#smol fanfic

[myblogystuff]

Tiny cuddling partner

Papa Emeritus IV x Fem!Reader, mentions of Plushia (in an innocent toy story way)

warnings : none really, just a cute moment w/ our sweet popia.

word count : 1,026 words.

Hi ghesties, this is my first ever fanfic, i’m really glad that it’s a ghost one. i don’t know if anyone is gonna read this. I had fun writing it, honestly I giggled so much. here goes nothing.

Reader’s POV : 

I missed him, I missed my papa.

He’s been working his gorgeous ass off planning future rituals, merch and box sets.

It’s been a few weeks now since we’ve had a proper romantic moment together. Most of the time we manage to find time for a date, movie night, even if it’s just cuddles before falling asleep.

Today, he called to let me know that he could take some time to have lunch together in his office. So, this is me walking there with lunch in one hand and a box of desserts in the other.

Thank Satan the door is open when I get there, I would have knocked with my foot otherwise.

When I finally get in he is (he’s the shining and the light...sorry, not sorry) nose deep in his papers, fully focused, didn’t even hear me come in.

“Knock, knock” I say.

That makes him lift his head and smiled at me.

“Hello my love, I’ll be yours in just a moment” he said and gestured me to sit on the couch near the fire.

Then he went right back to finishing his task. I decided to take that time to unpack lunch.

After a while he finally joined me, put his hand on one of mine, I smile at him, he gently kisses my forehead.

I was melting at his touch. I instinctively hug him and nuzzle deeper in his neck leaving a couple of innocent kisses there. He hummed quietly and started rubbing my back.  He pulls back looking me in the eyes.

“Thank you for lunch, amore, I’ve been looking forward to it, I miss spending time with you” he says kissing my hand.

“I miss you too, papa” I kiss him on the cheek and he hums again.

“I am really sorry, I’m trying to do a good job with this album, I want everything to be perfect”.

“You are, you’re doing amazing. Now let’s eat”.

“Yess, I am starving, I’ve been living on sandwiches and juice boxes for too long” that makes me realise that I’ve been busy myself; too busy to make sure he doesn’t miss his meals. That ought to change.

“Don’t worry your wifey is here to make sure you eat healthy, or not so much since I brought desserts” pointing at the box.

“I swear to Satan, you’re a fallen angel!” he says before starting to eat, and I do the same.

“How’s your day so far” he asks, mouth full.

“A bit slow”

“You sleep well?”

“Yeah, I got me a new tiny cuddling partner” I say with a smile, thinking of that plush version of my hubby that one of the ghouls gave me when coming back from tour once, they said a fan threw it at them.

“You do? Well...um...” Copia chokes on his food. Not knowing what to say or what to think he just kept eating.

After we finished our lunch and had our desserts, I noticed his eyes darting to his desk, probably time to get back to work.

“We should do this more often, papa. I enjoyed it.” I say while cleaning the small table. He nodded. “You should get back before sister imperator scolds me for distracting you“I say with a hint of seriousness. That woman is gonna work him to death.

“hahaa, yes I should, thanks again, my precious” he goes back to his place behind his desk and picks up where he left off.

Before leaving, I went over to him, put my hand on his shoulder to get his attention, then leaning to him, I give him a soft yet firm kiss. Then I’m gone.

3rd person POV :

Papa Emeritus IV had a hard time focusing for the rest of the day. Thoughts clouded his mind: who the fuck was cuddling his wife at night?

He never saw anybody when going to bed at night -then again he was so exhausted.

Maybe they leave before he gets there?

She said tiny...Sodo!? Noooo way!

I was so consumed by work that I made her seek comfort elsewhere.

“Stop that” he says to himself, “get back to work”.

Usually, at night he spends extra hours working and planning tomorrow’s work, but today all that thinking made him want to get off work a bit early to give his lady the cuddling they both missed.

Once he arrived, he opened the door extra quietly and got in, walking on his tippy toes, trying to summon the ninja in him.

Poking his head through the doorframe, he saw his lady’s back was turned to him, the lights were off except for the one on his bedside –she always leaves that one on for him.

He rounds the bed, and what he sees leaves him speechless.

In his beloved wife’s arms a tiny, ugly he thought, plush that looked like him in his cardinal days.

“You!” he whisper-yells at it.

As if possessed the plush slowly turned its head and winked at him.

Eyebrows to the sky, mouth open, Copia didn’t know if what he saw was real or if he was hallucinating. Pointing at it, he said : “I am not having no Annabelle near my precious wife”.

Reader’s POV :

 I woke to papa taking Plushia from my arms and putting it on one of the top shelves where he keeps his boring (his words not mine) books.

“Papa, what are you doing? Are you back from work already?” I ask confused.

“Don’t worry amore. I’m all yours in a moment” and with that he picked some comfy clothes and got ready for bed.

“hi” he says getting under the covers and positioning himself in the middle, he takes me in his arms and I instinctively rest my head on his chest. “That’s better, no?”.

“Yes it is, I have to say that even though I enjoyed having Plushia with me, I definitely prefer the original”. That earns me a confused look.

“What did you call that thing? You know what, nevermind, I’m here now” he tilts my head so I’m looking at him”I love you”.

“And I love you, Copia”.

[biggirlscantcry]

can’t stop thinking about my smol son <3

[smolwriter]

sometimes I go THE FANFIC THE FANFIC THE FANFIC

but then I remember

there is no fanfic

because I wrote it all in my head and haven’t even made a single word of THE FANFIC

[viperify]

AU | ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𖤝 bite marks.

Vampire!Tom, who messily drinks from your thighs until you’re on the verge of passing out—just to reward you with the most mind-blowing, toe-curling orgasm you’ve ever had.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

warnings: 18+, blood kink, biting, marking, oral f!receiving, fingering, slight dub con ig, vampire tommy who can’t get enough of ur soft thighs ;)

Tom is very serious about taking his time with his favourite meal—you.

Fangs lazily dragging over your already hypersensitive skin, drawing weak whimpers and whines from your bruised lips.

Bite marks here, bite marks there—you are certain both of your thighs are fucking covered in them. Small drops of blood trickle onto your once white bed sheets, staining them a crimson color—your beautiful, expensive satin bedsheets you spent a fortune on—and yet, the dizzying effect of his bite keeps you from complaining.

“Tom— no more, please, can’t— can’t take it,” you breathe shakily, palm half-heartedly trying to push him away.

But you aren’t there yet, and he knows it. He knows you can give him more, you can take more.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart.” He purrs, voice still thick with the same hunger as when you just started—and it’s then that you know you are in for a long night.

And so, he finds a spot that he hasn’t tried, hasn’t bitten.

Although they are getting rare.

A single tear falls down your cheek as his sharp teeth sink into your flesh once more, groaning as he tastes the coppery flavour of your sweet, sweet blood—his favourite.

Fingertips digging into your thigh, pinning it to the soft mattress beneath you as though you were his last meal—greedy gulps filling the air, tongue lapping over the fresh wound.

And you can do nothing but take it.

When he finally withdraws—blood staining his lips and chin crimson—his eyes meet yours.

Scarlet eyes, burning through the darkness of the room. You look back with half-lidded eyes, ears ringing, fingertips tingling, dizzy because of how much blood he’s taken from you. Your eyes blink slowly, vision blurry, almost too blurry to notice the satisfied smirk plastered on his face.

“Did so well for me,” he drawls, moving to lean over you—without ever breaking eye contact.

His lips brush against yours in a tender kiss, the metallic taste of your own blood flooding your senses as soon as his skin touches yours. And what he does to you—whether it’s a side effect of his many, many bites, or the sweet sting caused by them—you cannot deny the aching feeling building in your lower stomach.

Legilimens, vampire— you should know better than to think he isn’t aware. Almost ready to drift off to sleep, you don’t immediately notice him between your legs again. Tom offers a raspy hum against your thigh when he feels the wet patch on your panties, gently swiping over it with his thumb—and suddenly, reality crashes down onto you.

