#the texture the taste the freshness the everything????

[foxstens]

i just found the best toothpaste

[running-in-the-dark]

I started eating cereal/müsli for breakfast recently and it's been sooo nice. before I just wouldn't eat breakfast sometimes because for some reason putting butter on bread seems overwhelmingly difficult to me sometimes 🤦

I never liked it before but I realised I can just add frozen blueberries and a few chocolate chunks/chips/whatever you call that. that way I can use oat milk or whatever and don't mind the taste because the blueberries make it taste nice! and the chocolate is good because I hate that soggy texture and the chocolate breaks that up a little!

[odoraful]

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄.ᐟ (𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐞𝐭)

zayne is known for enjoying desserts, but there’s a sweet he hasn’t tried yet that he’s been craving.

⟡ content: zayne x gn!reader; early stage of the established relationship; first kiss; very sweet (both literally and figuratively); reader being flustered and zayne being bold; you basically live in zayne's mind 24/7; sfw; 1.6k

⟡ a/n: i was listening to day 6's song chocolate and inspiration struck me (>\\<) like "i often imagine when i kiss you, i'm curious about how it would feel... i can't control my heart, i think there's another me inside me" WAAH i thought it was fitting for zayne!

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It wasn’t typical of Zayne to be indulgent. Everything was done with careful moderation and consideration, from purchasing clothing to committing to exercise. However, when it came to desserts, all the rules he set up were scrubbed from his memory. No one suspected that the cardiac surgeon had such a strong sweet tooth. That was until his co-workers saw him at the bakery near the hospital one day, contemplating seriously about which new flavour of cake to get. To everyone’s surprise, he had ended up buying a slice of each one.

Anything sweet had a way of bypassing his self-control, which, naturally, meant you as well.

Taking a moment to himself in his office between appointments, Zayne reached for the cellophane bag of cookies sitting by his computer. The red string around the bag also held a tag with careful handwriting. It read:

Roses are red, jasmines are white, I made these with love, I hope you’ll take a bite.

Beneath the message was a cutely drawn face of you winking. Even though he had read this about 20 times since you dropped it off to him before you went to work, he still breathed a small laugh and shook his head. He unravelled the string, putting the tag safely in his pocket. The cookies inside were shaped like snowflakes and frosted blue and and white. He admired the design for a moment before taking a bite.

Imagining you preparing this made him smile. You had probably woken up earlier than usual to bake them fresh, putting on your apron with a determined look on your face. Each ingredient would be carefully measured, and as much as you would want eat the raw dough, his voice of caution would pop into your head about the dangers of uncooked eggs and flour. Once they were baking, you would finish by making the icing, dying it blue. He could imagine how you’d dip your finger into the bowl, bringing the mixture to your mouth. The blue would be a contrast against your rosy lips as you licked them to savour the taste.

That image of you stayed in Zayne’s head for longer than he intended.

He finished off a second cookie. It had a satisfying texture, the icing sugary and smooth.

Would your lips taste as sweet as this?

The thought came so naturally that he didn’t think anything unusual of its presence. There would probably still be some icing left on your lips, and he would simply lean in to—

Zayne cleared his throat.

The sound broke the silence of his office and banished the trespassing thought.

Only two weeks into this relationship, and he was fantasising like a high school boy at his work. You always had been a permanent fixture in his thoughts, but now it all felt so real. He no longer thought of you as his partner in hypotheticals. Being able to kiss you, and taste the sweetness on your lips wasn’t a dream anymore. Now, the real concern was the appropriate when and where.

He tied the bag closed, saving the rest to bring home. His break was over, and he had to continue on with work. Though he had finished his dessert long ago, the taste of vanilla icing lingered on his tongue for the rest of the day.

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”Earth to Zayne~ can you hear me?”

Zayne turned to you. Your head was titled to the side, an expectant look on your face.

Though it was a weekend morning, both of you were on the sofa completing the remaining piece of your respective work—him finishing his recommendations for a patient, and you filling out a case report for your recent hunter excursion.

“Yes, I can hear you,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

You narrowed your eyes in playful suspicion. “Hm, and what about the past two times I called you?”

Zayne adjusted his glasses. “I must have been focused on my report.”

His reason would have been convincing enough, if not for your keen senses. Despite his unchanging expression, you weren’t mistaken seeing the tips of his ears turn red.

You sorted your documents back into the folder, and placed it to the side.

“You stopped typing on your laptop and sort of stared into your screen for a minute. It was very un-Zayne like I must say,” you remarked as a half-joke.

Seeing just how observant you were towards him filled him with inexplicable pride.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, tone softening.

He paused for a moment, considering his next words. Closing the window to his document and shutting his laptop, he gave his full attention to you.

“Actually, something has been on my mind.”

With a concerned frown, you crossed your legs together, sitting in a more comfortable position to listen to him. Though, you could have never predicted what your boyfriend would say next.

”I was thinking about moving our relationship to the next stage.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Stuttered sounds came out of your mouth. When you realised you could form no words, you covered your face with your hands. What could he possibly mean by that!? Suddenly, you felt quite conscious about where you were seated. If Zayne reached out to his left, he could easily wrap his arm around your waist. And, you knew the purple loungewear you had on wasn’t the most alluring clothing you had.

“The next stage?” you repeated in a much higher pitch than you intended.

He nodded, giving no apparent indication that he noticed the fluster you were in. He seemed too calm. Perhaps you were drawing the wrong conclusion too quickly.

“If it’s alright with you, I”—Zayne stopped his sentence short. “Could you… close your eyes for me?”

You blinked at him.

“Ohh,” you sounded with understanding, “is this some kind of surprise? Are you giving me a present?”

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “One might call it that.”

Even though his reply to your question was quite ambiguous, you happily closed your eyes. You heard a small sound to the side, guessing that he had placed something on the table. Of course, it was natural for couples to give gifts that signified the seriousness of the relationship. Maybe he bought some jewellery or a precious keepsake, you innocently pondered.

Zayne took a last look at your awaiting face. Eyes closed, lips glossy from the balm you just applied.

The sofa shifted. The weight of his body dipped the cushion beneath you. His close presence made your senses prickle. The jasmine and mint scent of his cologne now enveloped you.

When is he going to let me open my eyes?

“Zayne.”

You breathed out his name before you felt warmth against your lips.

Your eyes shot open.

Zayne had taken off his glasses (which you now realised was what that previous sound had been) and he was kissing you. Kissing you for the very first time.

Your brain and body were at odds with each other.

Your muscles froze, but you also didn’t want to pull away. Not when he initiated something you had spent so long daydreaming about, but never had the courage to do. Noticing this, Zayne raised his hand to your face. His thumb gently caressed your cheek. A silent signal that communicated a message of reassurance. It’s alright, you can relax, you seemed to hear his smooth voice in your head. Tension melted away. In exchange, your heartrate picked up. Closing your eyes once again, you let the sensation wash over you.

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Time seemed to stand still and move too fast all at once.

Zayne slid his hand down to rest at the base of your neck. Your skin felt hot against his cool fingertips.

Admittedly, he was out of practice, and the worry of doing this wrong flashed in his mind. But, when you eased into his touch, lips parting to invite more of him in, everything fell into place.

Vanilla frosting… I was right, he thought.

You were sweeter than any dessert he had tried in his life. One taste would not be enough after this. You had become a dangerous craving to him now.

Zayne withdrew, staying close to your face. Your eyes fluttered open, blinking slowly as if waking from a stupor. You were greeted with his green and amber gaze, his clear satisfaction illuminated by the morning sun pouring through the curtains behind you. Before you was a version of him you had never seen.

“Y-you’re too bold, Zayne,” you murmured.

The breath you had held during the kiss caught up to you. Your exhales lightly brushed against his skin as he stared at your lips—flushed like the colour of raspberry sorbet. He scanned every part of your expression, desperately needing to memorise your face in this moment. Everything about you was utterly perfect.

“I’m sorry for catching you off guard.”

You shook your head, the bangs of his hair brushing against your forehead. Only Zayne could blindside you with such a storybook kiss, and then apologise for it.

“You occupy my thoughts all the time,” he continued, a rasp in his voice as he whispered. “It’s unfathomable and quite distracting.”

You chuckled, the sound melodious to his ears. “I didn’t know a chief surgeon could be so easily distracted.”

Zayne smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth.

“When the surgeon has someone he likes a lot,” he closed the distance, leaning his forehead against yours, “he often wonders how sweet they would taste.”

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[qwimblenorrisstan]

(back again, passed all my midterms and finally getting antidepressants😝, this is a VERY Johnny centric chapter)

tw: depression, lotta angst but aftercare this time, mentions of neglect, courting, mentions of bullets, being shot, medical treatment, rehabilitation, forced cuddles (but needed), hitting head against stuff, lots of whining, biting, scratching

It was wrong, he knew it.

He hadn’t been there originally, too cooped up in a sterile medical room, the harsh, stinging scent of a scent blocking spray burning his nostrils till he couldn’t smell anything at all. Mushy food he could barely shove down his throat, only tolerating it so they didn’t shove a feeding tube down his throat. Lukewarm water that tasted suspiciously like painkillers.

His head throbbed, the bullet having already been pulled out as soon as he was wheeled into the emergency room, doctors crowding around, yelling, ordering. Too much noise, in his opinion.

Especially when there was already so much going on in his head.

Everything had been fine, until it hadn’t been. He’d heard of a replacement on his team for him, temporary, they’d said, because of his medical suspension. He only had to get through a few months of physical therapy and a few medical tests before being thrown back onto the field.

He originally hadn’t known what to think. Simon had come visited him, told him of the strange alpha there, how quiet they were, how meek. The Ghost seemed to see it as a weakness, but Simon almost talked like he appreciated it, regardless of his annoyance.

“Tryin’ to replace you, well it isn’t working.”

He’d grumbled, making sure not to say anything the camera would pick up. Any mention of something potentially “triggering” could set Soap off, he’d been told. If he said anything toeing the line, he could be removed or banned.

Johnny had been intrigued at first, at the thought of a new alpha, seeing as there weren’t many in the SAS program. Especially not an American, on a British team. His thoughts were filled with the Southern twangy accent, “soda”, “chips” instead of crisps, arguments over soccer and football and which was which.

But now, months after the initial incident with Makarov, he’d recovered just in time to watch everything crumble and to try and help clean up the mess. You didn’t know him. Maybe that would give him a fresh start with you, maybe you’d like it.

He was still fucked in the head, voices whispering until he’d hush them, snappier, a bit angry at how much space he took up, but he supposed that you might be a bit fucked in the head too, just in the opposite way than him.

But as he’d crept up to your room in the middle of the night, slowly cracking the door open, he still felt it was wrong. There was no medical expert here if something went wrong. This was his riskiest bomb defusing yet, it felt like an all or nothing situation.

The room was practically dripping with a sour and pungent smell of distress and the unmistakable scent of depression, the feeling seeming to press down on him like a heavy weight, as if he was hundreds of miles underneath the sea, nearly being crushed by the pure atmosphere.

As he closed the door behind him with a small click, he heard rustling, the sound of those uncomfortable paper textured blankets the military provided, and a little sniff, before it stopped. He stood still as could be, trying not to wake you just yet, hoping he would be able to make more out of you when his eyesight adjusted.

Only the tiniest sliver of moonlight snuck through the small window in the room, though it was covered by a blanket. Gaz had updated him on the syndrome, how it meant no bright lights.

Soap didn’t consider himself a genius, but he didn’t think it was a great idea to just submerge you into complete darkness and sight deprivation with no warning. Especially not while you were struggling.

He rolled from the ball of his feet to the sides, heavy boots not even on, only his red and green socks that his sister-in-law had bought him for secret Santa one year donning his feet as he moved quietly. Carefully grasping the blanket covering the window, he brushed it aside a little more, more gentle light flooding the room as a beam landed on near the side of the bed, allowing him a bit more vision of you.

And when he finally turned and managed to see you?

His heart dropped.

Your eyes were puffy from crying, corners red and eyelids tightly shut as if to block everything out. Your lips were downturned, almost as if whining even in sleep as you seemed to pant somehow quietly. As if not to alarm or alert anyone despite your own suffering.

What really got him was the way you were curled up, arms and legs wrapped tightly around in a ball as if to protect your vital organs, your paper thin blanket maneuvered around as if to resemble a nest. He could barely see you, considering you were underneath the bed. Hidden.

The blanket seemed to resemble the nest you’d been kept from entering, and shunned from by his own pack.

He couldn’t help the whine that slipped out of him at his own distress of seeing you, you clearly distraught, hair greasy and tangled, clothes dirty, not even having enough energy to care for yourself. If only the scent of your emotions in this room alone had been enough to almost crush him, how close were you to being smashed between the weight pressing in on you?

Or had you already been crushed, and none of them had even cared enough to notice?

A flood of anger burner through his veins hotter than any pain he’d experienced on the job as he saw the clear signs of his pack’s neglect of you. Simon had visited him multiple times a week, but hadn’t even tried with you. Price had pulled the strings to get him better food in the med wing (even if it had still been bad), but he hadn’t cared enough to even provide proper materials for you to make a faux nest? Gaz had brought him sketchbooks and helped him feel comfortable in physical therapy, but hadn’t even tried to court you with any of the special gifts he had done with Price when first joining?

It was unfair. Unbelievable, to think the grown men who had done so much, saved so many lives, sacrificed everything to save the world, wouldn’t even give up their pride if it meant welcoming a new member to the team.

It was discriminatory, to dislike you purely because you were an alpha. It was unfair to dislike you purely because you were a replacement.

He watched you squirm a bit, maybe reacting to his scent unconsciously. He knew he couldn’t smell the best, not when he had been around a sterile hospital for months. Maybe the cocoa butter Vaseline that the physical therapist had used on him would cover it a bit, though.

He crept closer, hand reaching out, before pulling back again as he hesitated, shifting onto his knees in front of your bed, before just laying down on his side to see you under it. His breathing grew a bit shaky due to anxiety as he reached out, brushing his hand against yours, watching your brows furrow unconsciously as you mumbled something.

It was only when he slipped his full hand into your surprisingly calloused palm that your eyelids fluttered, and you jolted awake, yanking away from him with your teeth bared back, a wild animalistic fear in your eyes. A low growl that reverberated through his bones came out, and he understood in that moment that you weren’t just a bomb he had to defuse.

You were a high value target that wasn’t afraid to fight back, not just some stationary object he wanted to fix. This wasn’t a defusing mission, it was more a complicated stakeout, where all he could do was make careful moves, waiting for you to take the initiative.

However, as you pulled harshly away from him, your head reared back and slammed into the metal frame above you. A pained whining groan slipped out, and Soap couldn’t take it anymore.

Mission be damned, stakeout be damned, his instincts got the better of him yet again. The exact reason he’d taken a bullet to the head. But he found that he would risk taking another bullet to the head if he could just comfort you, let you know that you weren’t alone, that he understood.

It was a worthy risk, in his opinion.

He grabbed part of your shoulder, putting his foot against the bed frame and lifting up, and pulled you right out from under.

His arms wrapped around you, even as you struggled and hissed, desperately trying to mask the pain in your scent with what he could tell was poorly produced anger. The littlest hint of comfort he could smell, that seemed to lighten the atmosphere just a bit.

He held on, even as you clawed at him, and bit his arms (which he might’ve enjoyed, just a little bit), he held on. He held on because he’d always had people holding onto him, Price, Gaz, and Ghost, with their vice grip that held him and their pack together.

They had failed to hold onto you, so he would.

And eventually, you stopped struggling. You went a little bit limp, whined a bit more as your head must’ve been throbbing (he knew how that felt), before finally, finally leaning the slightest bit into him.

Johnny didn’t need to be told that the next few months would be difficult. That the pack would struggle and go through hardships they hadn’t yet faced before. Hell, it had already been strained since his injury. He had gone through months of rehabilitation, and still wasn’t the exact same.

But as he lied on the cold floor with you in his arms, leaning just the tiniest bit into him, he knew that the both of you could heal together, even if from completely different things.

At least he was drowning with you, instead of being alone.

(idk how to feel about this tbh, I think I put too much symbolism since I wrote it in one take while in a mood, but I wanna play roblox so just gonna post this and dip)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

[esthercore]

Genshin Men & Their cum ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

The 3 am horny strikes again | HSR Version

Albedo - Oh, quite controversial if I may. It's a bit chalky, not in taste, taste is just fine but in texture. A bit grainy, with a consistency on the thinner side. Even the color is bit too translucent. Definitely something that take to time to grow on your, if you're picky with textures like me. Maybe try and compare his cum with his clone's for scientific purposes...

Al Haitham - It's...cum flavored, but the taste is a bit amplified, strong. And it's thick and globby too. The scholar isn't a big fan of jerking off, since it's too much work and too unproductive, so full balls just for you <3

Ayato - The taste is quite pleasant, fresh, and smooth in texture. It falls in the can't complain category, it isn't the best, but there is also no bad features, though the quantity is a bit low due to constant work stress.

Baizhu - Same as blade, his body is working overtime, and his health is fucked, it's very thin, but don't tell him, it break his poor heart.

Childe - Thick thick, really like seeing you struggle to swallow his load, patting your head as you choke a bit. It takes just fine, though leans a bit on the bitter side.

Diluc - Sweet and delicious! Grape fruit really do wonders, he easily top in the taste specter. The consistency is average not to thick or thin, and quite a pleasurable amount. Nice and warm, thick gooey cum.

Itto - The taste is slightly addictive, and metallic. Also has some thick globs. It's quite distinguishable if you ask me. Perhaps a hit or miss for some people, but you should definitely give it a taste, especially for that shy grin he pulls, quite pleased with your actions.

Kazuha - He has the a healthy amount globs in between, the taste, the texture, the amount all are satisying. Especially the way he refuses to look you in the eyes, getting all shy after you swallow.

