#wide eyed black cat

[marciavalance]

they have the same vibe

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent things.. mostly just writing screenshots lol

[barkermaker]

oh yeah these two are twins 2 me

i have to draw it out for it to make more sense but they’ve always just been .. siblings .. maybe not twins but like .. yeah

tbh it’s the smile

[ashesofemeralds]

black cars

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - non/con, manipulation, mentions of breeding, and unbalanced power dynamics.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's ecstatic the day his owner, Suguru, brings you home. He's the pinnacle of a spoiled pet, constantly showered in toys and treats and affection, but his owner's a busy man, and he tends to sulk when left home alone. He's had other companions before, another leopard hybrid who nearly killed him before being released back into the wild and a black panther who somehow proved to be a worse influence on Satoru than Satoru was on her, but you're supposed to be more permanent solution, another hosuepet to keep him company when Suguru can't. You're a sweet little housecat, all wide-eyes and raised ears, but still, Suguru wouldn't be surprised if you're begging to go back to the shelter less than an hour after meeting your new roommate.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who falls in love with you immediately. Suguru practically has to keep him in a chokehold while you explore your new home, eventually curling up on your new bed. Satoru's on top of you as soon as he gets loose, purring obnoxiously while he runs his bristled tongue over your cheek. Suguru's half-convinced that your first day's going to end with bloody claws and bandages, but you only nuzzle into his chest and knead at the blankets underneath you. Satoru's a difficult cat to put up with, and Suguru's relieved that you, at least, find him tolerable.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's absolutely massive compared to you. The tips of your pointed ears barely reach his collarbones, and your wrist is only as thick as his fluffy tail. His favorite hobby quickly becomes carrying you from room to room despite your softly mewled protests, and he's not happy unless he's pressed against you as closely as possible. He used to force himself into Suguru's lap whenever possible, but now, he's unbearable unless you're sitting pretty in his. He doesn't even complain when you lose your temper and dig your little fangs (barely half the size of his - a poor imitation of a real predator's) into his arm, just grinning as he tugs at your ears and pinches your cheeks. He's not exactly a wild animal, but he's still at the top of his food chain. You're not quite a mouse, but you might as well be, compared to him.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's calling you his mate after less than a full month. You don't know what it means, often parroting it back as more of a question than a term of endearment, and Suguru just brushes it off as Satoru being deliberately irritating. He keeps it up, though. even after you start refusing to respond to it.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who starts introducing you to new "games". You know you don't stand a chance against him, but somehow, he always manages to goad you into roughhousing, into squirming as he pins you under his full weight. He likes to dangle things above your head, to see how long it takes your instincts to get the best of you before your chest is pressed against his and you're pouting so adorably as you jump and bat at his hand. Sometimes, when you fall asleep mid-grooming session, he'll let his mouth wander lower than it should, and you'll wake up to his tongue lapping over your chest, his face buried between your thighs in a way that leaves you teary-eyed and warm. You've tried to tell Suguru, but you always get embarrassed and end up mumbling something as vague as 'Satoru's being mean to me, again.' In the end, Satoru only ever gets a slap on the wrist and a new reason to tease you, next time Suguru turns his back.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who fucks you whenever Suguru isn't home. He planned on waiting for your first heat (delayed by your shelter suppressants and the stress of a new home), and he knows he's not supposed to, but he just can't get enough of having your smaller body curled up underneath his, your tail thrashing from side to side as he lazily rolls his hips against yours. You tend to whine, at first, to go on and on about how weird it feels and how much it hurts, but as soon he gets his cock inside of you, all those complaints tend to go away. It's almost funny, how easily your stupid little kitty mind gets all hazy and cockdrunk. He always loves you, but he loves you most when you're drooling and purring for his cum, begging him to breed you properly between hitched moans.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's not even mad when Suguru catches him bouncing your half-conscious, fucked-out body on his cock. He wants to be the best possible mate for you, and he couldn't do that if he wasn't willing to show you off <3

[gyumazing]

"Wanna See?"

Basically, it was your finals week. Riki came over acting all upset because you were 'ignoring' him.

A/N: wrote this for less than an hour (hence the reason why it is a bit tacky) because I was bored and I am having post exam anxiety. This was very fun to write (I got second hand embarrassment while writing lmao).

Pairings: Nishimura Riki × Reader

Genre: Fluff × Suggestive

TW: Mentions of male genital. Low-key cat and dog dynamics.