A soft mewl leaves your lips, instinctively pressing your thighs together—only for Tom to spread them further apart.

“Look at you, all needy for me.” He purrs, pushing your lace panties to the side, revealing your glistening cunt to his hungry eyes, flickering briefly. “You have done so well. Now let me give you something back, hm?”

A soft nod from your side is all it takes before his tongue delves between your folds, groaning as he tastes your arousal—a deep, low sound you usually only get to hear whenever he’s greedily gulping down your blood.

His hands are firmly wrapped around your thighs, keeping you all spread open for him while he takes his time with you.

No haste.

As if you haven’t already lain sprawled out in front of him for what must be hours.

When his lips finally wrap around your puffy clit, two of his fingers slipping inside of you, stretching you perfectly, curling just right—you feel like you might actually not fucking survive this.

Your hips involuntarily buck against his face, telling him even without words you need more, need to come.

“Greedy girl. Come on, do it. Break for me.”

Tom knows what you like, what you need. Pointy teeth gently brushing over your clit, fingers pressing against your most sensitive spot with each deep, rough thrust.

And then you do break.

Orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching down tight around his digits. All the pent-up pressure releases at once, and for a moment you swear you see stars.

Even with your thighs shaking, broken moans spilling from your lips, he doesn’t stop—drawing out your high for as long as he can. It’s as though he enjoys this as much as you do.

Fuck, he probably does. At his complete mercy.

“That’s it— good girl.”

Only when you whimper in overstimulation does he slow down and finally sit back.

Looking at the mess he’s made of you.

Covered in his bite marks, blood mixing with the leaked arousal on your thighs, chest heaving as you lay boneless on the soft mattress—entirely spent.

“You are art like this, darling. My very own canvas—all for me, forever.”

He takes care of your wounds, cleans the dried blood on your thighs and the sheets, wiping a strand of hair from your face before he places a kiss on your forehead, finally laying down beside you.

“Forever, Tom.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | AUs.

©2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

[tianshanb]

A head canon of mine that baby damian was ALLOWED to be a baby. Just with extra assassin trianing.

Like you know those parents that start their kids on sports, or languages, or instruments as babies etc. Talia just started him on assassin training early. But he's just a baby

Cue dmaian walking into training with a pacifier and clutching a blanket.

Just imagine damian with a tiny wooden sword copying the moves of his instructor. Once it's break time, he toddles to the other corner of the room where he plops down on a bunch of pillows and blankets waiting for him, and most importantly, his bottle. Training is tiring he needs a drink 😤

He may also take a nap mid lesson cz he's just a babyyyyy. He brings his favorite plushie to "watch him" when he train. Instead of playing house he plays secret assassin mission with the toys.

As he grows older. 4 to 6 years old. The pacifier is gone by then, and he no longer brings his toys. The new instructor seeing this mature soul in a child body confidently walking up to you with their nose turned up... the illusion is shattered when they open their mouth and half their teeth are missing. Then, mid trianing damian take a drink from their sippy cup thats batman themed (it was a gift from his mama from her latest mission).

Yep just a child.

7 years old is when his training gets super hard. That's the age where your viewed as starting to mature.

I imagine at this age where Ra's is like finally he's old enough to start his real trianing, and Talia is no longer the one responsible for him. This continues to increase in difficulty until he's 9. And shaped off to batfam.

But hoenstly:

Sword trianing?? Imagine this aggressive toddler swinging this sword around. A thing about babies is they LOVEEE swinging shit around, hitting things, throwing things. So training would BE fun.

Eventually he'd had to learn how to break his fall, how to get tackled, etc. Dmaian just sees it as a game and it makes him giggled. KIDS enjoy being tossed around. Like roughhousing is a thing for a reason, the same reason why people throw babies in the air when they play with them.

When he goes to the batfamily. He's just a random 9 year old. One thing about why I can never take the little guy seriously is no matter how intimidating and scary you wbat to seem... your voice will still be that of a child. Another hc is when he's angry he gets on his tippy toes cz he's soo tinyyy. I imagine an argument geting super heated and finally dmaian doing on his toes and suddenly whoever he's arguing with can't take his seriously cz he smol, like this big 👌, and missing some teeth. He has a bed time and can't watch horror movies, like seriously are u arguing with him?

Another thing is Talia had limited screen time and access to devices and technology. She also had parent control on every device. Bruce just does not have that. Dmaian is going to Bruce, and being excited, he's old enough to use a device without parental supervision, or the parent app is so excited that he's seen as a grown-up! (In reality, Bruce just firgot. He never had kids this young with smartphones existing). He's bragging to tim about it one day when bruce overheard, and he's like, hold up a minute.

Extra:

This idea came to me once my friend told me about a student she has. Me and her are tutors and she tutors math. At her centre, there is no specific grade, everyone just advances through the levels as long as they pass the previous level.

In her group, there is this 2 year old toddler who's parents put in tutoring since he was 18 months old. This baby is dropped of by his parents, walking in with a pacifier in his mouth with the clip on to shirt thing. Sometimes in his pj's and sometimes clutching his 'blankie'.

This little dude does advanced algebra. That's right HIGHCHOOL LEVEL ALGEBRA.

He's barely toilet trained 😭 and he asked for help to go to the bathroom, his grip on the pencil is shaky, he still baby talks... but I bet he's better than u at maths.

[kokostarbits]

💜✨🌙🫧-------🫧🌙✨💜

It was quiet in the room.
For the first time all day.

The wind outside had turned sharp.
It whistled faintly through the cracks of Meta Knight’s home windows, tugging at the edges of winter.

Meta Knight sat in his chair - silent... still... a book half-open in his gloved hands.
He wasn’t reading it.

The door creaked.


Soft footsteps padded across the floor. Then—

Thud.
A pink blur scrambled onto Meta Knight's arm without a word. Shivering like a leaf in the wind.

Meta Knight blinked.
The book slipped shut in his lap.

"...Kirby?"

Kirby was already snuggling down - burying his cold little face against Meta Knight’s chest. Letting out the tiniest sweetest sigh.
His tiny hands curled in. His feet kicked once. Then he was still.

Asleep.
Just like that.

Meta Knight blinked again.

"...You’re freezing..." he muttered softly, almost to himself.

A second later - another pair of steps.

Waddle Dee stood in the doorway trembling just a little. His cheeks were red from the cold, and he had his tiny hands clutched together as he looked around for Kirby, "W-Wanya?"

Meta Knight held out one arm.

"...Come here."

Waddle Dee didn’t need to be told twice.
He scurried over and climbed up carefully - curling close to his side.

He fit perfectly into Meta Knight’s other arm.

The knight adjusted his grip, and let one gloved hand resting lightly across their tiny backs.
He shifted his cape wrapping it gently around Kirby—warm, soft, protective.

A deep quiet settled over the room.

Kirby mumbled something in his sleep - tiny hands twitching.
Waddle Dee gave the softest sigh and snuggled closer.

Meta Knight stared down at them.
Two tiny shapes.

Safe in his arms.
Their breaths warm.
Their bodies still shivering just a little from the cold, but already softening into peaceful sleep.

He could feel their trust.
He could feel their warmth.
And (somewhere deep in his chest) he could feel something else, too.

Pride.

A quiet... aching kind of pride.
Like he had been given something small and precious.
Like maybe… this is what being a father felt like.

"...You’re both... perfect..." he whispered.
His voice was low - almost fond.

Neither of them stirred.

He let his eyes fall closed for a moment, and let his arms tighten just slightly around them.

Just enough.

He would stay like this.
As long as they needed.
Longer... maybe.

Just to make sure they were warm.
Just to make sure they knew they were safe.

And maybe...
Just maybe...
Because he didn’t want to let go.

💜✨🌙🫧-------🫧🌙✨💜

(Meta Dad 💙 Baby Poyo 💙 Baby Wanya)

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

risky

Summary: The undercover mission with Javier does not go as planned. Not that you're complaining.