Kaeya - The most amount in Tevyat, and the best texture, and he sure as hell knows it. Gets so smug at your cock drunk face, a bit of his cum dripping down your neck, a bit spilled on the

Neuvilette - Fresh, like water from a mountain lake, very cold too, so good on a hot summer evening. Plus this man is a 500 year old virgin so you get a glorious amount. The only downise is the consistendy running on a bit thinner side.

Thoma - It's cum, plane, basic, average everything. Unless you're talking about his flustered expression, as you lap up his cum, that's a solid 10/10

Wriothesley - Another one that likes to see you choke trying to swallow, he loves the humiliating aspect, calling you names while tenderly petting you. His cum itself is pretty normal but makes up with the foreplay. Loves bukkakke.

Zhongli - Thick and creamy, taste sweet too! He gets so shy when you swallow, he's to old and modest for this, so grandpa's pulse immediately go haywire.

Bonus!!!

Dottore - Thick and the amount is in excess. He's so perverse during the foreplay, intentionally making sure to drench you, making you open your mouth and inspect it after you swallowed, and making you lick the cum you spilled on the floor

Capitano - The best overall in Tevyat, thickest, most yummy, the most amount, yet he's modest regarding everything. He simply likes you doing your own stuff, and indugle yourself in him. Will pet your head when you swallow, happy you're enjoying yourself. Maybe give you some sweet pecks if you tell him, his cum is the best.

(Reminder, Genshin is a fictional game, hence the unrealistic descriptons. If i missed any of your favs, which i probably did, just tell me and i do a part 2.)

[novaursa]

The Blood We Choose

- Summary: Gwayne brings you to Dragonstone, to your sister. But it is Daemon who awaits you both.

- Pairing: Gwanye Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after Where Banners Fall. If you want to read parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 4 356

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The scent of salt and brine clings to the air, sharp against the faint undertones of decay and blood—a constant reminder of the battle left behind at Rook’s Rest. You can still feel the memory of fire scorching your skin, the cries of Silverwing echoing in your ears as she fell from the sky, taking you with her. 

Your body aches, every breath a laborious effort as you sit propped against the rough-hewn wall of the small cottage. The village is a quiet one, nestled by the coast, far from the eyes of any lords or soldiers. A place where neither banners nor blood oaths hold sway. Here, you can pretend, for a brief moment, that the world is not consumed by war.

But it’s a fleeting delusion. The searing pain that courses through your side is a constant reminder of how close you came to death. Silverwing’s warmth had shielded you as much as she could, but nothing could stop the might of Vhagar. You know that if it weren’t for Gwayne, you would have perished alongside your dragon, your body left among the ruins.

Gwayne Hightower. His name lingers on your tongue, filled with both bitterness and something else you dare not name. He betrayed his own for you—forsook his House, his loyalties, everything that defined him as a knight of the Greens. For you. The memory of his desperate voice calling your name as he found you below Silverwing’s wing is fresh, a rare vulnerability exposed beneath his normally composed demeanor.

“Y/N,” Gwayne’s voice, low and rough, breaks through the silence of the small room. You look up, meeting his gaze from across the dim space. He’s seated near the hearth, his own wounds not fully healed, a dark bruise blooming along his jawline and his side still tightly bound. 

“What is it?” you rasp, wincing as the movement strains your ribs.

“You should eat more.” He gestures to a small bowl of fish stew beside you. The smell is unappetizing, but you know he’s right. You need strength if you’re to survive this war, if you’re to return to Dragonstone—to your family.

You give a small, reluctant nod, dipping the spoon into the lukewarm broth. The taste is bland, the texture thick in your mouth, but it’s enough to soothe the gnawing hunger in your belly.

“Daemon’s been searching,” Gwayne says after a moment, voice hesitant. “Caraxes was seen flying from Harrenhal. He’ll come for you.”

There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his tone, a tinge of possessiveness that makes your chest tighten. Daemon. Your husband. Your son’s surrogate father. You hadn’t told Gwayne about the child until that morning when pain had stripped away all pretense and left only raw confessions in the dark. It was the first time you saw something break in his eyes, something beyond duty or loyalty. Gwayne is a man forged in duty, yet in that moment, his loyalty had been to you, and only you.

The silence stretches between you both, heavy with unsaid words, unshed tears, and the tangled web of emotion that neither of you are willing to fully confront. How could you? You were always meant to be Rhaenyra’s little sister, the one whose role was to support, never to lead. Yet here you are, a thread woven into a tapestry that binds you to two men who could tear each other and you apart.

“If Daemon finds us…” Gwayne starts, his voice trailing off.

You lower the spoon, your hand trembling slightly. “You’ll run.” It’s not a question. You know what will happen if Daemon catches Gwayne with you, the traitor Hightower who saved his wife instead of leaving her to her fate. Daemon would kill him without hesitation.

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and resolve. “And leave you alone? I think not.”

You shift, ignoring the pain lancing through your body. “This was never supposed to happen,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. You close your eyes, picturing Silverwing’s brilliant wings and the sight of Dragonstone on the horizon—your home. You ache to be back there, where the sea winds carried the scent of salt and freedom, where you could be Y/N Targaryen again instead of a broken remnant.

Gwayne’s presence is a steady warmth in the room, a contrast to the cold reality of the war raging beyond these walls. You want to hate him for making you feel something other than loyalty to Daemon all these years, but you can’t. Not after he’s saved you, cared for you, and stayed by your side despite the danger. Even now, with your heart and mind divided, you know that whatever he feels—duty, love, or perhaps something in between—it is real. And it terrifies you as much as it comforts you.

“Why did you do it?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

His gaze locks with yours, unwavering. “Because I couldn't let you die.”

Your breath catches. The simplicity of his answer is profound. No grand declarations, no lofty promises, just the brutal, honest truth.

Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel outside the cottage makes you tense. Both of you are on edge, the brief sense of peace shattering like glass. Gwayne moves instinctively toward the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 

It’s only the fisherman, his weathered face peeking through the gap in the door. “Tomorrow,” he says quietly. “The boat’ll be ready at dawn. The tides’ll be with us.”

You nod in gratitude, relief mingled with apprehension. Dragonstone is so close now, but you know the return will be fraught with more dangers than those you’ve already faced. 

As the fisherman retreats, Gwayne turns back to you. “We’ll get you home,” he promises, though there’s an edge to his voice that betrays his own uncertainty. 

Home. But what awaits you there? Daemon’s wrath? Your sister’s grief? And what of your son—your son whom you’ve not seen in so long, raised by a Targaryen father who knows nothing of the man who just saved his mother’s life?

For now, you can only rest, listening to the steady rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing across the room as you both try to find sleep in this fleeting calm before the storm resumes. You close your eyes, letting yourself drift, even as a part of you dreads what dawn will bring.

The sky above Dragonstone is dark, heavy clouds gathering as if reflecting the storm brewing within the walls of the ancient castle. The great red dragon, Caraxes, lands with a furious roar, shaking the stones beneath his claws. Daemon slides from the saddle, his face twisted in rage, eyes burning like molten steel. Every step he takes towards the Great Hall is filled with barely-contained fury, the kind that simmers just below the surface and waits for the slightest spark to ignite into violence.

He bursts into the hall, his armor still stained with ash and soot from his fruitless search. Rhaenyra stands by the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though seeking warmth. She turns as Daemon strides in, but before she can say a word, his voice cuts through the silence, sharp as Valyrian steel.

“You sent her to Rook’s Rest? You sent her?” His words are laced with venom, each one a dagger aimed directly at her heart.

Rhaenyra flinches, but she holds her ground, lifting her chin defiantly. “She volunteered, Daemon! She insisted. It was her choice.”

“Her choice?” he spits back, stepping closer, his anger radiating from him like heat from a forge. “She’s no warrior, not like Rhaenys! You sent her to die, Rhaenyra! To die at the hands of Aemond and that wretched beast of his!”

Rhaenyra’s composure cracks then, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I trusted her! She’s my sister—our blood! I thought… I thought Silverwing—”

“Silverwing is dead!” Daemon’s voice thunders through the hall, a raw, agonized sound. “She fell, trying to protect her rider from Vhagar and Sunfyre. And Y/N? She’s gone, Rhaenyra. Taken by Gwayne Hightower. A Hightower! You might as well have killed her yourself.”

At that, Rhaenyra’s tears break free, streaking down her pale cheeks. “I never wanted this! I would never—”

“Spare me your tears,” Daemon snarls, his eyes narrowing in cold fury. “You speak of choices, yet you chose war over your sister. You sent her out to face death while you remained safe in your castle, protected by your crown. Do you know what it’s like to watch the skies, knowing that the one person who never turned her back on you is likely lying dead, or worse, in the hands of our enemies?”

Rhaenyra’s sobs wrack her slender frame, but Daemon is relentless. He steps closer, so near that he could reach out and touch her, but his hands remain clenched at his sides. “You sacrificed her for a battle that did nothing but weaken us. Aegon still holds King’s Landing. Silverwing is dead, Luke is gone, and now Y/N… she was the last thread of innocence left in this gods-forsaken war, and you ripped it apart.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head desperately. “I thought—Daemon, I thought she could reach them. Convince them to surrender before more blood was spilled. She believed in it too.”

“And now she’s paying for that belief with her life,” Daemon hisses. “Do you understand? Her life, her blood. And for what? Nothing.”

The hall falls silent, the air thick with tension, with grief and fury that neither of them can fully articulate. For a moment, Rhaenyra looks utterly lost, her shoulders sagging under the weight of all the loss that surrounds her. “What am I supposed to do, Daemon? Tell me. What can I do now?”

Before he can respond, a new voice cuts into the fray, youthful but tinged with urgency. “What’s happening? Where is my mother?”

Daemon stiffens, turning slowly to face the boy who has entered the hall. He’s just shy of manhood, tall and lean with the unmistakable features of House Targaryen—silver-gold hair, sharp cheekbones, and the stubborn fire in his gaze. But his eyes, those striking eyes of clear blue, are not Targaryen at all. They are Gwayne Hightower’s, and they haunt Daemon every time he looks at the boy.

The boy’s name is Vaeron, the son raised by Daemon as his own, the boy who never knew the truth of his parentage. Vaeron looks between his father and his aunt, sensing the tension, the raw pain in the air.

“Where is she?” Vaeron’s voice trembles now, the bravado slipping. “Where is my mother?”

Daemon’s expression softens, if only by a fraction. He crosses the distance to his son, placing a hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Your mother was ambushed at Rook’s Rest,” he says, each word carefully measured, as if they’re knives he’s forcing down his throat. “Aemond and his dragons brought her down. Silverwing is dead.”

Vaeron’s eyes widen, disbelief and horror written across his face. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head as if denying the truth will somehow change it. “She can’t be dead. Mother can’t be—”

“She’s not dead, not yet,” Daemon cuts in, his voice harsh. “But she’s missing, taken by Gwayne Hightower. And I’ll find her, Vaeron. We’ll find her together.”

The boy’s gaze sharpens, anger and grief mixing with determination. “I’ll go with you,” he says, the words coming out more like a plea than a declaration.

Daemon nods, the cold steel of his resolve hardening. “You’ll mount your dragon, and we’ll take to the skies. We’ll search every inch of the realm if we have to.”

Vaeron swallows hard, the weight of what’s being asked of him sinking in. He’s still so young, yet there’s no more room for youth in this war. He nods, determination etched across his face. “For her. For my mother.”

Daemon’s grip on his son’s shoulder tightens for a moment, the only hint of the fierce protectiveness he feels beneath the layers of rage. “For her,” he agrees.

As they turn to leave, Rhaenyra reaches out, her voice breaking. “Daemon… please… I’m sorry…”

Daemon doesn’t look back. “You can’t afford to be sorry, Rhaenyra. Not now. Not ever.”

The boy’s eyes meet Rhaenyra’s for a moment before he turns away, following his father out into the cold winds of Dragonstone. They leave her behind, standing alone in the dim light of the hall, tears streaming down her face, a queen weighed down by guilt and grief.

The dragons will soon take flight again, this time driven by fury, by a father’s desperation and a son’s determination. And neither Daemon nor Vaeron will rest until they bring her back—no matter the cost, no matter the blood they must spill.

The small fishing boat creaks under the weight of the sea’s relentless pull, the salt spray clinging to your face as the wind howls around you. Each dip and rise of the vessel feels precarious, the threat of capsizing ever-present. You cling to the rough wooden edge, your body still weak and aching from your injuries, but your eyes remain fixed on the silhouette of Dragonstone on the horizon. The ancient fortress looms like a jagged tooth against the darkening sky, its towers piercing the clouds.

Gwayne stands beside you, his gaze scanning the skies as if expecting danger at any moment. His face is shadowed, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, but there’s a tension there too—an unspoken fear that you both share.

The fisherman grumbles curses under his breath as he wrestles with the sails. He’s an old man, his hands gnarled from years at sea, but his sharp eyes occasionally flicker toward you, a mixture of recognition and pity in his gaze. “Prince Daemon’s got the skies set ablaze with his searching,” he mutters, his voice rough like gravel. “And now that boy of his—Merothrax near sunk me last time they flew overhead.”

As if on cue, the air vibrates with the distant sound of wings, a deep thrumming that sends shivers down your spine. You glance upward and catch sight of them—two dragons cutting through the sky like living shadows. Caraxes, with his serpentine neck and blood-red scales, moves with a terrifying grace, his roar echoing across the waves. Beside him is Merothrax, Vaeron’s dragon. Sleek and deadly, the young dragon’s scales are a deep, shimmering indigo, laced with streaks of silver that catch the light when he dives. His wings are larger than one would expect for a dragon of his age, giving him a natural agility in the air. His eyes, a piercing shade of gold, scan the sea below, hungry and watchful.

The boat rocks violently as Merothrax swoops low, his wings stirring the water into frothy waves. The fisherman shouts a stream of curses at the sky, clutching at his hat as the gust from the dragon’s wings nearly tears it from his head. “Damn Targaryens, more fire and madness in them than sense!”

Gwayne’s hand is suddenly on your arm, steadying you as the boat pitches. “They’re looking for us,” he says grimly. “Daemon won’t stop until he finds you.”

“Or finds you with me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intend. There’s a deep tension in your chest, not just from the pain but from the knowledge that each moment brings you closer to facing the storm you left behind. 

Gwayne doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is distant, lost in thoughts he hasn’t voiced since you confessed your secrets that day—secrets you had buried for too long. The memory of that confession hangs between you both, a reminder of how fragile this moment of safety is.

“You’re thinking of Vaeron,” Gwayne says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Of what happens when he sees me.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. “He’s never known who you really are. Daemon raised him, taught him to ride, to fight. Vaeron idolizes him… but he deserves to know the truth.”

Gwayne’s jaw tightens, and his hand drops away from your arm. “I knew of the boy. Rumors reached me—stories of the bastard prince raised by the Rogue himself. But I never… I never thought he’d…” His voice cracks at the end, and you hear the quiet grief in his words. The grief of a father who never had the chance to be a father. 

You turn to him, your heart aching for what you’re about to say. “He’s yours, Gwayne. He always has been.” The admission is heavy, laden with all the years you’ve kept the truth locked away. “Daemon knew from the start. He saw it in Vaeron, even before the boy could speak. But he accepted him anyway, for my sake, and for Rhaenyra’s cause. He never let Vaeron feel unwanted, never let him know he wasn’t his own blood. But those eyes… they’re yours.”

Gwayne’s expression is unreadable, but you see the storm behind his gaze—the battle between duty, regret, and a father’s yearning. “I should have been there,” he says hoarsely. “I should have been the one to raise him, to teach him. Instead, I’ve been chasing ghosts and loyalty that never truly mattered.”

“You would have been hunted down if you claimed him,” you remind him, your voice laced with the bitterness of harsh reality. “Your House would have disowned you—or worse. You would’ve been executed for treason.”

“And now I’m here, having betrayed everything for the woman I…” Gwayne stops himself, the words strangled in his throat.

You don’t push him. The truth lingers between you like a wound too fresh to be probed. You lower your gaze to the churning sea, feeling the boat rock again as Caraxes circles back toward Dragonstone. “He’s a good boy,” you say quietly. “Stubborn, with fire in his blood. But he’s kind, too. He has your strength, even if he doesn’t know it.”

Gwayne’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently, the roughness of his palm familiar and grounding. “I want to meet him, truly meet him. But what do I say, Y/N? That I’m the man who should have been there, but wasn’t?”

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away. “You tell him the truth. Vaeron deserves that much, even if it’s painful. We both know there’s no easy way to face it, but hiding it any longer would be a greater cruelty.”

The boat jerks violently as they begin their final approach to Dragonstone’s rocky shore. You see the shadow of the fortress loom closer, the narrow docks already in sight. The fisherman mutters another curse as Merothrax’s tail lashes the air overhead, nearly capsizing the boat. 

Gwayne leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “No matter what happens when we land, I’ll be by your side. If Daemon tries to take him from me, or if he tries to strike me down for what I’ve done, I won’t back down.”

Your heart clenches at the promise in his words, at the weight of everything that lies ahead. The shore draws near, and you steel yourself for what awaits—a reunion not just with Daemon and your son, but with all the truths that can no longer be avoided.

Above, the dragons circle, their roars echoing through the skies like thunder. The war rages on, but now it’s not just a battle for the throne. It’s a battle for the lives torn apart by secrets and the relentless march of fate. And as you prepare to step onto the stony shore of Dragonstone, you know that the hardest fight has only just begun.

The small boat bumps against the dock with a dull thud, the sound lost beneath the howling wind and the distant crash of waves against the jagged rocks. The air is thick with tension as the fisherman throws a rope to secure the vessel, muttering prayers under his breath, his eyes wide with fear as he glances toward the two dragons perched on the ridge above. Caraxes and Merothrax sit like twin sentinels, their eyes gleaming with the predatory awareness of beasts ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

You step onto the dock first, your legs trembling beneath you, both from the strain of your injuries and the weight of what’s about to happen. Gwayne follows closely, his hand hovering near his sword hilt, though you both know it would be futile if it came to a fight. The wind pulls at your hair and cloak as you move forward, each step taking you closer to the confrontation you’ve dreaded.

