girl.

Why do I still think like this-

Why do I still wish I was boy-

Because I’m not pretty, I’m disgusting.

And frankly I don’t care anymore.

My hair is a mess, my body is bruised, scarred and fragile.

My chest is ugly, my stomach is large, my stretch marks climb my body, my thighs squeeze the sides of chairs

And all I want to do is be someone else in a new body in a new life.

Because how can I find joy in my bloody, sexualized, baby-making purposeful body.

I’m too sensitive. I’m too emotional.

I’m too fucking girly.

I don’t want to compare myself to Victoria’s Secret or the other girls in the locker room.

I want to compare myself to the Roman statues in a museum. To the nude paintings from ancient times.

They found beauty in the human body. In an artistic way.

It’s not sexual. It’s not bloody. It’s not a baby machine.

It’s just beautiful.

My body can be like that.

I wish I wasn’t called a girl.

I wish I could be anything else.

In this moment, the bleeding is too much. The pain is too much.

A body part that has never felt like mine, will not let me forget it’s inside me.

Please stop.

Please leave me alone.

Please let me cry in peace.

And let it be for a purpose.

And not this irrational, emotional mess of a girl that I am.

[crazybooksandplantslady]

Contrasted with super “feminine” cheer which elderly golf playing men won’t even consider a sport, only an excuse to gawk at teenagers.

Cheerleaders have to dance well, do complex acrobatics, get thrown WAY up in the air and still maintain form, perform a stunt, and land well. AND they gotta carry whole other people their own size. The physical strength needed for the stunts, the body control, the flexibility, the stamina, the balance, the mental strength needed for the risk, the coordination, the sheer athleticism needed all while looking like the baddest bitches in the state. Wearing mini skirts in Wisconsin February and doing outdoor cardio under the July Arizona sun. A 16 years old varsity cheerleader with glitter face paint and a Jojo Siwa hair bow can annihilate a grown pro golfer in a cage fight.

Golf is an extremely effeminate game. Its a non-contact low-exertion activity played on a perfectly manicured little picnic lawn and between individual actions you sit in a dainty car and get driven to the next spot so you arent blemished by the act of walking under the sun. If elderly men ever realized this it would be cataclysmic