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem. reader

Wordcount: 588

Raiting: E

Warnings: smut (semi public sex, unprotected sex) undercover Javi with a twist, making out

A/N: This interaction has been on my mind all day so please, enjoy this smol baby drabble I might be ovulating

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Full Masterlist // Javier Peña Masterlist

„You always take your undercover work this serious, Agent Peña?�� You whispered against his ear, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth to stop the moan that you desperately wanted to hear him, deciding to moan quietly right against his ear. 

One of his arms was wrapped securely behind your back, keeping you close against his chest while his other hand was on the back of your neck, keeping your head close towards his. 

For anyone who would find you here in this dark corner of the roof terrace of this club It would look like you were making out. 

Which you were. 

More or less. 

No one would know that you had been sitting on his cock for the last fifteen minutes.

But you were and you weren’t planing on getting up any time soon. 

Or at least before he had fucked you full of his cum. 

This night had started so innocently. This time the mission was nothing more than having a drink at a bar where the criminals Javier and you had been after for almost a year were supposed to have a meeting at. When they hadn’t shown up after two hours Javier had gotten the call that they had been sighted in another town and Javi and you? Well you had decided that since you were out already, you could have a little fun. 

Fun apparently meant getting handsy with you while dancing to some salsa tunes. 

It wasn’t long before he led you outside, the hot summer day turning the night almost tropical, leaving you and him to be only a few of the people on the roof. 

Nobody spared you a glance when he led you in the darkest corner, having you sit on his lap, his hands both on your ass under the dress you had chosen to wear for the night. 

Nobody cared as he pulled at the front of you dress so he could suck one of you nipples into his mouth. 

Nobody cared when he pulled your panties to the side, two fingers slipping inside of you while you unbuckled his belt and helped him open his pants to release his cock. 

And nobody fucking cared when he had you slowly sink down on his cock out here in the open while the music from the club beneath you shook the floor and at least the four people you had seen when you got here, were somewhere on this roof with you.

„Never know who could be watching. Gotta really sell our story,“ he mumbled against your ear and you grinned, hands in his hair, tilting your head back so you could look at him. 

„And what is our story, Agent Peña?“ You asked before you found his lips in a deep kiss, rolling your hips slowly, the length of his cock making you hum against his lips. 

„That we’re newlyweds who can’t keep their hands off each other of course,“ he mumbled against your lips thrusting up into you slowly.

„Mmmmmhhhh…. Don’t think three years of marriage count as newlyweds anymore, Javier,“ you grinned down at him and you saw his jaw flex as you clenched your walls around his cock. 

„We’re still horny like newlyweds, so who the fuck cares?“ He winked. 

„And I wouldn’t risk getting caught fucking in public with anyone other than my wife,“ he kissed you again and you smiled. 

„I sure hope you wouldn’t risk getting caught with your dick in anyone else than your wife, baby. Public or not.“

[sweetchildcloud]

||MINI ME|| written by me ☆~♡~◇

Plot: Gojo being an affectionate father as he meets his baby for the first time.

Tags-Breast feeding mention,lots of cuddles,fluff,fatherly love,heartwarming,cute overload.

@muzansslxt @candy69gurl @kiwicopia

“You’re cuter” Gojo teases, but he is pleased. He likes watching you nurse Hotaru. It’s a special moment, for the both of you and your child. “He’s adorable” Satoru continues, his voice dripping with affection “but his mother… hm, far more gorgeous" Satoru laughs softly and pulls the baby in for a tight squeeze. Then, he lifts his head and stares at him once more, holding him at arm's length. The baby’s eyes are wide and bright, like stars in the sky "You have my eyes, little one. You have my eyes...and that adorable chuckle" He adds, before grinning to himself. It feels good looking at his baby. Good and strange. The whole situation was a bit surreal, in a good way, but... "I think I'm starting to understand what being a dad means"

Hatoru yawned as he wobbled scooting near his father chest and laying his head on his shoulder.

Satoru grins as he feels the weight of his son’s head resting on his shoulder. He gently caress Hotaru’s head as the baby falls asleep, and Satoru’s hand comes down to rub soft circles on his son’s back.

Hatoru yawned and he whimpered softly as he couldn't sleep continuously sifting in his dad embrace.

Satoru looks down at his son, noticing the baby’s tired, watery eyes. Immediately, he feels guilt again, realizing that his son is still adjusting to his new surroundings and hasn’t gotten used to falling asleep by himself yet. With a gentle sigh, he pulls Hotaru close to himself again, his grip tightening around the baby as a way to offer more comfort. “Shh” Satoru whispers quietly as he rocks his son “It’s okay… I’m here. I’m here….”

But that didn't help much as Hotaru whimper continued, his tiny fists clutching to his chest as he whimpers, more maybe he needed his pacifier.

Satoru’s heart twists when he hears the cries continue. He couldn’t stand seeing his son like this, with his tiny fists clutching his cheeks and his big, blue eyes so watery. Without a second thought, he pulls out a pacifier from his pocket and pops it into Hotaru’s mouth. The baby chews on the pacifier with an adorable expression, sucking on it as he does. “Better?” Satoru smiles, letting out a breath of relief.

Satoru stares at his son for a long moment, his breath caught in his throat over how *tiny* the baby is. His tiny fists on Satoru’s chest, his chubby cheeks as they wobble with his yawns, a small smear of drool as he sucks on the pacifier—everything about the little one makes Satoru’s heart swell. The baby looks incredibly adorable right now, and Satoru can’t help but feel a little happy to see the little one so calm.

"Boop" Gojo said soflty as he booped softly Hatoru little bitty nose with the tip of his finger and the baby made a cooing noise curling up his nose.

You sighed looking at the two of them and how cute they were before you let a yawn of your own "Let's go to bed sweetie" you said tiredly at Gojo.

“In a few minutes” Satoru pouted whispering, his gaze still on his son. “Just…” The baby’s sleepy eyes are adorable, and he can’t help but feel affectionate seeing them in this state. “Just let me cherish this moment, please?”

"Oh my god you're so adorable, you're not having a baby fever now are you?" You asked smirking looking at him.

“Maybe a little...” Satoru smiles, not denying it. The entire situation with them becoming parents was a bit overwhelming, but... it was so worth it. He loves it here, with his son in his arms, smiling at him just as he is. “You’re not jealous are you? And “If you mean ‘is seeing my baby like this making me feel all kinds of feels’? Yes” he answers, feeling a bit sheepish “And if it’s not baby fever, then… I don’t even know what to call it. Just watching him sleep makes me smile for some reason”

He paused before adding

“Is that weird?” He asks, still admiring Hotaru’s sleeping form. “I just feel…” A strange feeling of warmth erupted throughout his body. Love, maybe? “I feel content”

"No,not at all,it just means that you love your son and I feel the same" you said caressing softly the baby cheek as he sleeps

The warm sensation spreads through Gojo’s chest as he stares down at his son. Hatoru is so small and innocent that he makes Gojo want to cover him in kisses and hugs. He never imagined being a father would make him feel like this. Love and affection, sure, but this… this is a whole new world of emotions that he’s never experienced before. “It’s a nice feeling” he murmurs. “A very nice feeling”

“We should get to bed now, right?” He asks, still watching his son’s sleeping face, then looking over to you. He doesn’t want to miss this moment, but he also doesn’t want you to exhaust yourself.

"You can bring the baby in our bed so that we can sleep together"

Satoru looks down at Hotaru at your suggestion and his heart flutters. Yes. He wants that. He wants that very, *very* much. The two of you could sleep in bed with the baby together. Hold him close as he sleeps. It would be the most content moment of his life. Satoru swallows, trying to keep himself from smiling like an idiot. “That’s a great idea”

Satoru nods and gets up, taking his son in his arms once more. The baby is *so* light. So delicate. So cute. He chuckles as he follows you up the stairs, and walks into the bedroom. Your bed is large enough for a king, and it doesn’t take you long to climb into bed and pull Hotaru with each of you at either side. “We’re a family” Satoru whispers, his voice nearly breaking. “We’re a family now”

"Are you crying?" You asked giggling softly at your husband antics.