Ahead, you see them—Daemon and Vaeron. Daemon’s expression is cold as stone, his eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a hard line. Beside him, Vaeron stands tense, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of worry and anticipation. He’s grown so much since you last saw him, more a young man than a boy, but the flash of relief in his eyes when he sees you tells you he’s still your son, still that child who would run to you for comfort.

But before he can take a step toward you, Daemon’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, holding him back. “Stay where you are,” Daemon orders, his voice as sharp as a blade. Vaeron’s brow furrows, confusion and frustration evident in his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. He simply watches as you and Gwayne approach, his gaze flicking warily between you and the man who saved you.

The tension in the air is palpable as you reach them. Before you can speak, a detachment of royal guards emerges from the path leading to the castle, armor clanking as they fall into formation around Daemon. The commander steps forward and bows deeply. “Prince Daemon, we stand ready.”

Daemon’s eyes never leave Gwayne as he gives the command. “Seize him.”

The guards move forward, hands reaching for Gwayne’s arms. He doesn’t resist, but you see his jaw clench, muscles tensing as iron manacles click shut around his wrists. Panic flares in your chest, and you step between the guards and Gwayne, your voice rising in desperation. “No! You can’t just lock him away! He saved me, Daemon—he saved my life!”

Daemon’s eyes flash with something dangerous as he looks at you, his expression hardening further. “He’s a Hightower, and a traitor to his House. His loyalty to you doesn’t absolve him of that.”

You take a step closer, your voice trembling but determined. “It does when it’s a debt of blood. He risked everything for me—for us. He’s not the enemy here, Daemon.”

But Daemon’s gaze is unyielding, his anger a simmering force barely restrained. “The enemy is anyone who serves the Greens, no matter the reason. You think I care that he chose you over his House? That only makes him more dangerous. He’s already betrayed his own; what’s to stop him from betraying you, or Vaeron, when it suits him?”

Gwayne meets Daemon’s gaze, holding it without flinching, though you see the strain in his eyes. “I gave up everything for her. I’d do it again. But I know what I am, and I don’t expect your forgiveness.”

Daemon’s lips curl into a sneer. “Good, because you’ll get none from me.” He turns to the guards, his tone cold and final. “Take him to the dungeons. I’ll decide his fate once I’ve had time to consider what to do with him.”

The guards tighten their grip on Gwayne and begin to drag him away. You move to follow, but Daemon’s hand catches your arm, stopping you in your tracks. “Enough, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice a mix of anger and something softer—concern, perhaps, though it’s buried deep beneath his rage. “He’s done what he thought was right, but it doesn’t change what he is.”

You jerk your arm free, glaring at him with all the defiance you can muster. “You’ve lost sight of what truly matters, Daemon. Gwayne’s no longer a pawn of the Greens—he’s here because of me. Because of Vaeron.”

At the mention of Vaeron, Daemon’s eyes flicker, but he remains resolute. “And I’ll not have him jeopardize our son’s safety, not for some misplaced sense of gratitude.”

Your heart aches as you watch Gwayne being led away, the clink of his shackles echoing in the quiet that follows. He walks with his head held high, shoulders squared, but you can see the brief flicker of pain in his expression as he passes by Vaeron. The boy says nothing, but his eyes track Gwayne’s every move with a curious intensity, as if trying to understand the connection between the man being led to the dungeons and his mother’s desperate pleas.

When Gwayne disappears around the corner, swallowed by the shadows of the castle, Vaeron finally breaks the silence. “Mother… who was that man? Why did he save you?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet your son’s gaze. “He’s… someone who once served the Greens but chose to protect me instead. He’s no longer a threat, Vaeron.”

Daemon releases his hold on your arm but keeps his eyes fixed on Vaeron. “He’s not to be trusted. Remember that.”

Vaeron nods slowly, his eyes still lingering on the path Gwayne was taken down. There’s something in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of recognition that he doesn’t fully understand. But he doesn’t press further, sensing that there are answers he’s not yet meant to know.

Daemon turns to you, his voice softer now, but still laced with frustration. “We’ll speak more inside. You’ve been through enough, and I’ll not have this discussion out in the open.”

With that, he leads the way toward the castle, the guards following closely behind. You fall into step beside him, though your thoughts remain with Gwayne, locked away beneath the stone walls of Dragonstone. Vaeron walks beside you, his young face set in determination as he tries to piece together the events swirling around him.

And as you approach the darkened halls of the castle, you can’t shake the feeling that the truths left unspoken will tear at the fragile peace you’ve only just regained.

[seat-safety-switch]

Hey. Close the door. Sit down. I've got something I want to talk to you about. No, it's not that kind of thing, I don't even care. You did what to your car? That's weird but we're not talking about that right now. What are we talking about? What are we talking about? Soup.

When I was a kid, I didn't like soup very much. As an adult, I don't really like it now either. The flavour is fine, the texture is alright, and there's lots of varieties that are delicious. What I don't like is the efficiency. If you draw a chart of "most efficient" to "least efficient" foods, there's some obvious winners.

Potato chips. A fresh-fallen apple. Whatever mushrooms keep making me see the innate folds of the universe's metastructure. Banana is somewhere in the middle. You gotta peel it, but then you can slam the entire thing down and get back to what you were doing. Soup is way off the "goddamn waste of time" edge, saved only by how delicious and cheap it is.

Cheap. That's a beautiful word, that one. It's why birds sing it into my ears in the morning to awaken me from my slumber. Soup is so inexpensive that I've started making it more often. Thing is, that obsession with efficiency still exists. To optimize my time spent cooking, I make a whole lot of it, in repurposed thousand-litre soy sauce drums that the railway company auctions off. Sure, the heat is probably not great for the plastic, but when it bursts I've got some duct tape. Tonight, we're making shoyu ramen, because everything I make in this kinda tastes like soy sauce.

Tomorrow, I'll eat this bounty of delicious salty broth in the most efficient way possible: from a Super Soaker pointed into my mouth. I have learned not to do it in public, though. All those cops bothering me really brings down the calories-per-minute statistic.

[bullet-prooflove]

The Farm: Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @wabi-sabi1090 @lostinwonderland314 @turtle-cant-communicate @fallout-girl219

Companion Piece to:

Pears - It starts when Carmy makes an order he doesn't remember.

Mornings - Carmy sleeps better with you around.

Bubble - You have no idea that you saved Carmy's life.

Crazy, Stupid, Fucked Up World (NSFW) - Carmy tells you he lvoes you for the first time.

Carmy loves spending days at the farm, he loves walking through the fields, his fingertips skating over the fresh produce that you’ve been cultivating. He loves the vibrance in the colours. The depths of the green, the brilliance of the red, the pops of yellow. He loves all of it, each and every fucking thing.

More than anything he adores the flavours. The rich burst of texture on his tongue as he bites into a blueberry he’s picked fresh from the bushel, the crispness of a ripe tomato he’s plucked from the vine, the crunch of lettuce between his teeth as the taste floods his senses.

Being here inspires him, it has from the moment he’d stumbled onto the eight acre property in search of somewhere to get fresh produce at a decent rate. You’d found him, sitting cross legged in the middle of one of your fields, sketching out a new idea when you sat down next to him, thinking he was a member of the homeless community.

“I can make you a bag up if you want.” You’d said softly. “I know how hard it can be to get fresh stuff when you’re sleeping rough.”

He turned his head towards you then, his brows furrowing into a frown.

“I’m not homeless…” He’d said looking down at himself  in a ratty white t-shirt and sneakers that have seen much better days. “Fuck, do I look homeless?”

“You kinda do.” You agree before you take his hand in yours and drop a couple of blueberries onto his palm. He pops one into his mouth and he swears he’s never tasted anything as good as that single piece of fruit. “It’s all organic, free from GMOs…”

“You can taste it.” He says, eating other blueberry and then another.

You give him some of the overstock to take home with him that night. Some strawberries and raspberries, along with the leafy greens you’ve been growing. He stares at the colours, using the small artist’s set Luca gave him before he left New York to capture their essence as he designs dishes around their flavour palette.

The next time you see him, he’s tossed out the white t-shirt and the sneakers. He’s wearing a soft grey sweater and a pair of jeans Mikey left him instead. His hair is freshly washed and he’s used a little of that moisturiser that Sugar’s been trying to shove down his throat for the past couple of months. He feels better than he has in years and he thinks it’s because of the fruit. He’s been stagnant since coming to Chicago, focusing on keeping his head above water. There hasn’t been time to relax, to take joy in the things around him.

“That’s really sad.” You tell him as you sit beside him once again in what becomes his favourite field. “That you lost your joy.”

“I don’t think that I ever had any to begin with.” He tells you as he stares out across the plush greenery. “I don’t think I feel things the way that other people do, everything feels muted, it has for a long time.”

“I’m sorry.” You say quietly.

And he shrugs his shoulders because at this point he doesn’t know any different. It started back in New York under the tuition of David Fields. The constant barrage of abuse he suffered, it fractured something deep inside of him. His self-esteem had  withered away with under every comment until there was nothing left but this trembling mess.

“Do you worry you’ll never get it back?” You ask him, studying the profile of his face.

“I did.” He tells you before he tilts his head to look at you. His vibrant blue eyes capture yours and you don’t think you’ve ever seen a colour as beautiful as that. “But then I came here and it’s like something inside me just woke up. I’m starting to feel things again, so yea that’s what’s happening right now.”

“I’m glad the farm could help you like that.” You say sincerely.

“I’m guessing the farm helps a lot of people like that.” He says, gesturing to some of the folks out harvesting in the field. “I looked you up, read about some of the mental health programs you run. You’ve got a good rep.”

“Do what you can, for who you can, where you can, am I right?” You say and he thinks that’s one hell of a philosophy to live by in your day to day.

He considers that now as he watches you in the field. You’re wearing yellow wellies over black leggings because it’s potato season and you always get a little muddy. You have his baseball cap turned backwards on your head, your hair spilling out underneath.

It’s in that moment he realises just how truly happy he is, how happy he’s been over the past year and he knows that’s because of this place, because of you.

You’re surprised a couple of minutes later when his arms wrap around your waist. He buries his face into the crook of your neck inhaling the scent of earth that clings to your skin as he draws you back into the shelter of his firm chest.

“What’s up Bear?” You ask as he snuggles in close, his lips ghosting over skin.

“Nothing.” He whispers. “I just fucking love you.”

“That’s good baby…” You smile as you tilt your head towards him. “Because I fucking love you too.”

Love Carmy? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[kcrossvine-art]

Hey folks! Itsssssssssssss timeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee for another dungeon meshi cooking time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Isnt that neat.

Its weird to think how long its gonna be before season 2 of the anime drops. Anyway go read the manga i promise you wont regret it. This ones from senshis lil garden on legs-

Today we'll be making Golem Field Fresh Veggie Lunch!

(As always you can find the cooking instructions and full ingredient list under the break-)

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes in to Golem Field Fresh Veggie Lunch?” YOU MIGHT ASKIts vegetables, vegetable wauter, and not Much else! Knife is there too.

Head of cabbage

4 carrots

3 potatoes

2 onions

2 turnips

Thick slice bacon

Butter

Seasoned rice vinegar

I lied theres pork did you fall for it did u catch it.

AND, “what does Golem Field Fresh Veggie Lunch taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASKSon, have you ever eaten a vegetabel

Broth is surprisingly flavorful considering the limited spices and short cooktime

Potatoes are perfect texture for dipping

Cabbage absorbed a lot of the juices!!!

Was more impressed by the salad part of the meal-

The turnips need to be sliced enough to Barely see through, and the carrots julienned thin enough to be almost peels

And its this wonderful vegetable confetti tasteful in its simple pleasure

Rice vinegar of any kind will work, seasoned rice vinegar is just what i had

Salt both parts of the meal generously

In the future i wouldve shredded or cut the cabbage much smaller. We'll talk more on that later. Its also intentionally barebones with spices and oils, me using butter and rice vinegar is even pushing the limits of show accurate because in the show they used plain olive oil.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From idea to execution, this was a very quick recipe. For starters, nothing gets cooked all that long (the water spends more time empty than it does ingredient'ed) and for lasters nothing gets cut all that much. It was tricky finding good sources for stewing a whole cabbage because most recipes call for either shredding or at least chopping smaller. And they do this for a reason. Its unwieldy trying to eat a whole half of cabbage, you never quite know when to start or where to start. Do you bite chunks out? Peel leaves? Spear it with other things? I dont know. I still dont. Im not a huge raw cabbage fan and it wasnt raw, but it wasnt transformed much either. Minimalist. 

This was a feast in the show and i bet that the freshness of the veggies were a factor, considering they were plucked fresh off the living rock guys. I wouldve killed to be able to brown the onions, roast the carrots, or maybe cube the potatoes (though the consistency was perfect for forking and dipping them in butter so! Bonuses.)

Oven roast bacon is a beloved treet for me. It seemed to absorb some of the vegetable broth and vice versa with the broth absorbing the oils from the bacon, which enhanced all the flavors. Maybe in the future itd be nice to try cooking the bacon a bit ahead, and then adding it to the pot while everythings boiling? Also adding a spritz of lemon juice to either/both is always nice!

I give this recipe a solid 7/10 (with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.) for its simplicity. With modifications like shredding the cabbage and more seasonings, it could become an easy 10/10. hit that like and subscribe or kill me

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Ingredients:

Head of cabbage

4 carrots

3 russet potatoe

2 white onions

2 turnips

10 slices of thick slice bacon

Butter

Seasoned Rice vinegar

Stew Method:

Preheat your oven to 400f. Line a rimmed baking sheet with foil and place a baking rack on top (alternatively you can use a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper and no baking rack. but the baking rack lets the air circulate better and the grease drip off!)

Cook your bacon for about 18 minutes or until crisp. Flip halfway through.

Chop your carrots, peel and slice your potatos in half, and slice your onions into rings.

Get a large pot with a tight fitting lid, add water, salt, your carrots, your potato pieces, and your onions. Cover and heat to a low boil.

Cut the cabbage head in half down the middle. Once the pot is boiling, carefully add your cabbage to the pot and arrange the halves so theyre fully covered.

Cover and cook for about 13 minutes, the cabbage should be slightly crisp but have give to them. 

Remove from heat and laddle contents into a bowl, arrange some of your bacon along the sides so the fat and the broth mix :) salt and pepper to taste. And get a little saucer for butter so you can dip the potato pieces and/or coat the cabbage pieces.

Salad Method:

Peel your carrots and turnips. Cut off the ends of both. Julienne your carrots, and thinly slice your turnips.

Add your carrot greens (or your chosen leaf filler) to a bowl, then add your carrots and turnips.

Coat with seasoned rice vinegar, salt, and pepper. Thoroughly mix and enjoy :) 

[senseofnewness]

what are your own like personal headcanons about art donaldson!!! i love hearing about silly thoughts people have <333 (i love your writing btw!!)

(thank you bby <3)

random art donaldson headcanons

• at 31 years old, art donaldson still can't grow a full mustache. it's as if god took all the body hairs meant for him and gave them to patrick zweig instead.

• art wears tom ford’s azure lime, a fragrance that is fresh and crisp, with none of the heavy muskiness you might expect. some might say it smells a bit feminine, but it suits him well, at least, it always smells clean.

• he named his daughter lily after his grandmother, liliane. although she didn't raise him, they shared a special bond. it was liliane who introduced him to tennis.

• he is a secret fan of the lord of the rings and occasionally quotes gollum, much to tashi’s annoyance, who rolls her eyes at the nerdy side of her husband.

• his favorite food is lasagna, but not the kind you'd expect. he doesn't crave the gourmet freshly made lasagna his personal chef prepares. what he really loves is the store-brand frozen lasagna, the kind that comes in a box and is microwaved. tashi only allows him to eat it on his birthday.

• out of all his body parts, hands are probably his favorite. which is why he finds holding hands to be one of the most intimate gestures. he prefers sturdy hands with slender fingers and manicured nails.

• art had never blocked patrick’s number all those years, just so he could one day say "the phone works both ways" if patrick ever tried to blame him for their falling out.

• he has an irrational fear of spiders. if he spots one in a room, he cannot bring himself to sleep in there, even if tashi has killed the spider for him. in his mind, the spider’s family might be plotting revenge, and that thought is enough to keep him awake at night.

• art donaldson hates the taste of coffee, no matter how many times he had tried to like it in an effort to appear more mature. to him, it always tastes like straight-up dirt. he prefers to stick with vanilla milk.

• he has tried the curly girl method countless times, hoping to restore the curly texture his hair once had as a teenager. despite his efforts and the many products he has tried, his hair remains persistently straight.

• art chews his nails when nervous. and he will chew on anything else he can get a grip on as well. tashi tries to break this habit by painting his nails with bitter nail polish but it doesn't stop him from biting them, it just tastes like shit now.

• art rarely swears or gets angry, but when he does, tashi knows he will spend the entire day brooding. it's all about muttered complaints and scowls. the only thing that typically soothes him is a warm bath.

• when lily was born, art sobbed so loudly that the nurses had to ask him to quiet down to avoid disturbing the other babies in the hospital wing. tashi was so mortified that she pretended not to know him.

[nsfw]

• he wears those tiny underwears because he doesn't feel supported in anything else. he needs his pink fuzzy balls to be secured on the court. a lesson he learned the hard way. when he was fifteen, one of his balls slipped through the leg of his loose boxers during a match, and patrick teased him about it for months. ever since that day, he has sworn off boxers entirely.

• when patrick taught art how to jerk off, art waited for patrick to be asleep to look closely at the sock patrick had used. he studied the slimy stains, comparing the cum to his own, just to make sure everything was normal with him.