“Bruh! Come here! Stop acting like a mysterious hermit.” you said, dragging your sulking boyfriend into the frame of your iPad's front camera.

It was a regular Tuesday night before your last finals exam, and your clingy-ass boyfriend decided to pop up unannounced in the dead of night under the guise of bringing you dinner. In reality? He just missed you and needed attention. Study session? Absolutely wrecked by whiny Riki in his signature black cargo pants and navy green hoodie.

“Why did you even come over if you're gonna act like a bish.” You rolled your eyes at him as he continued to refuse a selfie, his ever-deepening frown matching your own. You even tried sneakily inching your iPad toward him, but this man dodged like his life depended on it—like that 12MP lens was a sniper scope.

Then he yanked you by the waist and buried his face into your neck. You're not sure if it was a tactic to hide his face or if he was just being extra clingy, but either way—it was annoying. You shoved his face away.

“What’s your problem?!” he whined, his brows still furrowed like a grumpy cat.

You squinted. “No. What is your problem?!” you shot back, swatting his hands away. “I was peacefully studying and then you waltzed in, started acting like a toddler, and now I can't even take one cute pic of us?!” you hissed, teeth clenched.

In true demon form, Ni-ki bit your neck mid-sentence, earning a sharp curse mixed with his name.

“No. What is your problem?!” he repeated, this time with trembling lips and a suspiciously emotional tone. “I’ll be on tour for three months, and you didn’t even bother messaging or calling me!” His voice cracked. “If I didn’t come over tonight, I bet you wouldn’t even care even if I got eaten by wolves!”

You groaned like it was your final breath.

“And now you suddenly want to take a cute picture like you didn’t ghost me all week and act like I was some delivery guy when I arrived!” he huffed, biting your neck again.

“STOP THAT!” you shrieked and pushed his face off like you were warding off a vampire.

“I was going to visit you after my exams!” you snapped, mirroring his dramatic energy.

He hugged your waist tighter, now clinging like a koala.

“But that’s just one day before I leave! That’s not enough! Not freaking enough!” he argued like a pouty kid denied candy. “And where’s my kiss, huh? You didn’t even look at me when I walked in!”

At this point, you weren’t sure if you were dating a guy or babysitting a 6-foot-tall, sentient tantrum. You glared at him.

“I was reviewing, you dumbass!” you growled, grabbing his chin forcefully to face the camera. He grumbled out a protest, but before he could escape again, you smashed your lips onto his and furiously pressed the shutter button.

His gasp of surprise gave you the perfect opening to slip your tongue in. Just for science, of course. The pathetic little whimper he let out in response almost made you short-circuit. He gripped the back of your head, tilted slightly, and tried to suck your soul out like his life depended on it.

You pulled back after a few seconds, breathless and wide-eyed.

And there he was—Nishimura Riki, the cool boy with maximum aura (his words, not yours), tomato red and staring at the wall like it held the answers to the universe. He avoided your gaze and opened his mouth slightly like he was gonna say something profound... then he dragged you into his lap and hid his face in your neck again.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Bro, what the hell?”

He looked up, dead serious.

“I am not your bro.” And just like that, he faceplanted into your neck again. "Say that again I'm gonna smack you." He threatens.

You were about to roast him, about to suggest calling him 'sis' instead, but then—you felt it.

Your eyes went wide. You froze.

You suddenly felt something... poking you from below.

Now you were the one frozen, eyes wide in absolute horror.

You sat stiffly on his lap for a few seconds, every neuron in your brain screaming at once.

To confirm your worst suspicion, you discreetly shifted your hips—just the tiniest bit. But the moment you did—

“Hnghh…”

Riki moaned.

His hands gripped your waist tighter, and it felt like your entire soul just jumped out of your body and hit a backflip midair.

You panicked. Hard.

"What are you doing, baby?" he asked, dazed, his voice breathy and sinful and entirely too casual for what was happening.

You panicked even harder.

"Bro, your dick is poking me!" you blurted out with a nervous chuckle, trying—failing—to downplay the absolute meltdown happening inside your brain.

You and Ni-ki had been together for years. You’ve done a lot of questionable stuff—made out in cars, in hallways, even in the middle of a study session—but this? This was new. This was dangerous territory.

Ni-ki, now redder than a stop sign, didn’t look away. His eyes were glued to yours.

"That’s your fault…" he muttered with a dramatic little whine.

You slowly grabbed his wrists and tried to peel his hands off you so you could escape this abomination of a moment—

But the universe said no.