Satoru gives you a sheepish smile. It’s true, he has tears in his eyes. Not tears of sadness, but tears of pure joy. “Am I crying?” he chuckles softly, wiping his eyes. “Maybe just a little. This—” he gestures to their family in bed “—it’s just so beautiful… so precious…” “We created this…” He continues. “Me and you, together, we created this perfect thing” Satoru smiles again, his voice cracking with emotion as he stares down at his son. “There’s nothing better in the world than this”

“You’re a sentimental idiot” you giggled and rolled your eyes amusedly, but you didn't object when Satoru sweeps you up in a warm embrace and pulls you close to hug you. You’re a family now. Hotaru is yours, and together, you are more than you’ve ever been.

Bonus:

Satoru laughs softly, pressing his face against you “I’m a sentimental idiot” He agrees, smiling against your cheek. “But my God, I don’t think there’s anything in the world that can make me so happy right now. You and our baby…” He trails off as he continues to embrace you contented and completely at ease as you both slowly drift off to sleep.

♤♡◇♧☆♤♡◇♧☆♤♡◇♧☆♤♡◇♧☆♤

Me thinking about this:

☆Happy,happy,happy~☆

[mapsthewanderer]

Plated II

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 6400ish words. The Bear AU goes harem drama, non MC reader! The slowburn has officially come to an end—world-building complete, and we’re diving in. This chapter includes: fluff, stress, banter, Raf being the most theatrical man alive, Caleb wrecking hearts (with zero remorse?), Zayne and Caleb drama and Sylus casually power-playing both you and his entire staff. Xav is a star. Definitely 18+ adult stuff, heavy kissing incoming. Brace yourself for the next chapter. It only gets wilder lol.

Tags: @gavin3469 @animegamerfox

Chapters: Pilot, chapter one, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five

Needs blood | Chapter two

You drag yourself upright, groggy, heart thudding in your chest. The wine. Too much. Not too much. Just enough to keep you dreaming about leadership and pressure and the words—“I brought you here to lead.”

You groan. Shuffle to the door in nothing but an oversized black T-shirt that hangs low on your thighs, sleeves falling past your elbows.

You unlock it.

There he is.

Caleb. Sweaty from his run, hoodie slung around his neck, shirt clinging in all the wrong places. One hand holding his phone, the other clutching a folded paper.

His mouth is already open to speak—then he stops.

Eyes lower.

Linger.

And narrow.

“…Is that my shirt?”

You blink. “…What?”

He tilts his head, slow and dangerous.

“That’s my shirt.”

You look down at the fabric. The worn collar. The faint, nearly invisible oil stain by the hem.

Oh.

“Caleb—”

“Nope.” He leans against the doorframe. “You made me run three extra blocks because I thought something was wrong. Turns out you were just wine-wrecked and wearing the softest shirt known to mankind.”

He exhales like it’s physically paining him not to laugh. “You never gave it back.”

Then, quieter—“After the egg incident. When Xavier set off that ridiculous steam trap and you walked out looking like a soufflé.”

Your face warms. “It was clean.”

“Barely,” he mutters. Then his smile turns sharp, warm. “But I missed that shirt.”

A pause. “Turns out, you wear it better anyway.”

You fold your arms. Regret every second of opening this door.

He grins like he just won a bet he didn’t need to place.

“Anyways. Good morning, chef.”

He holds up the folded paper like a trophy.

“Now let’s read how close we came to greatness.”

His eyes sweep you once—hair damp, bare legs, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

“You’re free to read it like that, by the way.”

A beat.

“But I can’t be held responsible for where that leads.”

You give him a look. You consider it.

Yet ten minutes later—you’ve changed.

The shirt’s replaced with something less compromising. Your hands are warm around the coffee mug as you lean against the counter, watching him pace across your kitchen, the review unfolded in his hands like it’s a classified document.

Caleb’s still flushed from his run, the hoodie now tossed over a nearby chair. His hair’s a little wild, sweat-damp at the temples. The paper flutters slightly with every motion of his hands.

“Here we go,” he mutters. “Opening line: ‘Plated is not for the faint of appetite.’”

He glances up at you. “Good start or warning?”

You sip. “Depends on the appetite.”

“Next: ‘From the first pour to the final plate, there’s an intensity to the place—one that feels deliberate.’”

A pause. He looks over the rim of the page.

“That’s Sylus. That’s totally Sylus—”

You move to pour Caleb’s mug.

He pauses mid-sentence. “Apple juice in mine. If you have some, that is.”

You stop. Turn. “…What?”

He doesn’t look up. “Try it. Trust me.”

You stare. Then shrug. And do it.

Only in his.

He takes a sip without flinching.

“Right. Raf. Here we go.” He clears his throat like it’s the main event.

“‘The dessert—a burnt citrus caramel with a blood orange shell—was nothing short of devastating. There’s flair, yes, but beneath it: precision. Rage, even. Like sweetness offered as defiance.’”

You blink. “Wow.”

Caleb grins. “I know. I think he’s going to print this and frame it.”

You lean back against the counter, refilling your mug. Caleb swirls his like he’s tasting notes of chaos and poor judgment.

“You seriously drink it like that?”

He shrugs. “It keeps me awake and concerned. Two essential states of mind.”

You snort softly.

He glances back at the paper. “Okay—next up. Timing.”

He reads: “There is one dish that arrives not just on time, but at the exact second it’s needed. Plated with such clean intention it feels sterile—but never cold. There’s something almost unnerving about that kind of precision. It cuts through the meal like a scalpel.”

He lowers the paper, smirking.

“Gee. Wonder who that could be.”

You’re already unlocking your phone.

“We’re calling him.”

He grins. “Put him on speaker.”

You tap the screen and hand your phone to Caleb. Zayne’s voice answers on the third tone. Flat. Alert. Not even groggy.

“What?”

“Morning, sunshine,” Caleb says, already smug. “You made the review.”

A beat.

“…Didn’t read it.”

You glance at each other.

“We figured,” you say. “Want the highlight?”

A pause. The faint sound of a door closing on Zayne’s end.

“Go on.”

Caleb clears his throat dramatically. “Sterile but never cold. Plated with clean intention. Unnerving precision. Cuts like a scalpel.” He lowers the page with a grin audible in his voice. “You’re officially terrifying.”

Zayne doesn’t respond immediately. Then:

“…They didn’t hate it?”

You smile.

“They didn’t hate it.”

Another pause. Then, just faintly:

“…Good.”

You can hear him sip something on the other end. Not black coffee, as you’d might expect—something sweeter. Probably laced with vanilla syrup and quiet shame.

“And the rest?” Zayne asks.

Caleb flips the page with the same energy as someone unwrapping something dangerous.

“Raf stole the entire back half. The dessert paragraph’s basically poetry.”

You chime in: “He made citrus sound like a battle cry.”

Zayne huffs—almost a laugh. “He’ll be impossible now.”

“Correct,” Caleb says. “Which is why we’re letting him sleep until noon.”

Zayne sighs.

“Call me if there’s real news.”

Click.

Caleb sets your phone down and exhales through his nose, still grinning.

“He’s pleased. That was Zayne’s version of fireworks.”

You sip your coffee again. Still too hot.

Caleb lifts the paper like a curtain.

“Let’s finish it, Hotshot.”

And you nod. Because whatever it says next, you’re ready to burn through it. Caleb flips to the last page like it might bite him. You watch him skim, eyes flicking across the text.

“No mention of Xavier yet,” you murmur, leaning over slightly. “Unless he snuck in under ‘atmosphere.’”

“Probably filed under mysterious ambient presence,” Caleb says, deadpan. “Or ‘sleeping garnish spirit.’”

You snort into your mug.

Then he pauses.

“Ah. Here’s Sylus.”

“Owner Sylus made a rare appearance at the front of house, offering the opening pour himself. The selection—a champagne from Montagne de Reims—was elegant and disarming. It’s a clever tactic: to control the mood before the food. A performance before the curtain rises.”