• he isn’t a fan of quickies. he prefers to take his time with tashi, believing that making love is about enjoying every moment and taking the time to bring her to the edge. to him, it’s not really making love if she doesn’t climax too. however, there are times when he becomes so horny after a particularly intense practice session, where tashi had pushed him harder than usual, that a quickie becomes necessary.

• he has incredibly sensitive nipples and gets easily aroused when they’re touched or teased. when tashi wants to make him shut up during an argument, she just pinches them and he starts whimpering.

• sometimes he can't help but think about the fact that patrick had been with tashi before him, and it turns him on. the thought of them together becomes a driving force, turning into a personal competition. he feels the need to prove to tashi that he is the best sex she will ever have.

• tashi used threats of her strap-on as a way to motivate him during his matches, but now, instead of fear, it has become a source of excitement. art knows that each victory means tashi is waiting for him at home with her silicone cock, ready to celebrate.

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (3/???)

Hey, babes!! I'm so happy with the proportion that this story is taken! I really love the characters and their personalities, and I think I should take advantage of my lack of not having an older woman for myself and write about that ( and having two older woman hehehe 😈)

So, I fucking love this chapter, my favorite chapter (for now)

It's midnight over here! Good dawn, gays! and hold your hands to yourself.

Enjoy it <3

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Finally the women stop of pretending for themselves and understand you can be something bigger than they know.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist.

Lust

Rio Vidal’s life was a succession of extremes. When she created, it was as if the world around her ceased to exist—colors and textures consumed everything, and each brushstroke was as visceral a necessity as breathing. But when she wasn’t immersed in her art, the void swallowed her with equal intensity. She oscillated between creative fervor and suffocating stagnation, and lately, the latter seemed to be winning.

She would never admit it out loud—pride had always been her greatest virtue or, depending on whom you asked, her most fatal sin. Rio had achieved what she wanted. Exhibitions in Paris, auctions in New York, murals signed in cities she barely remembered visiting. She was a revolution in the art world—the woman who defied rules, who turned canvases into war, who imposed her aesthetics and made critics swallow their bitter opinions. And yet, it wasn’t enough.

It never was.

Her relationship with Agatha had settled into an odd calm. They still shared intense moments, passionate arguments, and glances that spoke more than words. Agatha was made of controlled tides, while Rio was a storm that never knew when to stop. They loved each other, and sometimes that was a problem. But somehow, the spark that used to set everything ablaze between them felt distant.

When Agatha announced she would start mentoring young artists at the university, Rio saw a light in her that she hadn’t seen in a long time. There was something about Agatha’s energy, the way she dedicated herself to new talents, that reminded Rio why she had fallen in love with her in the first place.

That was why, that morning, instead of sending someone to fetch Agatha’s coffee, she decided to go herself. Not because she liked the coffee shop—the place was small, unremarkable, nothing that stood out. But perhaps that was precisely what made it stand out. The ordinary had always fascinated Rio in a way she didn’t fully understand.

And then, she saw you.

It wasn’t like admiring a work of art. There was no perfect composition, no interplay of light that made the scene worthy of a painting. It was something else. An alluring imperfection. Your slightly loose uniform, your worn-out apron, the way you tried to appear confident as you asked what she wanted. Rio knew immediately.

You needed to be seen.

And at that moment, Rio decided she wanted to look.

When you adjusted your apron and asked what she wanted, your voice wasn’t firm. No, it wavered, full of hesitation. Rio should have ordered the coffee, taken it, and left. But instead, she let her gaze wander over you. Meticulous. Maybe even cruel.

Then it happened. The subtle tremor of your hands made the cup slip, the hot liquid spilling onto Rio’s pristine white blouse. The sting of the coffee on her skin didn’t even make her flinch. Physical pain was insignificant to someone like her. But your embarrassment, the hurried sound of apologies spilling from your lips—that was what truly caught her attention.

And then came the moment that marked her more than it should have. In the bathroom, as she removed her stained shirt, Rio realized that your nervousness had a different taste. It wasn’t the kind of fear she saw in young journalists or insecure subordinates. It was almost… innocent.

She stood before the mirror, observing her reflection and the coffee-stained blouse. Her expression was unreadable, but inside, something roared like a caged animal. An unsettling sensation, long forgotten, stirred within her, something that made her skin tingle, a familiar shiver running down her spine.

"I… I’m really sorry," you said, your voice hesitant as you pulled a clean shirt from your bag. "This was totally my fault. Here, please, you can wear this."

Rio turned slowly, accepting the garment with long, elegant fingers. When her fingertips brushed against yours, the air seemed to shift slightly. A subtle displacement, an imperceptible instant in which everything became sharper. Her gaze narrowed slightly, as if she could see something that wasn’t supposed to be there. A fleeting moment, and then everything returned to normal.

With deliberate movements, Rio began unbuttoning her blazer, then her stained shirt. Every gesture was calculated, almost theatrical. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, revealing the skin reddened by the coffee—a faintly pulsing mark, though perhaps it was just a trick of the light in the bathroom.

You looked away, flustered, but Rio sensed your hesitation, the way you held your breath. A nearly imperceptible smile curved her lips. This—this raw, vulnerable intensity—was what stirred something inside her. For years, Rio had believed that feeling was gone, but there it was, so close it felt within reach.

"Do you always get this nervous?" Rio asked, her voice low and rich, filling the tight space like a whispered secret. There was something in her words—a pull, a tension you didn’t know how to resist.

"I… Maybe," you murmured, averting your gaze as you handed her the clean shirt. But when Rio’s fingers touched the simple fabric, a light, natural scent reached her. It wasn’t artificial but something that evoked nature—wet earth, wildflowers, fresh air after the rain. Something alive. Almost primal.

Rio slipped the shirt on slowly, but her eyes never left yours. As she adjusted the collar, she felt a restlessness in her chest, as if something inside her was being pulled beyond her control.

The silence between you was thick, heavy with something unspoken. As she pulled the fabric over her head, she caught that same scent again—faint, familiar. Not perfume, but something purer. Wet earth. Wildflowers. The scent of an impending storm.

Vida.

It was dangerous.

She knew that.

But she couldn’t resist the impulse.

"You apologize too much," Rio commented, her tone enigmatic. "Especially when you don’t even know what for." Her words were a whisper laced with intention, an echo of something hidden between the lines.

She took a step forward, invading your space, watching as your eyes widened slightly, as the heat crept up your cheeks.

Before leaving, Rio pulled a black card from her pocket and handed it to you. "When the shirt is ready, bring it to this address." The words were simple, but they carried something deeper, like an invitation to an unknown fate.

When the door closed behind her, Rio took a deep breath, trying to quiet the silent tempest within. She could still feel that strange sensation lingering in the air, a trace of whatever had just happened.

But she chose to ignore it.

For now.

Agatha Harkness had been a force of nature since the day she took her first breath. What set her apart was not just her beauty and intelligence, but the intensity with which it pulsed inside her—wild and untamed.

Growing up under the watchful eye of Evanora, a rigid and cold matriarch, shaped Agatha in ways she would never admit. It was not a childhood of love, but of expectation. Every success was demanded, and every failure was punished.

There was no room left for innocence. From the very beginning, she walked alone, carrying the weight of her difference and the certainty that if the world wanted her to be a monster, then she would be the best of them.

In her youth, Agatha discovered the power of cinema—and it was Nosferatu that ignited something dangerous inside her. The vampire’s opaque eyes, his spectral presence, the way he stalked the young and innocent Ellen not just with hunger but with a visceral obsession, awakened an unsettling fascination in Agatha. He did not simply take—he corrupted. There was no gentle seduction or empty promises, only an inevitable fate.

She saw herself in that creature, in the way he moved through the shadows, always present, always in control. The scene of Count Orlok slowly ascending the stairs, his body distorted by expressionist lighting, seemed to echo something within her—a certainty that no matter how hard they tried to stop him, he had already won. That stayed with Agatha. The inevitability of power. The fear that precedes submission.

It was then she understood: true horror is not in the monsters, but in what they make people feel. In the terror that seeps in before the touch. In the eyes that never look away. In the slow, patient game of someone who already knows they will win.

Illusion, absolute control over a story, and the power to manipulate the emotions of millions—this had always been a part of her. She started with small independent projects, but soon her name became synonymous with brilliance and psychological terror.

Her works were disturbing, impactful. Each film seemed to unveil a dark fragment of the human psyche, something the audience could not ignore. It did not take long before her shelf was filled with awards: Oscars, Golden Globes, BAFTAs. But acclaim came at a cost. Every step in Agatha’s rise was marked by manipulation and control—traits she mastered both in life and in work. She built an empire but made few allies along the way.

Rio was different. Intense, passionate, with a fire that reminded Agatha of herself in her early years. They had distinct views on power and creation. Where Rio saw passion, Agatha saw strategy. And yet, something about Rio’s near-obsessive determination touched something deep inside her—a part Agatha tried to ignore: the need for connection.

Their marriage was a union of forces, but also a battlefield. Rio was the only one who dared to challenge Agatha, and even so, she loved her with an intensity that made Agatha hesitate. Loving Rio was easy; showing it was another story.

And when Agatha read your script, all of this seemed to resurface. She picked up the paper with long, precise fingers, as if it held something more than words—something she could manipulate, like the invisible strings of her influence. Her gaze traced the title, and something flickered in her eyes, though no one else in the room could see it. Something there called to her, pulling her like a distant echo.

As she read, the words on the page began to fade for Agatha, transforming into images of the past. Memories she preferred to bury. Her mother’s face appeared in her mind—rigid and severe—uttering words Agatha no longer wanted to remember.

The memories—everything returned like a torrent of shadows Agatha had long learned to carry. She knew darkness was her fate, not because she chose it, but because something in her had always led her down that path. There was no redemption for someone like her. There never had been.

And yet, something in you seemed to defy that. Your energy—so young and vibrant—seemed to radiate from the page you handed her, as if each word you wrote carried a fragment of something impossible to ignore. Agatha felt it. A warmth, almost uncomfortable, that seemed to contradict everything she knew—everything she was.

She pressed her lips together, holding the page with firm fingers, and murmured, almost inaudibly, “Interesting.” Her voice was neutral, but inside, a storm of ideas was already forming. It was not just the text that captured her.

It was you.

Agatha watched you closely. Every small gesture, every restrained breath, seemed to confirm her suspicions. Your energy was rare—pure, yet untouched by the corruption of the world or the ambition that had consumed so many within that glamorous universe. You were something she had not seen in a long time: a fragment of purity, something that could be harnessed.

Shaped in scorching fire. Like a raw and precious gem.

And yet, you did not hate. Not your mother, not your past. That unsettled her. How could someone not hate after being abandoned? To Agatha, hatred was inevitable—a natural consequence of pain. She could not comprehend your choice, your resilience, and perhaps that was exactly what drew her in.

“This is… rare,” she said, more to herself than to you. The word sounded like a riddle, but also like a verdict. Agatha felt the weight of that realization solidify inside her.

There was something about you that could not be ignored.

[...]

The kitchen was bathed in the twilight gloom when Agatha heard the door open. The golden light of the setting sun slipped through the closed blinds in slivers, streaking the marble countertop like scars.

She held a glass of red wine, her pale fingers gripping the crystal with a force that threatened to shatter it. The sound of Rio’s footsteps echoed down the hallway—heavy, familiar, yet carrying a hesitation that made Agatha’s heart beat faster. Something was wrong.

Rio entered the kitchen like an uneasy shadow in her own home. The scent filled the space before Agatha even turned around: melted caramel, bitter coffee, and lemongrass. A sweet, unfamiliar aroma that did not belong to the wife she knew. It wasn’t Rio’s scent—amber and smoke, like incense burning in secret.

No.

This was intrusive.

Feminine in a fragile way.

Agatha turned slowly, like a panther scenting blood. Her blue eyes, usually so calculating, gleamed with a coldness sharp enough to cut diamonds. Rio stood in the doorway, illuminated by the last light of the day spilling through the window. The blouse she wore was a faded shade of pink, too tight around the shoulders.

Rage rose like poison in Agatha’s throat.

“What the fuck is this?”

Her voice was a razor blade, slicing the air between them.

Rio frowned, but her fingers twitched involuntarily against the seams of the blouse, as if trying to conceal it.

“It was an accident. Someone spilled coffee on me at the studio. I borrowed a blouse.”

“Oh, of course.” Her voice came out low, almost gentle, which only made the threat more evident. “And the scent? That’s part of the accident too?”

Rio let out a heavy sigh, her tense shoulders making it clear she was too exhausted for an argument.

“Whose blouse is that, Rio?” Agatha pressed, each word a bullet.

“The waitress. She just wanted to help.”

Agatha laughed—a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, sure. Help.” She stepped closer, invading Rio’s space until the intrusive scent—sweet, cheap—made her wrinkle her nose. “You smell like a third-rate brothel.”

Rio stiffened, her jaw clenching. “For fuck’s sake, Agatha. Don’t do this.”

“Why not?” Agatha took another step, her wine nearly spilling over the rim of the glass. “You come home, reeking of someone else, wearing clothes that aren’t yours, and expect me not to ask questions?”

“I’m not hiding anything!” Rio raised her voice, but there was a crack in it, like she was too tired to defend herself. “It was just a blouse, Agatha. A borrowed blouse because I was drenched in coffee. Why are you making this bigger than it is?”

“Because it’s not just a blouse!” Agatha shouted, her voice echoing off the kitchen walls. “It’s the scent, it’s the way you’re looking at me right now, like I’m the crazy one!”

Rio stepped forward, a raw, burning anger swelling in her chest.

“I’m trying, Agatha. Trying to be better, trying to fix this—if there’s even anything left to fix. But you… you won’t let me. You keep searching for ghosts that aren’t there.”

Agatha glanced at her wine glass, as if the answer lay at the bottom. “Maybe ghosts are all we have left.”

The silence that followed was thick, laden with all the words left unspoken. Rio caught her own reflection in the glass door—her borrowed blouse itched against her skin—then turned back to Agatha. “Do you want me to take it off? Burn it? Swear I’ll never borrow anything again? Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

Agatha didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were locked onto Rio, but they seemed to see past her, as if they were living a lie—every lack of affection, every night they slept with their backs turned to each other.

“I want you to tell me the truth.” She finally said, her voice breaking. “The whole truth, no edits, no half-measures. Because I can’t keep living in this fog, Rio. I can’t keep wondering if you still love me or if you’re just waiting for the right moment to leave.”

Rio closed her eyes, as if Agatha’s words were physical blows. When she opened them again, they were filled with tears. “I love you, Agatha. So fucking much. But you never let me in, you never let me get close. You build walls and then complain that I’m on the other side.”

Agatha swallowed hard, her wine glass trembling in her grip. “I—” She started, her lips quivering, not even knowing what she was about to say. “Maybe this is just who I am.”

The brokenness in Agatha’s voice shattered something inside Rio.

“Agatha...” Rio reached out, hesitating, but the older woman straightened her shoulders, as if something inside her had shut down again.

The walls were back up.

“I’m sleeping in the other room. Goodnight.” Agatha’s tone was sharp, but her eyes betrayed something deeper. Something even she didn’t want to face.

She turned without waiting for a response, taking with her the scent of wine and the weight of everything left unsaid.

Rio stood there, unmoving, watching Agatha disappear down the hallway like a ghost. Like she had been leaving for a long time already.

So, when you’re in Rio’s living room, holding the bag in your hands, the older woman is surprised that you actually came—and so quickly.

She was in the living room, leaning over the canvas before her, hands stained with paint as she brushed colors onto the surface. But despite the painting demanding her attention, she knew you were there before even hearing your hesitant footsteps on the other side of the door.

When the door opened, revealing your shy silhouette clutching the carefully prepared bag, Rio felt an inexplicable tightness in her chest. Since the day of the spilled coffee, there had been something about you that unsettled her—a peculiar energy, a silent game between hiding and exposing yourself in the smallest gestures.

You.

Small, fragile, holding a paper bag as if it carried something sacred. Your wide eyes scanned the studio with a curiosity Rio hadn’t seen in years—not in critics, not in buyers, not in lovers. It was the purity of someone who still believed art could save.

“Oh. Look who decided to grace us with her presence. Butterfingers.” Rio’s voice was smoother than she had intended. Her smile was a trap, but something about the way you blushed—a warmth rising from your neck to your cheeks—made her own pulse quicken.

You extended the bag, hands trembling. “I-I came to bring your blouse. And… again, I’m sorry.”

Rio took the bag with calculated indifference, but her fingers betrayed a sudden interest at the weight of the fabric. The blouse was pristine, folded with military precision, infused with lavender—a scent that didn’t belong in her world of amber and woody.

You washed it. You ironed it. You cared.

“Lavender?” Rio held the blouse against the light, pretending to examine the seams, but really, she was studying you.

You shook your head silently, lips parted slightly, like a child waiting for approval.

Something inside Rio tightened.

Innocent. So innocent.

"You’re so attentive, aren’t you?" The teasing in her voice was automatic, a reflex to keep her distance. But when you blushed again, lowering your gaze, Rio felt a pang of guilt. The bag was set aside, but her attention wasn’t.

And then you looked at the canvases.

Rio watched, fascinated, as your eyes scanned each piece. You didn’t hide your reactions—tilting your head, furrowing your brows, smiling unconsciously at a particularly wild brushstroke. It was like watching someone decode a language even they didn’t fully understand.

"What do you think of my work?" The question came out softer than Rio had intended.

"They’re… impressive."

Impressive. A hollow word, used by lazy critics. But from your lips, it sounded like a genuine compliment. Rio almost laughed. Almost.

Then you pointed at the darkest painting in the studio—the one no one dared to mention. The one that bled green and brown, chaos and stillness, desire and fear.

"I really like that one."

Rio stepped closer to the painting, her fingers grazing the frame as if stroking a dangerous animal. "This piece is about desire," she explained, her voice lower, as if sharing a secret. "The line between control and surrender."

You stood still, but your eyes—your eyes—shone with an understanding Rio hadn’t expected. As if you saw beyond the paint, beyond the layers, straight into the raw heart of it.