Riki held you back firmly, unintentionally pressing you down back against the very thing you were trying to flee from. And for the love of God, the sound you just squeaked was enough to make your souls burn in the pits of hell.

It sounded so womanly: It sounded nothing like you've ever sounded before.

Mortified, you shoved Riki back onto the couch like you were performing an exorcism and scrambled away, flailing like a fish out of holy water.

You made the sign of the cross with your arms, eyes wide like you’d seen Satan himself.

Riki blinked at you, clearly confused—then he started laughing.

“Devil be gone!” you screamed at him, still backing away like he had the plague.

“What?” he laughed through his red face. “It’s a normal bodily reaction, love. Don’t worry about it too much.” He tried to reassure you with flushed cheeks and zero shame.

You scooted farther like he had uncured demonic possession. “Get that ginormous thing away from me!” you yelped.

Ni-ki smirked, clearly entertained. But thankfully, he respected your space and stayed where he was.

“Ginormous?” he repeated, the grin on his face slowly evolving into the grin of a man whose ego just grew five sizes.

You nodded frantically. Big mistake.

His grin got even wider. "It's a perfectly manageable size, baby. Wanna see?"

“NOPE!” You squealed, hands flapping as you turned tail and ran straight to your room, slamming the door and locking it like you were under siege.

“Darn you, Nishimura Riki!” you shouted from behind the door, face buried in your pillow in defeat.

And from the other side, his smug little voice:

“You said ginormous.”

____

I luv him sm hehehe

[redflagshipwriter]

SNITCHES THE CAT SEQUEL pt1 and masterpost

Part Two/Part Three/ Part Four/ Part Five/ Part Six/ Part Seven/ Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven

Part One

“This you?”

Danny pushed the newspaper down without looking at it, revealing Sam’s shitty grin. “That lost cat is not me, no.” He rolled his eyes. They had been showing him lost pet ads ever since he got back from Gotham. “Isn’t that joke getting old, guys?” He kicked his way further into a slouch in the booth as Tucker came back with refilled drinks.

Tucker laughed, and then there was a silence. “Danny? Are you sure this isn’t you, man?” He sounded uncertain.

He felt his jaw twitch and he had to tell his friend off. “Is it that funny that there’s a sad kid out there? Honestly, guys-” Danny opened his eyes fully to roll them and then saw the lost pet ad being brandished in his face. He blinked at it. His brain did a full reboot and he reached out to take the paper. 

It looked like him, sleeping on the cushion in the batcave. Had they gotten that photo from the security footage? “It’s me.” His voice came out way too high.

Danny pulled the paper over in disbelief and realized that it was a two page ad. “Oh wow,” he said faintly. There he was, leaping across the kitchen. And there, that must have been taken by Damian when he fell asleep on the bed. There was a cat toy partially in the frame.

Sam’s snorting laughter cut off. “Uh.” She kicked him lightly under the table. “Is.. Is that little kid going to be okay?” She asked in a small voice. She sounded like she felt bad for poking fun. 

Danny felt guilty. He stared at the evidence that Robin was missing his cat terribly and felt like the biggest jackass possible. “Should I go back?” he wondered. He squirmed, pulling a foot up onto the bench to perch on. “I mean… How long does a cat live? A few years?”

“Try about twenty,” Tucker said flatly. “I feel bad too, man, but you can’t defer admission that long.”

“Though Snitches was clearly not a little kitten, so you could really just give it a couple years,” Sam mused. Both boys stared at her. She blinked. “Not that I’m suggesting you do that!” She waved her hands at them. “The longer you stay with him, the harder he’s going to take it when his pet ‘dies’,” she said with finger quotes. “You did the right thing by leaving as soon as you could.”

“Maybe we could answer it, do a photoshoot, tell him that Danny was your cat or something and he’s come home,” Tucker mused. “He’d be sad that he couldn’t have the cat, but surely it would be better than worrying the cat died, right?”

“What are you losers talking about?” Star said, giving their booth a wide berth. “You’re not hurting cats now, are you, weirdos?” She eyed them like they were gross. “It would figure.”

“Fuck off,” Sam said pleasantly. All three of them gave Star a rude gesture in unison, just like they had practiced. “That shit’s uncalled for.”

Star sniffled and turned away on her heel, cheer skirt flouncing behind her. A few moments later she clearly reached her table because the sounds of popular kid conversation got a lot louder.

“She should be a reporter,” Sam said darkly. “I would love for her to get sued for slander.” She snapped open her clutch and began applying even more black eyeliner, as if that would differentiate her from the other girls in the restaurant.