He glances up. “Disarming, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “He probably whispered the grape’s lineage like it was a war poem.”

“There’s no point calling him,” Caleb mutters, folding the paper. “He’s probably slumbering in velvet sheets inside a climate-controlled wine vault. Do not disturb until sundown.”

“Or unless we break a glass.”

He gives you a look. “God help us if we chip a decanter.”

The laughter fades, soft around the edges, and the quiet settles again.

Caleb taps the page.

“Here it is. Final line.”

His voice evens out. He doesn’t smile this time.

“Once a rising star in a kitchen that burned too hot, too fast—Caleb is the phoenix, if he’s willing to rise. But this time, he doesn’t fly alone. He has a brigade built sharper, steadier—and an anchor that holds the line when the flames grow high.”

He doesn’t look at you yet. Just breathes out through his nose.

Then: “There is fire in this kitchen. Not always contained. Not always kind. But fire nonetheless. I’ve seen stars born in less.”

He lowers the paper.

Your heart taps once, sharp and clear.

Neither of you says anything for a second.

Then—Caleb tilts his head slightly, watching you.

His voice drops just a little.

“They saw you.”

You meet his eyes.

“Did they?”

He holds the silence for one breath. Two.

Then—

“Yeah. They did.”

You nod, quietly. Sip your coffee. You’re still standing.

“An anchor…” he says quietly.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not teasing. Not assessing. Just there.

And then he’s moving.

No warning.

He closes the space between you in two easy steps, arms looping around you, strong and steady and suddenly everything.

He pulls you close and holds on tight—tighter than you expect. The only thing between you is your hand curled around the warm mug, pressed to your chest like a fragile secret. Caleb doesn’t try to move it. Doesn’t try to move you. His warmth seeps in—quiet and steady—melting through places you didn’t realize had gone cold.

You blink. Once. Then again.

You don’t remember the last time you were held like this.

His breath is right above your ear when he says it:

“I’m so proud of you.”

Quiet. Firm. No smirk. No show.

He doesn’t let go right away.

And when he does, his hands linger a second longer than they need to—sliding away like he’s reluctant to leave that warmth behind.

He clears his throat. “We should meet the others.”

You nod, blinking again.

He tosses the paper onto the counter, then grabs his hoodie. Halfway to the door, he calls over his shoulder: “Text them. I’ll see you there.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

You’re left standing in the quiet.

The review still sitting on the counter.

And the warmth of his arms still stitched into your spine.

You reach for your phone.

It’s time to bring the brigade back together.

————————————-——————————————

The beach isn’t warm.

It’s cold in the kind of way that seeps into your sleeves and catches behind your collar. Gray sky, damp air, sand still dark from the night before. But the sea keeps moving—and so do you.

The brigade shows up anyway.

Zayne is already there. Coat long and dark, collar up against the wind. He doesn’t look like he planned to arrive first—but he’s perched on a driftwood log with a cup of something warm in his hands and a quiet watchfulness in his expression. When you approach, he doesn’t look surprised.

“They forced me,” he says, before you can ask. He doesn’t move.

But he stays.

Xavier follows quietly, hoodie under jacket, bringing something that might be homemade trail mix. Or birdseed. He offers it to everyone with sleepy eyes and no explanation.

Caleb arrives last of the inner circle, paper bag under one arm, a scarf around his neck like he walked out of a black-and-white film. He doesn’t speak right away—just looks at you, lips tugging into that quiet, lopsided smile that feels like it belongs to only you.

But the real center of gravity?

Rafayel.

Already there.

Already theatrical.

He’s splayed across a massive velvet blanket like it’s a chaise lounge in Paris. His coat is long and ridiculous—somewhere between oil-slick and plum. A scarf is tied over his hair like he’s mourning a poet. His sunglasses are far too glamorous for the weather.

As you arrive, he throws out his arms like he’s receiving communion.

“Dear chefs,” he croons, “the muse demands tribute.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “You mean pastries?”

“I mean praise,” Raf says, standing with a flare of fabric. “But fine. I’ll accept baked goods.”

“You said half an hour,” Zayne mutters. “We’re going on one.”

“The sun demanded more of me,” Raf sighs. “And the wind tried to negotiate, but I do not haggle with weather.”

You sit beside him. He lets you. Leans into your shoulder, not for warmth—just because he can.

“You did it,” you say.

He hums, light and airy. But quieter than before. “We did.”

Then—

He exhales. The sunglasses come off. His eyes catch in the gray light—pinkish blue, squinting against the wind.

“They called it devastating,” he says softly. Then with more flair: “Do you know how deeply I want that carved on my grave?”

You laugh. But his voice dips again, just enough: “What if I can’t do it again?”

You turn to look at him. His jaw is set, lips pulled tight at the corners like he’s daring you to call him dramatic. But the edge in his voice is real.

You bump your shoulder against his, gentle. “Then we’ll devastate them together.”

He closes his eyes for half a second.

Then sighs. “Ugh, you’re all so sentimental when I’m vulnerable.”

From the side, Caleb calls out: “You mean when you’re honest?”

“Absolutely not,” Raf says, sitting upright. “I am never honest. I am aesthetic.”

“Is that what you call that coat?” Zayne deadpans.

“This coat,” Raf gasps, pulling it tighter, “is sharper than your principles.”

The ocean hisses behind you. The waves roll in, quiet and constant. Somewhere, gulls cry like lost kitchen timers. Xavier has wrapped himself in a blanket and is now fully horizontal on the sand.

Caleb hands you a pastry from the paper bag.

Almond. Warm. Somehow.

The wind picks up.

And then—

a car pulls up.

Far end of the lot. Quiet. Clean.

You all look up.

Sylus steps out.

Impeccable. Black coat to the knees. Gloves. Impossibly polished shoes that will never touch the sand.

He walks toward you like the wind doesn’t dare touch him. In his hand: a single bottle of deep red wine, nearly black in the shadowed light.

He stops in front of Raf.

“Chef.” No smile.

He extends the bottle with one gloved hand.

“Sangiovese. Tuscany. 2010.”

His voice like velvet dragged across crystal.

“You may celebrate now.”

Raf blinks. Then clutches the bottle like a rescued infant. “I have never felt so seen.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “Try not to pair it with anything pedestrian, chef.”

Zayne mumbles, “That’s a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.”

“No,” Sylus replies. “It’s a warning.”

He casts a glance over the group—his eyes catching yours last.

A nod. Just once. And he’s gone. Back to the car. Back to mystery. Coat snapping in the wind like punctuation.

You all sit in the pause he left behind.

Raf stares at the bottle like it might sing to him.

“I’m not opening it today,” he says solemnly. “It needs to be dramatic. Maybe lightning. Or sabotage. Or an affair.”

Caleb tosses him a corkscrew anyway.

——————————————————————————

By the end of the week…

——————————————————————————

The morning is heavy with silver light. The kind of light that feels quiet, even when the city isn’t.

You’re first through the door. The air inside is clean but cold—citrus, steel, and something just beneath: anticipation.

The pass is dark. The hoods silent.

You click the lights on one by one.

The kitchen inhales.

Then—

The door swings open. Caleb strides in, not rushed, but moving like he already knows how the day will end.

He’s on the phone, sleeves pushed up, jaw tight.

“He doesn’t touch the line unless I say so.”

A pause. He listens. Doesn’t blink.

“You want fireworks, call a show. I’m running a kitchen.”

He ends the call with one finger and a practiced exhale.

His eyes find yours instantly.

“Special menu. One-night only.”

You glance toward the prep list. “Sylus?”

“Who else.” He tosses a sheet of paper onto the counter. You catch it before it slides off.

——————————————————————————

Fire & Smoke

A post-review tribute.

— Featuring the Ravaging Dessert by Chef Rafayel.

——————————————————————————

You raise a brow. “He called it a tribute?”

“He called it marketing.”

He crosses to the whiteboard and picks up a marker. His handwriting is precise, like everything else he does when he’s trying not to think too hard.