The artwork was an open wound on canvas. Shades of green—the green of trampled leaves, of hope rotting—fought against the brown of damp earth, as if the painting were devouring itself. Brutal strokes tore across the surface, but in the corners, almost hidden, were delicate details: wilted flowers painted with surgical precision, gold threads sutured into the darkness. It was violence and vulnerability in a perverse balance, and you felt, deep in your stomach, that it was a mirror.

"It’s about the moment before surrender. The hesitation before the inevitable." She stepped closer to you, her eyes locked onto your face. "I like that stage. Where everything is anticipation."

Her gaze held you, and there were no more masks. There was hunger there. The hunger of someone who sees a pristine porcelain vase and wonders how high it can fall before it shatters.

Rio’s hand touched your wrist, her fingers wrapping around it with a pressure that was neither gentle nor threatening—it was an experiment.

Your breath hitched. The air smelled of paint and something else—Rio’s woody perfume, now tinged with sweat. You tried to step back, but your body didn’t obey. You were paralyzed, not by fear, but by the morbid curiosity of seeing how far this would go.

Agatha Harkness didn’t believe in coincidences. To her, life was a series of calculated moves, like chess played in slow motion. But when she stopped at the studio’s doorway and saw you—so young, so awkward—with Rio’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, she felt something rare: surprise.

The scene was almost comical. Rio, always so composed, leaning over you like a vulture over fresh prey. You, frozen, wide-eyed, uncertain whether to run or surrender. And the smell… God, the smell. Cheap lemongrass perfume mixed with the scent of coffee and nervous sweat. Agatha almost laughed.

"I hope I’m not interrupting… anything intimate," she said, her voice as sharp as the heel that echoed against the wooden floor as she stepped inside.

You turned, and Agatha saw the exact moment your heart stopped. "P–Professor Harkness?" The stutter was delicious. Raw innocence. She studied your flushed face, your parted lips, your trembling hands still holding the hem of your dress as if it were an object of comfort. A speck of dust in her immaculate world. And yet…

Why do you shine so brightly?

Rio stepped in between, as she always did, but Agatha didn’t look at her. Her blue eyes remained fixed on you, analyzing every microexpression. The way your fingers clenched your fabric, the slight tremor on your lips, your short breath and too deep for it to be just fear.

Excitement. You were excited—like a puppy wagging its tail after being praised. And Rio, of course, knew.

"So you…" Agatha tilted her head, her sharp smile that of someone who had already foreseen checkmate before even making a move. "Are responsible for the coffee stain that ruined her favorite blouse?"

You were no threat. Not yet. But there was something there… But there was something there… Something that made her own fingers itch to pick up a pen and rewrite you. Her way.

"Interesting," she murmured, crossing her arms. The fabric of her purple suit whispered with the movement, reminding her that she was always dressed for war. Her gaze traced your figure— a blue dress made of cheap fabric, sleeveless, the fit went to your knees and your white sneakers, but with worn soles, gave you a refreshing look. Jovial. A student. A nobody. And yet, Rio looked at you as if you were the last unfinished masterpiece of a master.

What is it about you?

Agatha stepped closer, ignoring Rio. Her perfume— white jasmine—wrapped around you like a veil. "Well, gem," she whispered, the syllable rolling off her tongue like poisoned candy, "I hope your disastrous talents are compensated later, hmm? After all, you’re supposed to impress me today, aren’t you?"

The threat was disguised as teasing, but you understood. She saw the shiver run down your spine, the way your throat contracted as you swallowed.

Good girl.

When you fled, Agatha didn’t move. She listened to your hurried footsteps in the hallway, the silence that settled like smoke after a fire. Then, she turned to Rio.

"Who is she?" Rio cut her off before she could say anything else.

Agatha was still staring at Rio when she smirked. "One of the students in the project. A nobody. But she has the potential to be something."

Rio felt a shiver run up her spine at Agatha’s words. A nobody. She knew that tone. Detached on the surface, but brimming with submerged possibilities.

And the worst part was that she understood.

She understood because her own blood was still running hot from the moment your eyes met hers in the studio. From the instant she saw that glimmer—the curiosity, the hesitation, the desire disguised as innocence.

"Potential, huh?" Rio twirled the brush between her fingers, a lazy smile on her lips, but her eyes were sharp, noticing how Agatha now gripped the strap of her bag. The slight tremor, the way the older woman avoided her gaze a second longer than necessary.

"You saw it too, didn’t you?" The question hung in the air, its tone almost condescending, mysterious, carrying more meanings than either of them could express.

Agatha remained silent.

But Rio didn’t need a verbal answer.

Because she saw it.

She saw how Agatha looked at you—sideways, feigning disinterest, yet registering every detail. The way your mouth parted when you were nervous, the way your hands hesitated before touching anything, as if asking the world for permission.

Whatever that spark was, that unsettling warmth that arose whenever you were around, it didn’t belong to Rio alone.

"Funny..." Rio drawled, savoring each syllable, "you always say you don’t like children."

Agatha narrowed her eyes. "And I hate them."

"Then tell me," Rio stepped forward, leaning against the counter, "what happened here, Agatha?"

The older woman inhaled slowly. "Nothing happened."

"That’s not what I asked."

Agatha closed her eyes for a second—perhaps searching for patience, perhaps trying to silence something within herself. But Rio saw. She saw it in the way Agatha’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, in the way her breathing became imperceptibly deeper. She felt the weight of the moment—the weight of a name, a face, the memory of your presence in the studio.

"She has something, doesn't she?" Rio murmured, her voice dropping a tone lower.

Agatha opened her eyes, a crease forming between her brows. "What are you talking about?"

Rio chuckled, the sound rough, almost amused. "Her energy."

And then something shifted.

The way Agatha’s shoulders stiffened. The way her breath faltered for a minuscule, almost imperceptible moment. As if Rio had touched exactly where she shouldn’t.

"She has this... purity." Rio continued, unhurried. "But not that naive, childish purity kids have. No. It’s different. It’s as if she hasn’t been shaped yet, as if she can still be twisted and bent until she takes a form even she doesn’t understand."

Agatha remained silent, but Rio saw.

She saw it in the way her jaw clenched. In the way her fingers adjusted her perfectly positioned glasses, as if that alone could keep her in control.

Rio stepped closer, almost touching Agatha, almost whispering against the edge of her mind. "And it gets to you, doesn’t it?"

With a laugh—trembling, incredulous—Agatha tried to regain control.

"You’re being insane." She laughed, running her tongue along the inside of her cheek.

Rio savored the moment. Agatha’s hesitation was rare, precious, like a glimpse of the sun on a stormy day. She watched as Agatha ran a hand through her hair, her long fingers moving too fast through the strands, an almost impatient motion.

"Insane?" Rio murmured, tilting her head. "Or just right?"

The provocation was delivered with surgical precision. Rio didn’t need a direct answer—the silence spoke for itself.

Agatha scoffed, looking away for an instant, but Rio was too close for her to truly escape. And when Agatha’s eyes returned, there was something there. Something dark and pulsing, like a veiled threat.

"You think you know me that well, Vidal?"

Rio smiled, her lips curling slowly, as if tasting the name in her mouth. "I’ve watched you for so many years, Agatha. Every detail. Every reaction." She stepped close enough to feel her wife’s unsteady breath. "For longer than you can imagine."

The tension was unbearable, and Agatha couldn’t take it. She took a step back, her legs blindly searching for something to lean on.

Agatha’s jaw tightened. "You’ve always been arrogant."

"I don’t see you contradicting me."

And then came that heavy silence—dense, electric. A silence that was not just the absence of words, but an invisible current between them, a battle waged on a level neither dared to name.

Rio took advantage of it.

"You feel it." She said, her voice low, drawn out. "Even if you don’t want to. Even if you hate it. You feel it."

Agatha squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could push away what was taking root there. "She’s just a fucking girl! I’m old enough to be her mother."

Agatha felt the weight of confusion in her bones, a tension that wouldn’t dissolve no matter how much she tried to suffocate it. There was something in her that repelled—and at the same time, gravitated toward—you. A magnet, a force that refused to be denied.

Her body knew before her mind did. The way her fingers involuntarily clenched around the edge of the counter, as if she needed something to hold onto. The heat rising beneath her skin, a latent discomfort that refused to dissipate. The way her breathing wavered, as if her very existence was being challenged by something as simple as your presence.

It was ridiculous.

You were young. So young. Not in the superficial sense—not just in years—but in the purity within you that made her shudder. It wasn’t blind innocence, it wasn’t ignorance. It was malleability. It was the absence of cynicism, the freshness of someone who still believed. You were not like them. You were not corrupted.

And that’s what destroyed her.

Because if Agatha were another woman, if she were like Rio—so free to embrace her own desires, so fearless in her provocations—perhaps she would have already given in. But within her, there was something fiercer, something more deeply ingrained, fighting against it.

It was unacceptable.

Every time her gaze met yours, every time she noticed your sincere curiosity, your wonder at things she had long considered gray and worn-out, something in Agatha wavered.

And it infuriated her.

Because she shouldn’t waver. She shouldn’t feel this hunger. She shouldn’t be sinking into this abyss from which she wouldn’t escape unscathed.

Rio tilted her head, her eyes alight with something between fascination and triumph. Ah, so that was it. The truth had slipped out in a moment of weakness, a lapse Agatha would never have allowed if she had been in control. But there she was, exposed, fragile in just the right places.

But Rio laughed—a low, intimate sound that made Agatha’s stomach twist. Her fingers traced an imaginary line in the air, between Agatha’s chest and the door through which you had fled. "That’s just a number, darling. And you know that’s not what this is about."

Agatha felt anger mix with desire—a dangerous combination that was driving her insane. Her body betrayed her: the weight of her breasts beneath the impeccable fabric of her suit, the dampness between her legs, the tingling in her fingertips with the need to touch, to grasp, to possess. It was unbearable.

Agatha let out a dry laugh, a bitter sound that died too quickly. She tried to mask the tension, but Rio saw. Saw it in the way her fingers gripped the counter behind her, as if she needed something solid to anchor her.

"This is so fucking pathetic."

Agatha’s body trembled in uncontrollable spasms.

Rio smiled—a wicked, confident smile. She knew Agatha better than anyone. She knew the woman was off-balance, vulnerable, no matter how much she tried to hide it.

Rio tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with challenge. Suddenly, she closed the distance between them, her hands pressing into the marble on either side of Agatha’s body, trapping her. "Let me tell you a secret, Aggie." The nickname came like a sweet stab. "Nothing is more pathetic than denying what makes you feel alive."

Rio leaned in, her hand slowly rising to Agatha’s face, tracing the curve of her jaw with cold fingers. "Want to know what I think?" she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of Agatha’s ear. "You want to use her. You want to mold your little gem."

Agatha swallowed hard. It was the truth. Every word. She could lie to the world, but not to herself—not here, not with Rio’s fingers now twisting into her hair, tugging hard enough to hurt.

Agatha closed her eyes, a trembling sigh slipping from her lips. Her head fell back, her rigid posture finally dissolving.

"Fuck…" she murmured, feeling a wave of heat rush through her body, her nipples hardening beneath the linen blouse.

"And what do you want?" Agatha countered, her voice a rough whisper. "To watch me fall? To destroy my fucking reputation over a girl?

Rio smiled, her white teeth gleaming under the dim studio light. "I want to see you and that proud stance of yours fall. I want to see you burn with desire for this."

The kiss was inevitable.

Violent. Chaotic. A disaster of teeth and tongue and pent-up rage. Agatha grabbed Rio’s collar, her fingers twisting the fabric, while the other hand buried itself in the dark hair, pulling until a rough moan escaped between them. It had been so long since this fire, since they touched. It was delicious. It was all wrong—the taste of Rio was coffee, caramel, and defiance, and Agatha hated how much she drowned in it.

When they pulled apart, Agatha’s red lipstick was smeared on both their lips, like fresh blood.

"Why gem?" Rio asked, her voice laced with malice as her hand snaked around Agatha’s waist, sliding down until pressing firmly between her legs, the expensive fabric of her skirt nothing but an obstacle.

“B–because it's precious. Raw.” Agatha gasped, her voice rough and hesitant. “And it needs to be shaped.”

Rio smirked, her eyes flashing with predatory desire as she felt Agatha's arousal growing under her touch. “And you want that, don’t you? To control everything about her until she’s nothing but yours?”

Rio’s touch intensified, her movements skilled and meticulously calculated to elicit more reactions from the woman who was always in control. Agatha couldn't stop the low moan that escaped her lips, heat building in waves that almost made her lose balance.

The control she so cherished seemed to be dissolving under Rio’s touch. But somewhere in her mind, the image of you remained, flickering like a beacon Agatha couldn’t ignore.

Rio noticed the exact moment Agatha gave in. The subtle tremor in her tense shoulders, the ragged breathing, the way her hips shifted—almost imperceptibly—in response to the touch. It was rare to see the mighty Agatha, a woman so powerful, unravel like this.

And Rio loved every second of it.

"Hmmm… You’re so quiet," Rio teased, her voice low and thick with desire as she increased the pressure between Agatha’s thighs. "What happened to that dominant stance? Not going to tell me how irritating I am? Or are you going to admit that I’m right?"

Agatha opened her eyes, her icy blues darkening into stormy depths, desire sparking in her irises. She hated herself for being so vulnerable, but there was something hypnotic about the control Rio wielded over her.

Rio’s touch wasn’t just physical; there was power in it, the kind that stole her breath. Agatha tried to respond, but the words caught in her throat, replaced by a muffled moan.

Rio chuckled softly, her mouth finding Agatha’s neck, kissing and nibbling at the sensitive skin as the other arched into her. "Ah, so that’s it," she murmured, her voice vibrating against Agatha’s skin. "The great filmmaker, the queen of West Hollywood who manipulates everything and everyone... is at my mercy."

"Shut fuck up!" Agatha finally managed to say, but her voice was weak, failing to carry any authority.

"Shut up?" Rio repeated, feigning offense as her free hand slid up Agatha’s torso, finding her breasts beneath the thin blouse. Her fingers squeezed gently, earning a shaky sigh. "You know you love it when I talk. When I tell you exactly what I want to do to you. And to her."

The name wasn’t spoken, but it lingered in the air like a forbidden promise.

You.

Always you.

Even in that moment, between desire and surrender, the image of your innocent expression, the purity that seemed to radiate from you, invaded Agatha’s mind.

"She has nothing to do with this." Agatha whispered, but it sounded more like a desperate attempt to convince herself than Rio.

"Oh." Rio laughed, the sound low and deliciously dangerous. "She has everything to do with this. You feel it too, don’t you? That raw energy, almost untouched. It’s like a magnet, pulling you in, making you want..."

"Enough!" Agatha cut her off, but her body betrayed her when she pressed herself even closer to Rio’s hand.

Rio smirked, triumphant, as her lips found Agatha’s in another kiss, one filled with all the emotions neither dared to name. The control Agatha always possessed seemed to have vanished completely.

In that instant, she wasn’t a renowned filmmaker. She was just a woman consumed by desire, surrendering to the touch of someone who knew exactly how to disarm her.

The kiss between them was fierce, a battlefield where all the emotions they refused to name clashed and intertwined. Rio held Agatha tightly, as if needing to anchor her in the moment, while their lips met in a dance of control and surrender. It was impossible to tell who was leading and who was yielding; there was only the burning heat consuming them both.

When they finally pulled apart, the air felt heavier, thick with the tension still lingering. Agatha ran a hand through her hair, trying to regain her composure.

"I need to get back to work." She murmured, adjusting the collar of her blouse. Her fingers hesitated at the top button, which she unfastened in a quick motion. Her body was hot, almost feverish, and she hated the loss of control she felt.

Rio tilted her head, watching her with a lazy smile, but her eyes burned with something more intense. "Of course you do." She replied, her voice low, a purring provocation. She stepped closer, her presence overwhelming. "But this isn’t over."

Agatha shot her a sharp look but didn’t respond. She knew Rio was right—this was far from over. Without another word, she walked away, the sound of her heels echoing through the room.

Rio stood still for a moment, the smile gradually fading as her thoughts wandered. The empty space Agatha left behind felt unbearable. It wasn’t just about Agatha—it was about you.

She tried to refocus on her work, sitting at the table, but her eyes couldn’t stay on the words in the report she held. Her mind drifted to you, to the brief touch of your hands, the nervous way you spoke, the wide, bright eyes that seemed to overflow with a purity Rio hadn’t seen in a long time.

Too innocent. Too pure. That was exactly what fascinated her—and tormented her.

Rio abruptly stood, pacing like a caged predator. Her mind painted scenarios of what it would be like to hear you laugh, to breathe in the scent that still lingered on the bag you had brought, to taste the vulnerability in you and explore it to its limits.

She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, but it was impossible. The restlessness grew, turning into something unbearable.

Then, Rio decided.

If you wouldn’t leave her mind, she would go to you.

Grabbing her coat, she left the apartment without even checking the time. The thought of seeing you again ignited every fiber of her being. Driving through the busy streets only fed her anticipation, as if the destination was something far beyond the address she knew by heart.

You were there, behind the counter, serving someone with a shy smile—the same smile that had captured her attention the first time.

When Rio finally arrived at the café where you worked, she paused outside for a moment. The glass allowed her to see inside, the warm lights, the customers coming and going, and then—there you were.

Rio smiled, slow and triumphant, as she placed her hand on the door and pushed it open. She finally had you within her reach again.

When Rio stepped into the café, it was as if she could finally breathe for real. The aroma of fresh coffee mixed with a scent that seemed to emanate from you—something she couldn't quite name. Innocence, maybe, with a hint of sweetness that made her feel both restless and strangely at peace.

Her eyes found you immediately. She noticed you standing behind the counter, your rehearsed smile lighting up your face. Rio caught the small crease in your cheeks when you smiled, the dimples that appeared briefly before vanishing. It was almost disarming.