“Sylus built the menu himself. Seven courses locked. Only thing left is the plat principal.”

You pause. “Why?”

Caleb’s voice dips—dry, exact.

“Because he wants a spectacle.”

By the time Raf arrives, the air’s already changed.

He doesn’t walk in—he sweeps, trailing fabric like storm clouds and attitude. His coat is somewhere between baroque upholstery and avant-garde rebellion, and his scarf is wrapped high, pinned with something that sparkles like a stolen heirloom.

He stops dead in the doorway, clutching a canvas bag to his chest as if shielding from a world that doesn’t deserve him.

“This,” he declares to no one in particular, “is a gross misuse of my creative superiority.”

He strides to his station, unspooling a tangled mess of herbs like he’s unrolling ancient scrolls.

“I was meant for galleries. For tragic love affairs involving painters with cheekbones sharp enough to cut fruit—not price-fixed menus orchestrated by capitalist vampires.”

From the far doorway, a voice like honey stirred through smoke:

“And yet you’re sold out.”

Sylus.

Holding an espresso cup so small it’s practically mocking the concept of caffeine. He doesn’t enter. He arrives. His coat is black, his gaze amused, his smirk painted with patience and profit.

“Full house,” he says. “People are calling it the aftermath menu.”

“You’re making money off my devastation,” Raf mutters.

“As any wise man would.” Sylus sips, unbothered. “Yet… We’re missing a centerpiece.”

He lays the printed menu down on the counter like a playing card. “Dessert’s already infamous. The rest? Solid. Professional.”

His crimson eyes flick toward Caleb.

“But this menu doesn’t just need polish.”

A slow smile.

“It needs blood.”

The room tightens. Even the steam from the stovetop seems to pause.

Caleb straightens from where he’s been overseeing prep. His ash-brown hair is pushed back from his forehead, damp at the temples. His arms are bare to the elbows, tension rolling beneath pale skin. Violet eyes cut toward Sylus like a warning dressed in steel.

“I’ve already approved the main dish.”

“You’ve approved it.” Sylus lifts one eyebrow, smooth and slow. “I haven’t.”

The kitchen door swings open again—clean, silent.

Zayne steps in, already rolling his sleeves up. His black hair is slightly tousled like he walked here fast, eyes sharp behind silver-framed glasses.

“Apologies,” he says calmly, setting his bag down and heading to the sink to wash his hands. “I got Sylus’ text.”

Caleb doesn’t look up from the prep table—just lifts his eyes for one beat.

Zayne meets the gaze.

No words. Just the slight nod between two men who know exactly what’s about to hit them.

Sylus.

Whatever this night is—it’s not going to be quiet.

Zayne dries his hands. Picks up his cleaver. And sets it on the board with a soft, purposeful clack. He rolls his shoulders once—discreet, economical—and brushes his black bangs from his eyes. His sharp green gaze slides toward Caleb.

Stillness.

Then, Sylus steps closer. “Two chefs. One dish. One claim to the plat principal.”

A hush falls so complete you can hear the low hum of the lights above.

Zayne’s tone is colder—cut from stone. He speaks without pause, without emotion:

“I’ll cook.”

Caleb doesn’t flinch. He stares Sylus down, jaw tight, the corner of his mouth lifting—not in a smile. Something hungrier. His voice drops:

“I’ll win, boss.”

——————————————————————————

Stations cleared.

Rules announced.

Sylus sets the stage with precision. “Monkfish. Forty-five minutes. Use anything in the pantry. No help.”

Raf practically floats to the pass, coat flaring like a cape. He drapes himself dramatically across the edge, hands clasped. “Ladies. Gentlemen. And lovers of all things seared—welcome to what will surely be remembered as the Reduction of Egos.”

And then—

A voice from nowhere.

“The line’s about to split.”

You spin.

Xavier is just there, leaning against the walk-in, a towel tossed over one shoulder, a single sprig of rosemary hanging from his fingers like a cigarette.

Raf jumps half a step. “Jesus—how long have you been there?”

Xavier blinks slowly. “Since Zayne came in.”

You and Raf share a look—equal parts impressed and unsettled. Xavier shrugs. “Thought it’d be rude to interrupt the pre-battle tension.”

Then he wanders off toward the dish sink like nothing’s about to explode.

Your eyes flick back to the line. Your pulse ticks louder. The clock starts.

Caleb moves first.

Fast. Fluid. The flame obeys him like it remembers his touch.

He fillets the monkfish in three clean motions, the knife kissing the flesh like he’s danced this step before. His hands are confident—the hands of someone who’s held a brigade together with nothing but command and heat. Oil in the pan. Fennel hits the board. Wine reduced to memory.

He doesn’t talk.

He commands the silence.

Zayne doesn’t rush.

He’s deliberate. Precise. He salts like he’s measuring atoms. The monkfish is scored like calligraphy, the skin seared under a weighted press. Hazel green eyes flick only to the clock—never to Caleb. Black hair strands falls once over his brow. He doesn’t push it back. He just keeps going.

His plate forms like a thesis. Every color chosen. Every sauce exact.

Raf, voice hushed like an announcer in a cathedral: “Caleb’s building something from instinct. From pressure. From fire. Zayne’s plating the thing Caleb feels—but he’s doing it cleaner.”

Xavier, eyes tracking both without blinking: “It’s not speed. It’s control. Caleb’s cooking like the world’s ending. Zayne’s cooking like it already did.”

The moment the bell sounds, both dishes land. Caleb and Zayne each call “hands,” almost in unison— reflexive, controlled, voices even.

A trained instinct. Like stopping themselves from yelling in a room that still echoes with ghosts, even during a cook-off held behind closed doors.

The heat still curls off the sauce. Both plates gleam under the hood light—one elegant chaos, one immaculate control.

Sylus steps forward.

He picks up a fork. Tastes Zayne’s first.

His expression doesn’t change.

Then—Caleb’s.

A longer pause. He chews, closes his eyes.

The kind of silence that feels like it might swallow the room whole.

Then—

He turns to you.

Red eyes unreadable.

“Chef.”

Your throat tightens.

You taste both.

Zayne’s is stunning. Exact. Cold beauty.

Caleb’s is heat, weight, memory.

But only one dish is leading.

You point to Zayne’s.

The kitchen freezes.

You don’t justify. You don’t explain.

Caleb’s jaw flexes. Just once.

His violet gaze drops to the steel. Then back up, like he’s locking himself down—before the burn escapes.

He doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t move.

And Sylus—voice smooth as ever, soft enough to gut:

“Well then.”

A beat.

“Starboy’s lost his shine.”

It hits.

Raf actually gasps.

Xavier’s eyes widen, blue under the glow like water catching lightning.

Even Zayne’s fingers curl once around the edge of the counter—just once.

Caleb doesn’t speak.

But he takes off his apron.

Folds it. Sets it down.

The slow turn of his heel is louder than anything else in the room.

He walks.

Through the line.

Past the pass.

Out the door.

Gone.

The kitchen doesn’t move.

Not at first.

The silence settles like dust, soft and heavy, hanging in the steam-warmed air.

Then Raf—stunned, breath caught somewhere between awe and heartbreak—whispers: “I’ve never wanted to faint and write poetry at the same time until this moment.”

And from across the line, Xavier’s voice comes quieter still—steady, strange, unshakably certain: “Stars don’t die.” A pause, almost reverent. “They collapse. Quietly.” Another breath. “And the gravity stays.”

——————————————————————————

The service is tight. Fast.

Caleb doesn’t bark. He barely speaks.

Orders come clipped, clean, just enough to keep the machine moving.

He doesn’t pace the line. Eyes everywhere. Hands silent. He doesn’t look at the pass like a battlefield anymore. He just holds it.

And the brigade?

They follow like it’s instinct. Like they were built for this exact weight.

Raf’s dessert hits the pass like a closing aria—bitter citrus, burnt sugar, the echo of rage folded into grace. The plates come back empty. One by one. Gleaming.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. His timing is surgical. His knives don’t hesitate. He doesn’t look up—but he hears everything. Every motion. Every breath.

Xavier? He doesn’t walk. He glides.

A shadow behind the line, exactly where he needs to be before anyone says a word. He replaces towels. Catches a falling ladle mid-air. Adjusts garnish like it’s wind-blown. He moves like time bends for him. Like he already lived this service, and came back just to make it smoother.

The pass pulses with momentum.

No one talks.

They don’t have to.

Because Caleb’s still burning.

Just lower.

Just closer.

Barely contained.

And when the last plate clears—

When the final note has rung and the kitchen exhales—

You slip out the back door. Let the cool alley air wrap around your skin like steel-washed silk.

Xavier’s already there.

A blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak. He’s holding a mug of tea that’s still steaming, though it’s hard to say if he’s drunk any. His blond bangs fall lazily over his eyes—bright, pale blue beneath. He looks like a dream with a spine.

As you step out into the cool air, he shifts—just slightly. Without looking at you, he lifts one side of the blanket.

An invitation. Silent. Effortless.

You don’t hesitate. You step in close, and he lets the blanket fall around your shoulders too. The warmth is soft and instant, but the quiet companionship is even warmer. He doesn’t look at you. Just says:

“You know what I noticed?”

You wait.

“They didn’t even talk about the food.” A pause. He swirls his tea without looking down. “It wasn’t about cooking. It was about who was left.”

You breathe out, watching your own steam mingle with his.

Xavier shifts slightly, the blanket bunching around his elbows. He glances toward you now—his eyes catch the light from the kitchen vent, just enough to glow that soft, impossible blue.

He studies you for a moment. Thoughtful. Almost sleepy. Then: “I read the review.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you?”

He nods. “It described you as the anchor.”

You blink. The words linger strangely.

He lifts the mug again, doesn’t sip. “I thought that was funny.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He turns his gaze back to the alley, to the quiet city beyond.

“Because I already said that. Days ago.”

You pause. “You think it’s strange that it matched?”

Xavier finally looks at you again. Really looks.

His voice is soft, but the words are sharp in their simplicity: “Not strange. Just correct.”

You smile. A little helpless.

He watches you, blinking slowly, like you’re something familiar and still a bit magical. Then, very quietly: “You hold all of us. Even when you don’t notice.”

And then he sips his tea, eyes closing for a moment like the warmth has reached all the way through.

A gust of wind pulls his bangs aside. For one breath, you see the full brightness of him. A childlike shell with the soul of a thousand quiet rooms. He’s not just observant.

He understands.

You settle beside him beneath the blanket, the quiet stretching wide around you. And then—gently—you let your head rest on his shoulder.

He doesn’t shift or speak. He just sips his tea once, eyes half-lidded, as if the moment was expected. You feel the urge to snuggle closer—to let the warmth, the stillness, the Xavier-ness of him settle the last of the tension in your chest.

So you do. And he lets you.

Steam.

Silence.

And the anchor.

Then, after a while—

His voice again, quiet and sure: “Caleb survived.” He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. “But he didn’t come back the same.”

Xavier turns. “Maybe he’s not supposed to.”

The door slams open.

Caleb.

Hair pushed back, coat half-buttoned, fire in every line of his body.

“I’ve had it.” His voice is low, clipped, but crackling with heat. “I don’t care how many bottles Sylus opens, or what kind of blood he squeezes from the press release. I’m not doing this anymore.”

You straighten. “Caleb—”

“No. I’m done.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing, eyes flashing. “It’s not the work. It’s him. It’s the way he plays with people. With fire. I rebuilt myself after that last kitchen. I won’t burn out again just because he wants another headline.”

His fists clench, then release. But he doesn’t calm. He looks at you—just once.

Eyes full. Angry. Tired.

Then—

He turns and walks.

Out into the night.

Gone.

Silence again.

You’re still by the wall, breath caught.

Xavier sips his tea once more. Doesn’t speak. Then, softly—

He nods toward the alley.

Not a word.

Just a gesture.

Go.

You don’t hesitate.

You push off the wall the moment Xavier nods, feet already in motion, the door still swinging behind Caleb.

He’s fast when he’s angry. Always has been—like motion’s the only thing that keeps him from combusting. You spot him a block ahead, already cutting across the intersection, sleeves rolled up, pace clipped, jaw tight.

You call his name.

He doesn’t stop.

So you run.

Your boots echo off the sidewalk as you catch up, breath fogging in the cold. You reach out—fingers just barely grazing his wrist.

He halts.

Not all at once—more like he lets himself be stopped. Shoulders still braced. Pulse still hammering.

“Caleb.”

He turns halfway. His jaw’s tight. His violet eyes—storm-lit.

But they’re tired.

“I can’t do this,” he says, low. “Not like this. Not when he’s using us like pieces. I rebuilt everything after that last place. Everything. I can’t burn it down again for someone else’s performance.”

He runs a hand through his hair—messing it up worse, bangs in his eyes now, breathing hard like he’s still mid-sprint. “It’s not the work. You know that. It’s him. The way he pushes. The way he smiles while we break.”

You step in. Closer.

“Take a breath.”

“I have.” His fists clench again. Then open. Then clench. “I told Sylus I’m not coming in tomorrow. Before I almost—” He breaks off. Shakes his head.

“I was inches from hitting him. And the worst part?” He looks at you now, finally—really looks. “I don’t even know if it would’ve made me feel better.”

You find the bench without words. A few feet away. Half-lit by a buzzing streetlamp.

You sit first. He doesn’t move at first, then sighs—grudgingly, like he knows he’ll follow you even before he starts walking.

He drops onto the bench beside you. Stiff. Tense.

“Do you remember that night?” he asks suddenly. “Culinary school. After the exam. When we sat on the sidewalk with burnt toast and frozen peas because the oven broke and I said we’d improvise?”

You smile. Slowly. “You stole the wine from the instructor’s cooler.”

Caleb lets out a half-laugh. Just a puff of air. “You kissed me on the cheek that night.”

You turn to look at him.

“I remember.”

The silence stretches.

And then—he reaches for your hand.

Just once.

His fingers slip between yours, tentative and hot and so sure.

And then you’re leaning in.

He meets you halfway.

Slow at first. Then deeper. Then—more.

His hand cups your jaw, steady. The other slides behind your knee, pulling you up and into his lap like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.

Your fingers knot into the front of his shirt.

He groans. Low. From somewhere buried in his chest. His mouth open over yours, breath sharp, tongue brushing yours like he’s claiming every last second he’s denied. Strong hands settle at your hips, then grip, dragging you down against him.

Grinding.

You feel him. All of him. Your lips part, and he bites—soft, but with teeth. Your lip catches between his, and he doesn’t let go until you gasp his name.

His eyes flash—violet in the dark, wild with restraint.

“Come home with me,” you whisper, your breath skating the edge of his mouth. Your voice is low, but steady. “You always had a reason, Caleb.”

He freezes—just slightly.

“Another shift. Another call. Another shot at proving something.” You swallow. “And every time, I let you walk away.”

Your hand moves up, thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw—slow, aching. “You’d leave me half-undressed with excuses still clinging to your mouth.”

A pause.

His eyes close for a beat—like your words landed where he couldn’t brace for them.

You breathe him in. “Don’t care about the career. Not tonight. Don’t choose it over me. Not again.”

And when you kiss him, it’s full of every time he almost stayed.

Caleb freezes.

Just for a second.

Then clutches his jaw tight, like it physically hurts to pull away. He does anyway. Breaks the kiss—but only just.

His forehead leans against yours again, voice shaking as it leaves him: “You’re killing me.”

And you know he means it. His hands still cradle your thighs. His pulse bangs in your ears. His mouth hovers so close you could slip back into him with half a breath.

But he stays still.

“Not like this,” he mutters again.

His forehead rests harder against yours, like it’s holding something in. “I really can’t.” It sounds like it hurts. “I’m your boss. I can’t… not like this.”