And that was what unsettled her. There was something about you that threw her off balance. Your purity, your naivety—something she couldn't quite name, but that made her want to stay close, to watch, to test the limits of everything you represented.

Rio felt a tightening in her stomach as you approached. Your presence seemed to fill the space between you in a way she wasn’t prepared to handle. She watched the shape of your lips as you spoke, the slight flush in your cheeks when your eyes met hers. Every small detail of you pulled her into an abyss she wasn’t sure she wanted to escape.

Sitting there, the ignored menu in front of her, Rio tried to regain control. But her mind kept drifting, back to the images that had haunted her the night before—memories of Agatha in her arms, whispering words of desire, both of them knowing exactly who was truly between them.

Her heart pounded as she thought about what she could do. The possibilities were endless, and each one of them wrapped around her like a suffocating heat. She could feel the contrast between the sweetness of the setting and the intensity of her own thoughts, like a slow-burning fire beneath the surface.

Rio drummed her fingers on the table, her body restless, unable to ignore the ideas forming in her mind. Her thoughts created scenarios—accidental touches, encounters that could seem casual but were planned down to the finest detail. She wanted to test the limits of your innocence, to see how you would react to each provocation.

When you returned to the table, balancing the tray with precision, Rio barely managed to suppress the smile that threatened to curl her lips. Just watching you move was hypnotizing. Everything about you seemed designed to captivate—even though, judging by the look in your eyes, you had no idea of the effect you had.

There was a slight tension in the air as you walked away again, and Rio leaned back, crossing her arms. She knew she was being consumed by something she shouldn’t feel, but the desire was growing like a wave, uncontrollable. The idea of you was sweet and tempting, and no matter how hard she fought it, Rio couldn’t look away.

A palpable tension lingered as Rio watched you, a faint smile curving her lips. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed in a relaxed gesture, but her eyes betrayed her apparent calm. Internally, Rio felt the discomfort of an internal battle—something about you awakened emotions in her that should have remained buried. She knew she shouldn’t allow herself to feel this, but the desire was growing, irresistible and relentless.

You were a mystery, something sweet and tempting, and Rio was losing control. The contrast between your vulnerability and your obvious effort to maintain composure fascinated her. Every movement of yours seemed laced with a hesitation that only heightened the intensity of the moment. Rio studied every detail, from the shy flush creeping up your cheeks to the way your hands clenched the cleaning cloth, as if controlling them could help control what you were feeling.

When Rio called you little gem, it was almost a test—a deliberate provocation. She saw the immediate impact of the words, the flicker in your eyes betraying the confusion and nervousness you tried to hide. Something about how the nickname unsettled you left her deeply satisfied, almost as if she had found a key to understanding you—or perhaps to controlling you.

When you mentioned that Agatha also used the nickname, Rio felt something ignite inside her. It wasn’t jealousy, but something darker, more possessive. Her smile deepened, her gaze taking on a sharp, almost predatory glint. I know, she thought, and in that instant, she realized she saw you as a rare gem—precious, but still unpolished. Someone who needed to be shaped.

The thought was dangerous but irresistible. There was a dark satisfaction in the idea of being the one to mold you, to be the one who transformed you into something even brighter and more valuable. And yet, no matter how much she wanted it, Rio knew she was treading on dangerous ground. She was crossing a line, but she couldn’t—or perhaps didn’t want to—stop.

[...]

"This is our new intern," one of the subordinates said, pointing in your direction.

And when Agatha saw you, she was struck by an unexpected sensation. It wasn’t just attraction; it was something deeper, more unsettling. There was something about you, in your nervous and almost submissive presence, that intrigued her in a way she couldn’t rationalize.

She, who had always maintained total control over her emotions, felt momentarily unsteady. That irritated her deeply. She couldn’t allow a mere intern to have such an effect on her, especially in her workplace—her territory, her kingdom.

So, like a queen on her throne, she maintained the flawless façade of authority and distance, even as her mind kept searching for answers about what it was in you that had thrown her so off balance.

When Agatha saw you waiting for the bus, something inside her hesitated. She wasn’t the kind of person who cared about other people’s conveniences, but at that moment, the idea of leaving you there felt absurd. She needed an excuse to watch you more closely, to understand the strange pull you had over her.

As she let you into the car, she felt the tension in the air thicken, fueled by her own need for control and the evident vulnerability you exuded.

Agatha felt a quiet satisfaction as she observed every one of your reactions. Behind the cold smile and the casual posture, her mind was a controlled storm.

There was something fascinating about the way you tried to maintain your composure but failed, betraying yourself in nervous gestures and trembling words. She noticed every detail—the slight tremor in your voice, the flush in your cheeks, the way you hesitated before answering. It was as if you were an open book, and Agatha had all the patience in the world to explore each page.

When she heard your awkward attempt to justify your concern, a spark of cruel amusement passed through her. It wasn’t just the uncertainty in your words, but the way you seemed to struggle against yourself – between wanting to please her and keeping a safe distance. Agatha savored this internal battle like a game she already knew she would win.

When she parked in front of your building, Agatha felt a pang of discomfort seeing the place. It was simple, without the grandeur she was used to. Yet, this simplicity seemed like an extension of herself, something she couldn’t help but notice with growing curiosity. Agatha had always despised ordinary things, but there was something intriguing about you, something that made her want to explore a more raw and honest side of the world.

The leather of the steering wheel was cold under her fingers, but Agatha didn’t feel the chill. Everything in her body was on fire — a silent blaze, consuming her from within. She watched you, sitting beside her in the car, with the same intensity with which she studied an ambiguous piece of art. Innocent. Fragile. And yet…

When she asked about your "boyfriend," the word came out acidic, disguised in a casual tone. Her blue eyes fixed on you, capturing every microexpression: the blush on your cheeks, the tremble in your hands, your wavering voice. You were an open book, and she hated how much she longed to read every page.

"I don’t like these. Men, I mean."

The answer hit her like a shock. Agatha slowly turned her face, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Ah. The syllable escaped like a poisoned sigh. It wasn’t surprise. It was recognition. You were confessing something she already knew, something your body had been screaming since day one: you were like her. Like them.

But you didn’t have their malice. You didn’t have their scars.

The silence that followed was a battlefield. Agatha felt your gaze like a knife peeling away her layers — the jasmine perfume she wore to mask the emptiness, the pendant she wore as armor, the control she kept like a religion. You saw her. Too much.

And maybe she wanted to strangle you for it.

Your answer exposed you, and Agatha realized it immediately. She could have explored more, could have pressed until you admitted things you might not even know about yourself, but instead, she decided to prolong the game. The enigmatic smile that formed on her lips was more than just a gesture of amusement; it was a veiled promise that this wouldn’t end there.

"And what do you like, then?"

The question was a sharp thread of silk. She already knew the answer. She wanted to hear you groan. She wanted to see you struggle with the words, with the desire that made you tremble.

"Women who are... powerful."

Agatha tilted her head, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel until the knuckles turned white. Powerful. The word echoed in her skull like a profane verse, and it carried a meaning greater than you could imagine. You looked at her as if she were a deity — not of goodness, but of fire. And she wanted to burn you until only ashes remained in her hands.

"Did I… impress you today?"

Your voice came out like a thread of silk about to snap — hesitant, trembling, full of a vulnerability that made Agatha’s chest tighten involuntarily. The question was so fragile, so childlike, that for a moment, Agatha felt like a predator facing prey that didn’t even know it was being hunted.

She looked at you, her blue eyes scanning every detail: the parted lips, the hands twisting the fabric of your dress, the blush rising from your neck to your cheeks. You were a paradox — a lost child in a woman’s body, seeking approval as if it were a sweet to be won.

Pathetic.

The word echoed in her mind, but it didn’t come out with the force it should have. Instead, Agatha felt something strange gnawing in her stomach, something she wouldn’t admit. It was like watching a flower bloom under a storm — fragile, yet stubborn in its beauty.

And she hated how much it fascinated her.

"Maybe you should try a little harder, little gem," she replied, her voice as smooth as a sharp blade. The nickname came naturally, as if it already belonged to you. Little gem.

Fragile. Valuable. Hers.

She saw you swallow hard, your eyes wide, and felt a perverse triumph. You wanted to please her. You wanted to be worthy. And she wanted to rub your nose in that submission until you begged for more.

But there was something else there, something that disturbed her. The way you looked at her — not with fear, but with an admiration that bordered on devotion — made something inside her twist. It was as if you saw her not for what she was, but for what she could be.

And that was dangerous.

"Good girl." She said, her voice laced with approval, but also with a veiled threat. There was something in that compliment that made you feel small and, at the same time, powerful.

The scent of your shampoo — something sweet, innocent, like ripe strawberries — invaded her nostrils. Agatha imagined burying her face in your neck, biting the skin until it marked, until you knew exactly who you belonged to. Her heart raced, not with desire, but with hatred. Hatred for how her body responded. Hatred for how you made her feel…

Human.

The words came out before Agatha could stop them.

"You have potential. But potential is nothing without direction. Without… control."

She felt the sentence slip from her lips like an involuntary sigh, and immediately wanted to take it back, swallow it. It was a sentence that hadn’t been calculated, hadn’t been measured or polished for the desired effect. It was raw, direct, and — worse — sincere.

Agatha always calculated. Every word, every gesture, every glance was carefully planned to maintain control, to keep the world at a distance. But there, in that moment, with you so close she could feel the warmth of your body and the sweet scent of your shampoo, something inside her gave way.

She leaned in, her fingers trembling slightly by her side, as if fighting the impulse to touch you. Her blue eyes, usually so cold and calculating, shone with an intensity she couldn’t disguise. It was like a part of her — a part she kept locked away — had slipped out, even if just for a moment.

Potential. The word echoed in her mind, heavy with meaning. You had something she hadn’t seen in years: a flame that hadn’t been extinguished by the world’s cynicism. And that drew her like a moth to the light, even knowing it might burn her wings.

But Agatha wasn’t a moth. She was the storm. And storms don’t surrender to fragile lights.

Still, in that moment, she let herself fall. Moved closer, the scent of jasmine wrapping around you like a veil, and felt the thin air between you. Control. The word was a mantra, a reminder of what she was, what she needed to be. But there, with you so close, it seemed so distant.

"And what do you want me to do?" The question sounded weak, your doe eyes showing her how needy you were for it.

For her attention.

Agatha felt the air leave her lungs in a subtle but brutal way. A small death. As if something inside her had silently collapsed, without witnesses, without glory. Just the internal chaos of someone who shouldn't feel what she felt.

You.

You said it as if you didn't know what you were doing, as if the question was innocent, as if you weren't holding a match over a wick soaked with desire.

But Agatha knew. She knew that, even without fully understanding, there was something inside you that picked up on the tension, that responded to it instinctively, like an animal sniffing out a danger it also longed for.

Her body responded before her mind did. The heat accumulating in her abdomen, an uncomfortable pulse between her thighs, an imperceptible flush burning beneath her pale chest. She shifted in the leather seat, adjusting herself as if escaping the sensation was possible, as if physical discomfort could calm the storm raging inside her.

There was something sick about the way she wanted to test how far you could go. How much she could mold you, bend you. There was something terrifying about the way her body tightened at the sight of your slightly parted lips, your hesitant breath, your gaze locked on hers as if searching for something—a guide, a permission, a ruin.

She couldn't answer. She couldn't even think about it.

When you finally got out of the car, Agatha stayed still for a moment, her fingers still gripping the wheel. The scent of your shampoo still lingered in the air, and she felt a pang of something she didn't want to name.

But it was too late. And Agatha was hungry.

[...]

The door clicked shut softly, and Rio sighed deeply, the weight of the long, exhausting shift still heavy on her shoulders. She dropped her bag on the floor, massaging the back of her neck as she walked through the silent house. But when she reached the living room, she stopped instantly.

Agatha was there, sitting in the leather armchair with a glass of red wine in her hand, the dark liquid reflecting the soft light of the lamp beside her. Her blue eyes were fixed on Rio, piercing, almost glowing. There was no sign of fatigue in her, only something voracious and dangerous that made Rio feel a shiver run down her spine.

"Are you awake?" Rio asked, trying to hide the surprise in her voice. It was rare for Agatha to wait for her this late, especially like this, with a look that seemed ready to strip her soul bare.

Agatha didn't answer right away. Her fingers slid along the stem of the glass, her gaze never leaving Rio's face. Finally, she stood, slow and deliberate, every movement exuding control.

"How was the meeting?" she asked, her voice low, almost silky, but there was something dark in her tone, something that made Rio hesitate before answering.

"Tiring." Rio murmured, unsure of how to act. "You should be sleeping."

Agatha laughed, a short, dry sound. "Oh, darling, there are things that keep me awake."

Before Rio could ask what she meant, Agatha was in front of her, cold hands gripping the sides of her face. There was no warning, no chance to prepare for what came next: Agatha's lips met hers in a kiss that was neither gentle nor sweet, but possessive and violent.

Rio gasped, surprised, but soon found herself giving in, her hands instinctively gripping Agatha's waist, trying to make sense of what was happening. The kiss was like a storm, full of urgency and intensity, Agatha's teeth scraping Rio's lower lip as she pulled her body closer.

"You can't just show up like this and act like you're my mistress," Rio said, trying to catch her breath. Her voice, firm, wavered just enough to betray the turmoil inside her.

Agatha took a step forward, her presence dominating the space between them. "I don't need to act." she murmured, her voice low and laden with intent. "You know as well as I do that this is so much more than possession. It's... need."

Rio laughed, a short, nervous sound. "Need? You think that explains everything? That we can just—" Her sentence died as Agatha moved even closer, her cold fingers touching her jaw.

"Yes," Agatha interrupted, her voice now only a whisper, her lips dangerously close to Rio's. "Because that's what's eating at us. And you know it."

Rio didn't answer. She couldn't. Instead, her breath became even heavier, and in an impulsive gesture, she grabbed Agatha by the waist, pulling her against her with force. The shock of their bodies made them both exhale softly, and in seconds, their lips met again.

This time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was a fierce clash, a battle of wills and desires that neither seemed willing to lose. Rio's hands climbed up Agatha's back, feeling the fabric of her fine dress and the warm skin underneath, while Agatha tangled her fingers in Rio's hair, pulling it hard enough to elicit a moan.

"What happened?" Rio stared at the woman with hooded eyes.

Agatha ran her tongue over her lower lip, still damp from the intense kiss. She seemed as disbelieving as she was consumed by the memory that haunted her.

“She looked at me,” Agatha replied, her breathing uneven. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to describe it was insufficient to convey what she had felt. “With eyes too innocent. Wanting attention... and not even realizing what she was asking for.”

The tension between Rio and Agatha was unbearable, a wild and furious electric current binding them together. Breathless, their foreheads still pressed together, they seemed on the edge of a dangerous precipice, unable to pull back.

“You completely lost it, didn’t you?” Rio whispered, her lips brushing Agatha’s in a gesture that wasn’t a kiss but a delicious threat. “Fuck, Agatha... Were you delirious for her? Tell me.” Rio groaned softly, pressing her forehead against Agatha’s.

Agatha took a deep breath, her lips parting as she tried to form words that simply wouldn’t come. It was useless to hide, not when Rio was this close, this relentless, forcing her to confront what she had been trying to deny.

“I—” Agatha stopped herself; she wasn’t going to admit it.

“I can imagine… her sitting in your car, those eyes begging you to ruin her. And you, Agatha… You got wet just thinking about how you’d make her scream.”

Agatha choked, her hips pressing involuntarily against Rio.

“Stop.” The command sounded fragile, broken.

“No.” Rio pulled her hair back, exposing her neck. “You wanted more. You wanted to shove your hand into that innocent mouth and force her to swallow every pathetic word. You wanted to see her squirm, beg…” A calculated pause, her fingers sliding down Agatha’s throat. “…just like you are now.”

Agatha let out a guttural moan, her nails digging into Rio’s back.

“I wanted to ruin her,” the words came out in a growl, her teeth clenched. “Until she couldn’t remember her own name. Until there was nothing left in her head but me.”

Rio laughed, low and wild, her hand sliding under Agatha’s dress.

“But who’s ruined here, Agatha?” Her fingers pressed, brutal, where the heat betrayed her. “You’re dripping because of a look. Because you know she’ll never give you what you really want…” A cruel nudge, her lips brushing Agatha’s ear. “…which is someone strong enough to break you.”

Agatha screamed, a raw, desperate sound, her legs giving out.

“Shut. Up.”

Rio traced Agatha’s jawline with her fingers, deliberately provocative. “You look beautiful like this, broken,” she murmured with a dangerous smile. “I bet she’d think so too.”

Agatha gasped, her eyes darkening. “Rio...”

“Don’t deny it.” Rio interrupted, her voice soft but firm. “You want her to see you like this, don’t you? You want her to know the power she has over you.”

Agatha closed her eyes, a shiver running through her body. “I want her to never find out.”

Rio leaned in, her lips brushing the corner of Agatha’s mouth, teasing. “Liar.” She whispered against the heated skin. “You want her to know. You want her to burn with us, until there’s nothing left but ashes.”

The air around them felt thicker, almost suffocating. The heat between their bodies hadn’t dissipated; if anything, it had only intensified.

“She’s not ready.” Agatha murmured, trying to cling to some shred of sanity in her mind, but there was hesitation there, a thin thread of doubt.

“And neither are we.” Rio replied honestly. “We’ll teach her. I know she’ll love it. She loves being good for us, doesn’t she?”

In a reckless move, Agatha pushed Rio against the wall with force, her body pressing completely against hers, as if she wanted to merge—while her hands roamed Rio’s body with the precision of someone who knew exactly where to touch.

Rio moaned, her eyes closing as her fingers gripped Agatha’s shoulders, holding her as if she were her only anchor. “Fuck, Agatha!” she murmured, but there was no conviction in her voice, only surrender.