A breath catches between you. His hand tightens against your side, then loosens—like even touching you makes this harder.

“I never meant for you to walk into my kitchen,” he murmurs. “Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t want it.”

You blink. But he keeps going—soft, low, barely audible above your breath.

“When Sylus introduced the new hire and I saw you…” His eyes close for just a second. “I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what to do.”

A pause. His voice frays.

“I didn’t want to be your boss, Hotshot…”

His confession hovers—raw, electric. Like something neither of you were meant to say out loud. Then—

“I just wanted to cook beside you again.”

You feel the heat from his skin. His hand still in yours.

“I want to.” His voice is hoarse, thick with every time he didn’t say it. “You have no idea how much I want to.”

Then—his voice drops even lower. Barely more than breath: “Everything I’ve done—every step forward, every goddamn shift I took… it was always to build something good enough.”

A pause. You don’t dare move.

“So you’d never have to stay overtime. So you’d never burn out like I did. So you’d walk into a kitchen and know someone already bled for you.”

His voice cracks at the edges.

“I thought if I became the best, I could finally be enough. For you.”

And in the hush that follows—your voice cuts through, soft but steady.

“I never asked you to.”

You squeeze his hand.

He lets you.

And that’s what breaks him.

Not the kiss.

Not the fire.

But the truth he never let himself hear.

“I’m going to take tomorrow off. Clear my head. I have to. I can feel it happening again.” A pause. “I’m trying not to burn.”

You don’t say anything else.

Neither does he.

You just sit there, hand in hand, the cold biting at your ankles, but his palm stays warm. The quiet of the street hums around you. Distant traffic. A flicker of neon from a bodega across the intersection.

He exhales slowly, eyes forward. You watch the tension in his shoulders loosen by degrees—like maybe, just maybe, he’s letting go.

Your phone buzzes in your coat pocket.

You fish it out, thumb brushing the screen.

XAVIER: Let him rest. Let yourself, too. A good flame never dies. It just finds better fuel.

You smile. A soft, tired kind.

You look at Caleb. He’s watching the sky now, like it might answer something.

You squeeze his hand once more—then gently let go.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” you say.

He nods, slow. The corners of his mouth twitch up—not quite a smile, but close.

You stand.

And walk back into the city glow, the weight of the night trailing behind you like steam off a still-warm plate.

Your phone buzzes again.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Where the hell did everyone go

I turned around and you all VANISHED like ghosts in a tragic romance

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown to: Helloo?? Is this kitchen cursed??

Do we need a group exorcism or just better communication skills???

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Why do I feel like I’m the only emotionally available one here?? Send help.

You huff out a quiet laugh.

YOU to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Breathe, chef. We’re still here.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Lies. You’re literally GONE. But fine.

Your phone buzzes again.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I have a plan. Don’t ask. It involves fairy lights, Zayne’s tolerance threshold, and possibly emotional whiplash. I’ll get back to you.

A pause.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: No one gets to spiral into oblivion on my time. Not when I still have glitter and questionable playlists to weaponize.

Then one more line, quieter.

Careful.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I just… want everyone to feel okay again. That’s all.

The typing dots linger…

Then vanish.

Seconds later, your phone lights up again.

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: If this involves singing, I’m out. If it involves cake, I’m listening. Don’t make me regret this.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Will there be cats? If not, I will accept glowing drinks and uninterrupted wall space. Also… thank you.

YOU to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I’m in. Don’t scare Xavier. Or Zayne. Too much.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: No promises. Only glitter. And maybe a slow dance. Depending on who apologizes first.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: And if Xavier brings up cats again, I’m walking into the ocean. I don’t care if it’s metaphorical. I hate them.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: i just think they’re cute… you’re the one spiraling

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I don’t own one. But I’d trust a cat over most people.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: This is why I can’t have one day of peace. You’re both sympathizers.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: correct

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Accurate.

Still nothing from Caleb.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

You tuck your phone away.

And keep walking.

——————————————————————————

Chapter three

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Oookay peepz! That was the second-to-last chapter before my brain officially switches to radio silence. Well… sort of. You know me—I always have something simmering. I can’t wait to yeet the next chapter into the void so you can help steer the chaos with a lil poll vote (no pressure, just a fun choose-your-path moment—like a proper otome game, heeeh). Also! I’ll be posting something I’ve called Plated Interludes during the week—just little snippets full of banter, fun, and questionable choices. I’m down so bad in this AU, and I’m seriously so grateful you’re sticking around for the ride. Hearts all around! Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[brain-rot-hour]

Since I'm rereading it (again), I realize that I never separately posted this little bit of fanart I did for [Objects in Space], by @elkonigin , which was one of the first fics I fell in love with and reread so often it's disgusting

[vilvianthedepressed]

Comparison

My drawing of Snape last week vs my drawing on September last year.

Babi girl vs Sugar daddy :3

Either way, he's still my babi :3

Bonus a babi Sneep:

[kittydoremi]

I drew Night Giant Sonic and Shadow being silly lol

original image:

[kasieli]

Uhhhp part two of Homecoming is finally finished! Be on the lookout for a small companion art piece for this chapter!!

[smolwriter]

I feel the Urges to write a self indulgent fanfic

mmmmhhmmm

yeah I know I’ll write it.

mark my words-

[phantom248]

Sequel to this

Back with the shenanigans of chaos grimlins:

Li Lun steps on the ravaged battle field, focused on finding a way to deal with Wen Zongyu, and after being tossed around like a rag doll, he finally got an idea.

He stumbled towards Zhuo Yichen, his nemesis/ status uncleared/ex's current surprising companion in this battle, and put his hand on the other's knee, intending to shake him to consciousness.

He looked up, intending to say his piece, but faltered mid way.

There were horns. Very small horns on Zhuo Yichen's head.

Now, Li Lun had seen a variety of demons in his long life, but most of the time they came with signs of their demonic heritage with symbols that were only etched on their skins, never going beyond it. To see such mutation was rare. A mutation that instead of making the other look ugly, only belied his young demonic age in a very beautiful way.

Also, those horns were very smol.

He licked his lips, gathering his thoughts to say his strategy. Unknowingly though, his other hand lifted towards those horns.

Unfortunately, Zhuo Yichen woke up from his short spell of unconsciousness, and slapped his hands away without looking.

Li Lun continued explaining his plan, both of them refusing to acknowledge how his hand constantly staryed towards those horns and the later kept smacking him away. He probably had lots of practice.

"I will attract the fire of Wen Zongyu" his mouth formed words, yet all he could think upon finally touching those smol horns were how cold and smooth they were.

Zhuo Yichen casted a small glare. "Mind keeping your hands away from them?"

"But the horns are right there, why bother?"

"Don't you love choking me? Stick your hands to my neck only, no need to stray beyond that."

[whatmattersisyou]

Hualian modern poetry AU be like

Hua Cheng has the nastiest handwriting ever so he can write whatever he wants wherever and whenever he wants and nobody will ever understand anything of what he writes so he greatly prefers that over typing stuff

So he goes to the library every day (he's an art student) and sits to this very specific table every day, puts on his headphones and then studies art history taking notes on his notebook writes poetry about the cute librarian whom he can see perfectly from the table he chose (cause he's a mastermind)

And sometimes his poems are like the sweetest, purest thing ever, cause his beloved deserves to be treated like the deity he is-

Other times they gently, ragingly go beyond the nsfw-ness but he doesn't care cause nobody will ever read his poetry irl

But Hua Cheng is a modern simp so of course he has a tumblr blog where he posts his poetry and simps hard anonymously about his beloved and has tons of followers who comment on his works with love and admiration for his skill

And of course Xie Lian is the other big poetry blog in the community but unlike Hua Cheng he writes about pain and hopelessness and nightmares

(until he bumps against someone and Xie Lian's eyes -golden in the sunlight- meet Hua Cheng's mismatched, mesmerising eyes and he doesn't know how to put his words anymore if not to celebrate life and the luck of a chance encounter and its ability to save one's life)