They moved together, stumbling toward the bed, their mouths never parting for long. Each kiss was an explosion of need, a wordless declaration of everything they felt and couldn’t—or didn’t want to—control.

When they finally fell onto the bed, their bodies entwined, the tension became unbearable. Agatha was on top, her eyes burning as she looked down at Rio, who stared back with the same voracious desire.

“Damn you…” Rio whispered, her fingers slowly unbuttoning Agatha’s shirt, leaving a trail of kisses on the exposed skin. “You want her as much as I do.”

Agatha gasped, her body shivering against the touch. “I want... I want everything,” she replied, her hands gripping Rio’s waist, guiding her as the other continued her teasing, their control slipping away completely.

In that moment, there were no doubts, no barriers. Just two women consumed by a corrosive and overwhelming need, unable to stop until every trace of self-control was reduced to ashes.

Agatha leaned over Rio, her eyes blazing with the intensity of her desire, but there was something deeper behind that gaze—a hunger that went beyond the physical. She wasn’t just there for Rio, but for what they both felt for you, for the way your energy drew them in, almost like a curse.

Agatha murmured, her lips hovering over Rio’s neck before brushing lightly, sending shivers through her skin. “She’s between us. Even when she’s not here, she’s here.”

Rio gasped as Agatha’s teeth grazed her skin, a mix of pleasure and provocation. Rio’s hands slid up Agatha’s back, gripping her shoulders with almost desperate strength. “It’s like she’s in every thought,” Rio admitted, her voice hoarse, almost surrendered. “I see her in everything, Agatha. It’s unbearable.”

Sun down on the sorry day

By nightlights the children pray

I know you're prob'ly gettin' ready for bed

Beautiful girl, get out of my head

Agatha smiled against Rio’s skin, a smile that was more predatory than anything else. “She’s too pure for this,” she whispered, her fingers trailing down Rio’s body with torturous slowness. “And yet, that’s what makes her so... irresistible. You want to mold her, don’t you? Take the youthful life in her before the world corrupts her.”

I'm so tired of the same old crud

Rio closed her eyes, her body yielding to Agatha’s touch, but her words echoed in her mind like a challenge.

Agatha pressed her body against hers, hands gripping Rio's wrists and pinning them above her head, taking control. "Maybe I want this," she confessed, her voice tinged with something dark. "Actually, maybe I want everything. Her purity, her energy... I want to see her cry and beg for more. I want to control her until there's nothing left but what I desire."

Sweet baby, I need fresh blood

Rio gasped, not from Agatha's strength but from what those words ignited inside her. The corrosive desire was mutual, and they both knew it. "You're not the only one, Agatha." Rio murmured, her gaze burning with intensity. "I want it too. So much it scares me."

Agatha loosened her grip on Rio's wrists, but the closeness between them remained unchanged. Their eyes never wavered, the tension in the air growing thicker. "So what will we do, my love?" Agatha asked, almost in challenge. "Destroy ourselves for what we want from her? And... share?"

The proposal lingered between them like a forbidden secret, but no words were needed to confirm the answer. Rio leaned forward, her lips capturing Agatha's with wild intensity, her hands finally free to explore the woman's body above her.

"You've never wanted to share anything because you're a selfish fucking bitch." Rio murmured against Agatha's lips, her hands sliding lower, teasing. "But maybe this time... maybe for her... you'll make an exception, won't you?"

Agatha laughed—a low, dangerous sound—before leaning in again, capturing Rio's lips with a hunger that was nearly insatiable. "Careful, my love," she whispered, her voice hoarse and full of promises. "I always play to win."

And with that, the bed became a battlefield of desire, control, and surrender as both let their barriers fall, surrendering to the intensity of something they knew was as wrong as it was inevitable.

The moon shines in the autumn sky

Growin' cold, the leaves all die

I'm more alone than I've ever been

Help me out of the shape I'm in

Rio pulled Agatha closer, their lips colliding forcefully, the kiss anything but gentle. It was a battle of wills, full of teeth and tongues—a fierce confrontation that spoke more than any words could. Rio gripped Agatha's neck firmly, forcing her to lean further in, to submit to the moment. But Agatha never surrendered without a fight.

"You think you can control me?" Agatha whispered against her wife’s lips, her voice a hissed challenge. Her body was tense, the heat between them almost unbearable.

Rio laughed, a rough, low sound, as her hands slid along Agatha's waist, pulling her closer. "Control you? No," she answered, dark eyes gleaming. "But I know you're just as broken as I am."

The name neither of them dared to say hovered between them, a shadow darker than the desire they already shared. The confession in Agatha's gaze made Rio grip her hips tighter, pushing her down onto the bed.

Their bodies pressed together, slick and aching. Agatha, on top, massaged her own breasts, imagining you sucking on her until she came.

"You're no different from me," Agatha murmured, her face so close to Rio's that their breaths mingled. "You want to break her too."

After the fires, before the flood

My sweet baby, I need fresh blood

Agatha smiled—a crooked, dangerous smile—as her hands trailed down to knead her own breasts, hardened nipples under her fingers. "Then don't stop." She whispered, eyes locked on Rio, as if seeing directly into her. "Moan her name for me. I want to hear you say it."

Rio hesitated for a moment, eyes closing as if trying to shield herself from the confession. But then, as if torn from her, the name slipped from her lips in a pained whisper.

"Y/n..."

The sound echoed through the room, charged with an intensity that made Agatha shudder. Rio repeated it, louder this time, voice broken by desire. "Y/n, make mommy come. Be good for her."

Agatha froze, her body still throbbing with pleasure, but her mind spiraled into a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The word "mommy" echoed in her head like thunder, awakening something primal and uncontrollable within her. It was both delicious and cruel, a blade twisting in her mind.

"Rio..." Agatha called, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and desire. But Rio was beyond restraint. Her body moved in perfect sync with Agatha's, seeking something deeper, more visceral.

Rio opened her eyes, wild and provocative. "Oh, don't play innocent, my lady." She responded, voice low and husky. "You want to hear those words... because deep down, you want to shape her into that for us. Someone who obeys us, who trusts us blindly. Someone who needs us."

Agatha choked, hips pressing involuntarily against Rio. "That's not..." she tried to protest, but the words died in her throat. Her mind, against her will, conjured images of you—your innocence, your vulnerability—and the contrast between that and what they wanted was like a drug, corrosive yet irresistible.

"I just want to use her." Agatha whispered against Rio's mouth, but her voice sounded fragile, as though trying to convince herself.

Rio laughed—a low, rough sound that made Agatha shudder. "Liar," she murmured, lips brushing Agatha's ear. "You want to possess her. You want her to be yours, to depend on you, to look at you like you're the center of her universe."

Agatha's blood boiled. Rio's words were sharp, cutting straight to truths she tried to bury. And yet, the heat in her core became unbearable, a living force demanding more.

Whatever trepidation you may feel

In your heart, you know it's not real

In a moment of clarity

Summon an act of charity

She leaned forward, lips capturing Rio's with a violence that felt more like warfare than a kiss. It was a declaration of power but also palpable desperation, as though trying to burn away the memory of what she'd just heard.

Agatha's mind—against her will—summoned images of you. The contrast between your innocence and what they desired was like a drug, corrosive yet irresistible.

Their movements became frenzied, almost brutal, the room filled with sounds that blended pleasure and raw need. Agatha's mind flickered, pulsing to the rhythm of desire she could no longer contain. Rio gripped her wife's hips tightly, tilting her head to bite Agatha's shoulder, drawing a sharp moan that nearly became a scream.

Agatha let out a rough moan upon hearing the name they both tried to avoid, now filling the air like an electric current. "That..." she whispered, voice heavy with almost animalistic desire. Her hips moved more intensely against Rio, the frantic rhythm reflecting the chaos within them. "Say it again. Tell me how you want her."

"Y/n..." Rio murmured, the name slipping from her lips like a forbidden confession. Her fingers dug into Agatha’s waist, guiding her wife’s movements with an urgency that burned them from the inside out. “I want her on her knees. Humiliated for us— Oh, fuck!”

Agatha lowered her head, biting Rio’s bottom lip before dragging her tongue along the curve of her neck, savoring every gasp that escaped.

“You're so pathetic.” Agatha taunted, her voice a wild whisper. “Just as desperate for her as I am.”

You gotta pull me out of this mud

Sweet baby, I need fresh blood

“Oh—FUCK! Agatha!”

The climax that seized them was like a storm—brutal and devastating. Their bodies arched together, muffled screams swallowed by intense kisses as their combined magic filled the room with an almost unbearable energy. When they finally collapsed onto the bed, their bodies still trembled, and the name that had bound their minds hovered in the air like a curse.

Agatha collapsed on top of Rio, breathless, their bodies still trembling from the wild, destructive wave of pleasure that had overtaken them.

Rio turned her head to the side, eyes half-closed, breath uneven as she ran her fingers through Agatha’s disheveled hair. Agatha rested her forehead on Rio's shoulder, her body still pressed against hers, a mix of sweat and desire radiating a near-intolerable heat.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, laden with everything that couldn’t be spoken. Then, with a falsely casual tone, Agatha lifted her face, eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of amusement and curiosity.

“So…” she began, voice lazy, lips curving into a mischievous smile. “‘Mommy,’ huh? What was that about?”

Rio squeezed her eyes shut, letting out an exasperated sigh, though she couldn’t stop the flush rising to her cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Oh no, my love,” Agatha countered, her hand sliding lazily over Rio’s torso in a possessive yet teasing touch. “You can’t just drop something like that in the heat of the moment and expect me to ignore it.”

Rio tried to sit up, but Agatha’s strength—both physical and emotional—kept her pinned. “It was just…” She hesitated, searching for the right words and failing miserably. “It was just what came to mind.”

Agatha arched an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Just what came to mind?” Leaning closer, she nipped at Rio’s earlobe before whispering, “So you want her to call us that? 'Mommy Agatha.' 'Mommy Rio.' I have to admit—it does have a certain charm.”

Rio groaned, but this time it wasn’t from pleasure—it was pure frustration. “Agatha...”

“I’m kidding.” Agatha said, though the smile on her lips suggested otherwise. She slid to the side, lying beside Rio, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as her fingers traced lazy patterns across Rio’s exposed skin.

For a moment, silence reigned again, but this time it was lighter, more intimate. Agatha turned her head, watching Rio with a gaze that was both soft and penetrating.

“I really missed this.” She murmured, her voice low, almost vulnerable. Her lips found Rio’s shoulder in a tender kiss—a gesture starkly contrasting the intensity they’d just shared.

Rio turned to face her, eyes still hazy but now filled with a deeper emotion. “It’s been a while since we were like this.” She admitted softly, almost in a whisper. “Really connected.”

Agatha nodded slightly, her fingers still drawing circles on Rio’s skin.

Rio laughed softly, though a shadow of concern flickered in her eyes. “Maybe we should do something about that.” She suggested hesitantly, testing the waters.

Agatha remained silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but her hand found Rio’s, fingers naturally intertwining. “Maybe.” She agreed, her voice soft yet weighted with meaning.

Rio turned her face, brushing her nose against Agatha’s tangled hair. She wanted to respond, to say she felt the same, but words seemed inadequate. Instead, she simply tightened her arms around her wife, pulling her closer as if she could hold her there forever.

And maybe she could.

Maybe this was a new beginning.

Or perhaps it was the start of something even more dangerous.

Because deep down, both of them knew.

The reason that had brought them to this moment.

You.

~*~

911, what's your emergency?

Tag List <3

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@absolute-memegarbage

[fr33time]

Ghouls favourite desserts pt. 3

Featuring the boys in Hotarubi, Obscuary, and Mortkranken ♡

A/N: I love talking about sweets, some of the sweets I’ve written about are ones that I want to try in the future. This one took a while to come out because I’ve been focusing on important things in my personal life ^^ I currently have a Jin focused fic in the making, it was an old request of mine, but I accidentally deleted it and I’m hoping the person who requested it will find it when it comes out. Have a lovely day!

divider credits: @konatasoup Genre: Headcanons

See: Pt. 1, Pt. 2

Requesting rules here! (View them before asking)

╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗

☆Subaru

Fried ice cream - Subaru likes many desserts, especially desserts from his childhood, but ever since he discovered fried ice cream it changed everything for him. Not only did he find the technique behind fried ice cream interesting, but he loves the combined textures of the crispy batter and the soft ice cream. He feels like it’s heaven hitting his tongue, sometimes Sho makes him some as a gift.

☆Haku

Dango - Haku is another person that has a preference for desserts from his childhood. He likes going to traditional stands to support local and it reminds him of when he was younger in his family home. It’s not too sweet of a dessert and even though there’s many different flavours and styles to try, he sticks with his regular which is hanami dango when it’s available in the spring time.

☆Zenji

Fruit tarts - Zenji is pretty much as sweet as a fruit tart. He loves how they come in small bites, and have a variety of fresh fruits on top of a white custard. He loves eating sweets, and fruit tarts are apart of his many joys in life. It’s also one of the greatest experiences that he misses and how the tart would crumble when he bit into it. He tries to find a way to replicate the same sweetness that he loves.

☆Edward

Chocolate -Edward is a bit of a plain jane, he says that it’s the “ultimate dessert” and arguably the most romantic out of all sweets. He prefers a mix of chocolate flavours, mainly a mix of dark chocolate and milk chocolate where he can get a taste of bitterness and sweetness in one go. He doesn’t particularly like many sweets, but chocolate has been around the longest for him and he finds it comforting when he lays in bed all day.

☆Rui

Swedish delight - Rui finds it adorable how Swedish delight comes in little cubes, and he loves the soft jelly texture when he bites into it. He can’t Swedish delight in most places, so he also needs to order it. He works a lot around Obscuary, so this is his tiny sweet treat as a reward. He can’t resist the soft sweetness in it. When he receives the package, he makes sure to hide it because it’s the one thing he gets to enjoy.

☆Lyca

Crepes - The first time Lyca tried a crepe, he looked like he was about to explode. Since he’s out of his jail cell, he wants to try as many flavours as he possibly can. A crepe was one of the first desserts he ever tried and he fell in love with a simple strawberry crepe with whipped cream in it. He was confused on how to hold a crepe at first and eat it, so it got really messy real fast.

☆Yuri

Macarons - Yuri is extra and only eats food that he deems good enough for him. For him, a lot of macarons at the store are too sweet for him so he needs to specially get them. He mainly has them with his tea, and he appreciates the soft crunch of the macaron. If he could pick his favourite flavour, he would always get lime or a flavour that mimics green tea. He eats them in his spare time and gets embarrassed when someone walks in, he hides them with the utmost speed and makes himself seem suspicious.

☆Jiro

Jello - Jiro can’t process solid foods so Jello is his best bet. He’s not one that eats sweets, he’ll only order something if someone insists that they need to feed him. He eats jello that is sugarless, this isn’t just because he can’t handle the sheer amount of stuff they put in the jello, but also because Yuri stresses to him that he can’t eat too much sugar or else there’s complications. If anything, he just loves the texture and how easy it is to eat.

╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝

[donttxtathebeach]

Y/N Williams’ No-Makeup look| Vogue Beauty Secrets

words: 1.6k

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The camera fades in to reveal a serene, sunlit room. The soft glow of candles flickers against the neutral-toned walls, which are adorned with tasteful beach-inspired decor—lush plants in woven baskets, a few minimalist artworks, and delicate seashell accents. A gentle breeze wafts through the open windows, carrying the scent of the ocean. The sounds of distant waves crash softly, adding to the calm ambiance.

Y/N is standing in her master bathroom with a sweater over her dress in order to make sure nothing comes in contact with it. . Her skin glows with a fresh-from-the-beach radiance, and her hair is naturally tousled as if the breeze had just kissed it. The room feels peaceful and bright, reflecting her coastal, laid-back lifestyle.

She smiles warmly at the camera, looking directly into it as if inviting you into her world.

“Hey, everyone! Welcome back to Vogue Beauty Secrets. It’s Y/N here, and tonight I am out at my Charleston home with a close friend. We’re keeping it low-key, cooking dinner, and enjoying each other’s company. So if you happen to hear him in the background, just ignore him. Nothing too special... but I thought I’d share my skincare and no makeup, makeup routine with you tonight. I usually like to go for something super natural and fresh.” She smiles, her tone warm and relaxed. “Let’s start with skincare because everything begins with good skin, right?”

Step 1: Cleaning

Y/N reaches for Renée Rouleau AHA/BHA Blemish Control Cleanser, a gentle yet effective cleanser that’s a staple in her routine. She dispenses a generous amount into her hands and lathers it up.

“So, first, I always start with cleansing. I’ve been using this Renée Rouleau AHA/BHA Blemish Control Cleanser for a while now, and it’s just perfect for me. It’s super creamy, and it doesn’t strip my skin, so it feels hydrated after I wash it off. It’s gentle enough for everyday use, and I love how soft it makes my skin feel.”

She massages the product into her skin in soft, circular motions, her fingers gliding over her face easily.

“The texture is so creamy and luxurious, and it helps to remove dirt, sunscreen, and any makeup leftover from the day. The key for me is always to feel like my skin is clean but not tight or dry. That’s why I love this one.”

After she rinses, she gently pats her face dry with a soft towel, taking a deep breath as if enjoying the calm moment.

Step 2: Toning

Next, Y/N grabs Fresh Rose Deep Hydration Facial Toner. She pours a little onto a cotton pad and sweeps it gently across her face.

“This toner is my absolute go-to. It’s hydrating and calming, which is perfect for me because my skin tends to get a little dry. I love how it really preps my skin for the next steps—leaving it feeling soft, fresh, and ready to soak up whatever comes next.”

She swipes the cotton pad across her forehead, cheeks, and neck, letting it absorb naturally.

Step 3: Serum

After the toner, Y/N reaches for her Caudalie Vinosource S.O.S. Thirst Quenching Serum, applying a few drops into her palm before pressing it into her face.

“Now for serum. I’ve been using this Caudalie serum for a while, and it’s so great at adding that extra layer of hydration. I tend to get dry patches, especially around my nose and chin, so this is a lifesaver. It absorbs quickly, and I love how it leaves my skin feeling smooth and plump. Plus, it’s got this nice calming effect, which is key for me.”

She presses the serum into her skin, working it in slowly as she looks in the mirror.

Step 4: Eye Cream

Y/N then picks up Dr. Dennis Gross C+ Collagen Brighten & Firm Vitamin C Eye Cream, applying a small amount underneath her eyes.

“Eye cream is something I never skip. I tend to get dark circles from long days or jet lag, so I love this one. It’s brightening and firming, which helps with puffiness and dark circles. It’s lightweight, so it doesn’t feel heavy under makeup either.”

She gently taps the eye cream into her skin using her ring finger, pressing it delicately into the delicate under-eye area.

Step 5: Moisturizer

Next, she grabs Dr. Jart+ Ceramidin Cream and massages it into her skin.

“I’ve been using this moisturizer for a few months now, and I really love it. It’s rich, but it sinks in quickly and gives my skin that smooth, plump feeling without being greasy. It’s the perfect base before makeup. And since I’m going for a natural glow tonight, this one is perfect.”

She massages the product into her face, making sure to get her neck as well, working it in gently with upward strokes.

Step 6: Sunscreen

Even though she’s staying indoors, Y/N applies Supergoop! Unseen sunscreen SPF 40.

“SPF is a must for me, no matter what. But I’m not modeling. I’m home and in the sun a lot, so skin protection really no matter where you are is something that means a lot to me, even with how nicely my skin tans. I just don’t want to have any risks. This one from Supergoop is so lightweight and doesn’t leave any white cast. It gives my skin the protection it needs without weighing it down, and it’s so smooth under makeup. You really can’t skip this step.”

She massages the sunscreen into her face, giving her skin a final layer of protection for the night.

Step 7: Lip Balm

Finally, Y/N applies a light layer of Laneige Lip Sleeping Mask to her lips.

“I can’t go without this lip balm. It’s so hydrating, and it keeps my lips feeling soft all night. Plus, it has this really calming, fresh scent that I love.”

She gently presses the balm into her lips, making sure they’re moisturized and plump.

Y/N takes a moment to admire her fresh, dewy complexion, smiling softly as she looks at herself in the mirror.

“Okay, that’s my skincare done! My skin feels so refreshed and hydrated, which is the perfect base for a simple, fresh makeup look.”

Makeup Routine

Now, she reaches for her makeup products and begins with Saie Slip Tint, a favorite of hers for its lightweight, natural coverage.

“Alright, let’s move on to makeup. For the no-makeup look, I’m all about using minimal products that enhance my natural skin. This skin tint is perfect—it’s super light, has SPF built in, and gives just enough coverage to even out my complexion.”

She dispenses a small amount onto her fingers and applies it gently across her face, blending it in with light taps of her fingertips.

“I don’t want to cover everything—I just want to perfect my skin and keep it looking fresh and natural.” “My skin is actually super sensitive, and I have found whenever I had shoots, they would put foundation on my skin. I would break out really heavily, and so I like stuff that’s lighter on my face just because I try to go for a more natural look all the time, and I’m not always wearing make-up."

Step 1: Concealer

Next, she grabs Glossier Stretch Concealer and applies it to areas she wants to brighten: under her eyes, around her nose, and any spots or redness.

“A little concealer under the eyes always makes me feel more awake. This one is great because it’s creamy but doesn’t feel heavy. It blends beautifully and covers just enough to give me a fresh look.”

She blends the product in with her fingers, focusing on areas that need a little more attention.

Step 2: Bronzer

Y/N picks up Dolce Glow Contour Self-Tanning Sculpt and applies it to her cheeks, jawline, and forehead.

“For a natural look, I love using this contour stick. It’s really easy to blend and gives me just enough warmth to define my face. It’s subtle, but it really adds a nice, natural-looking contour but while also enhancing my tan.”

She blends it in with her fingers, making sure the contour looks soft and seamless.

Step 3: Blush

She then grabs MERIT Flush Balm Cream Blush in “apres” and applies it to the apples of her cheeks, tapping it in gently.

“Blush is essential for that ‘I’ve been in the sun’ look. This shade is perfect—it adds a soft flush of color with a bit of shimmer, so it looks like you’re glowing from within.” "I don’t know how popular this is, but during the summer I actually don’t use blush, I just use cherries. Whenever I was growing up and we were in Greece, my mom would always have cherries on hand, and she was like, These are great for blush, and me being me. I wanted to do whatever my mom was doing, so that’s like a staple I use during the summer."

She smiles, adding just a hint more to get that perfect, radiant flush.

Step 4: Brows

For her brows, she grabs a spooly and runs it through her brows to define and shape them.

“Brows are really important for a natural look. And because of my mom’s genes, I have a lot of eyebrows, so I just brush them and not really do anything to them. I just shaped them with this call it a day."

Step 6: Eyes & Lips

Y/N finishes off with a sweep of YVES SAINT LAURENT Lash Clash Extreme Volume Mascara and Kylie Cosmetics lip liner in "cinnamon" and Clinique almost lipstick in “black honey,” giving her lashes a natural lift and her lips a glossy, plump finish.

“A little mascara and lip liner, and we’re done! The mascara is just to lift my lashes and open up my eyes, and the liner and almost lipstick give my lips that soft, shiny look that I love.”

Final Look

She smiles at her reflection, clearly happy with the natural, radiant look. “And that’s it! Simple, fresh, and effortless—just the way I like it.”

Y/N grabs her phone as it buzzes, smiling softly as she looks down. “Someone over their is a little impatient. so I’m going to get cooking!” She stands, carefully taking off her sweater.

“Thanks for hanging out with me tonight, guys. I hope you found some inspiration in this simple, natural routine. Remember—skincare is key, and feeling comfortable in your own skin is the most important part of beauty.”

“See you next time.”

The screen fades to black, leaving the peaceful vibe lingering in the air.

[featherwurm]

Dinnertime (something cooked by Gale out of a nice selection of what the group has found and bought) at camp Tadfool, and here's some headcanons I have on food preferences of the lot:

Shadowheart – Omnivorous and a little picky, she’s sort of figuring out what she likes again and as always enjoys flexing her opinions. Loves fruits and nuts, and has a surprising taste for rare meats. Sometimes forgets to eat or looses track in the middle of a meal without reminding.

Lae’zel – Likes meat, meat, and more meat. Will add some variety into that but gith are biologically highly carnivorous. Has a real like of Bauldiran seafood (especially octopus and crustaceans) as it’s more akin to what’s available on the astral plane and in Gith rations, but will gladly tear into a steak or kebab. She can eat an absolutely terrifying volume for her frame, which she says is also normal.

Astarion – Stuck on that good old liquid diet, he is right that blood taste can be affected by things like age, lifestyle, and species, but he’s honestly not that into the distinction (and he hasn’t actually tried enough sapient varieties in a thoughtful way to have any real taste for one vs another, plus it does all taste good to him.) While he’ll always wax poetic, honestly just a human in good health tastes best to him (despite Tav letting him drink off of her first, in retrospect her tiefling blood has a faint smokey/spicy taste he doesn't quite like as much.)

Wyll – A real cruiser and grazer, likes a nibble of this and a bit of that and some of this. He’s so used to camp rations and foraging it seems to have sort of translated into a real love of charcuterie. Tends to get into things before they are cooked for a nibble. Still quite mannerly about things and his mess kit is kept immaculate.

Gale – A meat and potatoes kind of guy. Big on pasta and noodles. He’ll eat his veggies but he prefers them smothered in cheese or cream sauces. A bit like a big kid, but he he has the cooking skill to pull off fancier versions of childhood staples (and, of course, cooks in good variety for the tadfool crew, quick to show off his skills and breadth of knowledge.)

Karlach – Member in good standing of the clean plate club. Likes pretty much everything you put in front of her, but her favorites are big rare cuts of meat, meat pasties and pies, and other easy sources of protein like eggs and cheese. Tieflings like/need a slightly higher proportion of meat proteins in their diet than humans, but aren’t as extreme as the Gith. Karlach still likes pretty much everything though, and gets excited over tasty fruit, veg, and herbs too.

Tav – Was a very picky eater as a child but has mellowed with age and experience and likes pretty much everything, although some textures still put her off a bit (she’ll grudgingly eat things like casseroles and things with wet bread, but she’s not a fan – although she doesn't outwardly gripe.) Has a big sweet tooth and is a real fan of a lil treat.

Bonus: Astarion, Shadowheart, Karlach, and Tav stop for a quick rest and have a snack of some foraged nuts (walnuts) and berries (raspberries.) I know walnuts that aren't removed from their skins make quite a mess, and Karlach's hands are getting quite stained:

Astarion can't enjoy much, but blood is mostly water and fresh water is always good.

[dhampling]

ASTARION GETTING INTO BAKING AND ASKING YOU TO SAMPLE ALL OF HIS BAKES

this was such a fun one i love it he is simply a silly guy who wants to be a man of many talents thank you for the request avo I LOVE YOU

He looks at you expectantly. 

The small wodge of cake on the plate in front of you crumbles to dust as you squish it. Astarion pinches his nose. Eyes closed, a beleaguered sigh.

“Too much sugar.” You grimace. 

“It’s going to disintegrate if you do that.” 

You quirk a brow. Astarion looks down at his creation pitifully.

The sweet smell of fresh-baked goods, now somewhat marred by the unimpressive result on the counter in front of you. Kitchen scattered with cooking implements; his apron smattered with still billowing clouds of flour. 

“Clearly the recipe was incorrect, that’s all.” He hums. Looks at the cake for a moment with a stewing resentment in his eyes then turns on his heel. 

“You followed it exactly?” 

His head moves from side to side in a deliberating err.

“Kind of? Not really?”

-

Over the coming weeks he spends endless nights in your small kitchen working to figure out the art of baking, driven by the underwhelming response to his initial offering. 

Astarion argues that it’s his prerogative. With the tadpole so newly gone he wants to broaden his horizons, he purrs, glass in hand; now that he can try anything, why shouldn’t he?

The obvious answer here is that he can’t taste the fruits of his labour. 

No matter the freshness of the produce, nor the quality of the flour grain; it all resembles ash past the threshold of his fangs. 

 You’re frequently dispatched to the market to gather more treats for Astarion to experiment with - the textures, the smells, the way they come together in the binding heat of the stove - and despite a rocky start, you find yourself more and more impressed with the results.

He observes each time he comes to you with a platter of treats, notebook in hand; eyes glued to your face whilst you meticulously try each and every little morsel. 

What began as plain muffins and oat biscuits evolves quickly into bites of his own creation. 

He figures out how to make a creme filling; the perfect ratios for butter pastries, how to temper chocolate and the best ways in which to use it. You use the best descriptives you can manage to help him understand the texture, the taste; the consistency of everything that makes its way into your mouth as he fervently jots every last word down.

The big one - which he absolutely succeeds with - is your birthday cake. Richly decorated and built on the densest sponge you’ve ever tasted, topped with raspberries, almonds, fresh cream, vanilla. The anticipatory stare across the table as he watches the first forkful lift to your mouth and the sweetest kiss he receives as you smile into his. 

He enjoys it. A hobby, definitely. Not the kind of thing he’d pursue for gold - if only for the fact he can’t enjoy a single bite of his own creations - but if he can keep you in the finest of baked goods then he considers every delighted groan from your starving mouth a success. 

[yunosweetheartxoxo]

HEEEEY! I JUST SAW YOUR BLOG TODAAAY! LOVE YOUR WORK:>

Can I request something? Headcanons maybe for a reader who loves to cook/bake?

HAVE A REALLY COOOL DAYY<333

Cooking Up Love: Headcanons with a Culinary Reader in Creepypasta, Slashers, Jujutsu Kaisen, and Demon SlayerHey there, lovely readers! 💖 Today, I’m diving into a super cute and adventurous world of headcanons, all inspired by a delightful request from my Tumblr! 🌟 Our focus will be on a sweet reader who loves to cook and bake, weaving countless delicious moments with some beloved characters from Creepypasta, Slashers, Jujutsu Kaisen, and Demon Slayer. So grab your aprons, and let’s whip up some fun headcanons that are sure to make you smile!

Creepypasta

1. Eyeless Jack

Eyeless Jack is intrigued by your cooking skills. At first, he’s a bit hesitant about the ingredients you use, but once he tastes your homemade chili, he can’t get enough. He loves to sit at the kitchen table while you cook, his glowing eyes fixated on you as he admires your skillfulness. When you bake cookies, he’s always sneaking one (or three) while you’re busy mixing dough, and he might even share some of his "special" ingredients with you.

2. Ticci Toby

Toby gets super excited whenever you bake! He loves how the smell of cookies wafts through the house, and he’s always the first one to offer you help—often resulting in flour fights. He appreciates the chaos of the kitchen, and after a successful baking session, he loves to cuddle up with you while enjoying your treats. Your special chocolate chip cookies are like a love language to him!

3. Tim Wright (Masky)

Tim admires your culinary talents from a distance; he thinks it’s incredible how you can create such delicious meals. When you invite him to help in the kitchen, he’s a bit clumsy but earnest, and he always appreciates the meals you prepare. He’ll often surprise you with cooking utensils or ingredients he thinks you might like. As a treat, he loves to keep a stash of your homemade goodies in his locker, savoring them during his long nights out.

4. Hoodie

Hoodie is more of a silent admirer, but when you cook or bake, he can’t resist joining. He’s the type to casually lean against the doorframe, watching as you whip up something delightful. He loves that you make time for yourself and will always find a way to sneak a taste. As a bonus, he loves to help with the cleanup, although he might do more of a mess than help!

Slashers

1. Michael Myers

Michael is a man of few words, but there is something about the way you prepare meals that captivates him. After a long day, he’ll sit quietly at the table, simply enjoying the ambiance of your cooking. He especially loves it when you bake pumpkin pies in the fall—it's a subtle nod to Halloween!

2. The Boy (Brahms Heelshire)

Brahms is fascinated by the way you create meals with love. He likes to watch you bake while he plays with his doll or sits quietly in his room. When you bake bread, he gets excited about the dough’s texture and will ask you questions about each step, eager to learn everything. He believes that your presence makes the house feel more like home.

3. Leatherface

Surprisingly enough, Leatherface has a soft spot for your cooking. He doesn’t say much, but the joy on his face as he indulges in your home-cooked meals is priceless. He may help in his own way—perhaps offering to bring you fresh ingredients from his “garden.”

4. Jason Voorhees

Much like Michael, Jason isn’t too vocal about his feelings, but every meal you prepare brings him a sense of warmth and comfort. He secretly loves marshmallows and hot cocoa, and he’ll always stick around to watch you cook, feeling protected while you dance around the kitchen. Your seasonal treats, especially during Halloween, are his guilty pleasure!

Jujutsu Kaisen

1. Nanami Kento

Nanami appreciates the comfort of home-cooked meals after long hours at work. He loves when you whip up something simple yet satisfying, making the evenings more special. Plus, he loves when you help him with his meal prep for busy days—he secretly enjoys spending that time with you.

2. Suguru Geto

Geto loves to host dinner parties where you are the star chef. He’ll use his charm and charisma to draw friends in and ensure the crowd appreciates your skills. He thinks it’s a perfect opportunity to show off your talents while he entertains guests with stories and laughter.

3. Satoru Gojo

Gojo’s always been a bit of a jokester, but when it comes to your cooking, he’s dead serious! He’ll jokingly declare himself your number one fan and always requests your signature dishes. He might even use his powers to sneak some treats when you're not looking, always trying to surprise you with his "unseen" desserts too!

4. Ryomen Sukuna <MELOVMELET KITCHEN>

Sukuna is intrigued by your cooking and will often challenge you to create dishes that may seem “forbidden.” His dark humor will have you laughing while you dance around the kitchen, and you’ll find that sharing a meal with him opens up unexpected insights into his character.

5. Toji Fushiguro

Toji is a man who appreciates the simpler things in life, and your cooking is one of them. He loves when you make hearty, filling meals, often teasing you about your presentation while secretly admiring it. He loves to indulge in the foods you prepare and will often offer to take you out for nice dinners afterward.

Demon Slayer

1. Tengen Uzui and His Wives

Cooking is a party when you’ve got Tengen and his wives around! They all have different tastes, and every meal becomes a team effort with everyone pitching in. You all share lots of laughter and love, creatively experimenting with flavors. Tengen can’t resist trying everything and declaring it “the best food ever!”

2. Rengoku Kyojuro

Rengoku would absolutely be the one to sing your praises to anyone who would listen. He’s absolutely delighted by your cooking and would love nothing more than to share a meal surrounded by friends. He’d insist on helping with meals, getting all excited about cooking and tasting each dish.

3. Himejima Gyomei

Gyomei admires the heart you put into every dish. He loves to sit with you while you cook, sharing stories of his travels. He thinks mealtime is a sacred moment, and he treasures those moments spent with you over warm bowls of soup or freshly baked bread.

4. Tomioka Giyuu

Giyuu might come off as a bit reserved, but your cooking softens his demeanor. He values the time spent cooking with you as a precious escape from their battles. You’ll find him helping you chop vegetables while subtly stealing little tastes of your creations, always pleased when you share your desserts with him.

And there you have it! A plethora of adorable headcanons featuring a reader who loves to cook and bake with some of our favorite characters from Creepypasta, Slashers, Jujutsu Kaisen, and Demon Slayer! Whether it’s sweet cookie explosions or savory dinner parties, it’s always a delight to imagine these characters in cozy kitchen moments with a caring reader.Thank you for joining me on this culinary journey! I hope you found these headcanons as delightful as I did. Don’t forget to share your favorite moments and let me know if you’d love to see more headcanons in the future! 🍰✨💕Happy cooking and until next time!

Ps. Thank you so much for this request♡ I hope you will enjoy it! Let me know!