Tucker groaned and pulled his hat down over his eyes in despair. “That’s gonna be a bad rumor,” he complained. 

Danny couldn’t find it in him to care as much as he usually would. He was still stuck on the fact that Damian had put an ad in the Illinois Times. “Do you think he realized that Snitches got on a highway bus to Illinois?” he hissed, now aware that other people might be listening in. “How would he know that?”

Sam frowned. Tucker lifted his head and pulled out his phone to search. “That’s a good question,” he said to himself. He hit buttons rapidly. “Uh, same ad is in…” He trailed off. “Hold up, hold up, lemme search this backwards…” Whatever he saw had him raise his eyebrows high, look at Danny in disbelief, and then shake his head slightly. “You must be a really good cat. I'm kind of jealous.”

“What?” Danny hissed. “Just tell me.”

“Hey, hey, paws off.” Tucker moved his device further away. “Uh, this poor kid- well.” He paused. “Poor is the wrong word. He’s put ads in newspapers all the way up to Ontario and down to… Well, in Mexico at least.”

Danny and Sam stared at him in disbelief. “You’re fucking with us,” Sam said after a long moment.

Tucker silently shook his head. “There’s a nationwide Greg’s list ad,” he said grimly. “20 dollars an hour to print and staple missing cat photos to telephone poles. And a private detective’s agency on the case, asking for witnesses to come forward.”

Danny put his head in his hands. “I have to go back,” he said, haunted by the responsibility. “I can’t let him be this sad.”

“Danny, no.” Tucker said. Sam nodded her agreement. 

“…Yeah, that’s crazy,” he said unconvincingly. He gave a fake laugh. “He’ll get over it.” Danny stared into his drink, watching bubbles. Robin was not going to get over it. That kid loved hard.

“I could use 20 dollars an hour,” Tucker said in a thoughtful tone.

“No,” Sam said flatly.

Tucker shrugged, smiling slightly. “I wonder how much I’d get for bringing you back.” He shrugged theatrically. “You could send me to college, man! Don’t you want me to go to college?”

“No…” Danny said weakly. “I… Is that fraud?” Still. Money would be nice.

“Guys, no.” Sam knocked them both in the head with the pile of napkins. “You can’t do that to this little kid. He’s clearly not well.”

“Exactly,” Tucker argued passionately. “Imagine how happy he would be to get his cat back! We could reunite him with his pet!”

It was tempting. He felt, like, so bad about how sad Robin was. The little guy had been so proud of his pet. Danny could spare a few years to make a little kid happy, right? It was kind of greedy otherwise.

Danny stared at the bubbles in his drink again, really thinking it over. “I think I would have to fight crime with him,” he said dully. “That’s a minus.”

“Danny?” Sam rapped the table with her fingers. He looked up to see her pointed eyebrow raise. “What are you talking about?”

He hunched his shoulders up. “Nothing, nothing,” he lied hastily. He forgot they didn’t know. He couldn’t dox someone’s crime fighting identity, though, it would be really unfair. 

“You could buy me a house,” Tucker wheedled. Sam hit him.

[animeficsworld]

For You, Always

Umemiya Hajime x Reader

Summary: When your favourite ring goes missing, you storm Furin to get it back from your very chaotic boyfriend.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

The clink of heavy boots echoed sharply through Furin’s halls.

You didn’t smile. You never smiled.

Not at strangers, not at friends, not even at the wide-eyed first-years who practically flung themselves out of your path like you were a hurricane dressed in black.

You walked, head high, eyes colder than steel, shoving open doors and pushing past groups of stunned students without a single word. The only thing you cared about was finding him.

Because he had your favourite ring, the little silver band you never took off, the one he’d stolen half-jokingly yesterday and promised to return today.

And you weren’t exactly patient.

"Sh-she’s here-" a first-year whispered frantically, nudging his friend.

"That’s her?" someone else breathed, voice cracking.

The second and third years didn’t need to ask. They knew you.

You were Umemiya Hajime’s girl.

The one person their wild, sunshine, chaos-loving leader doted on like you were the only thing in the world worth anything.

You were the black cat to his golden retriever. The storm cloud to his blazing summer day.

And seeing you in person, marching through Furin, wearing your scowl like a crown, only made the rumours feel so much more real.

Finally, you found him, lounging against a wall near the training grounds, laughing with a few second-years.

His laugh cut off the second he saw you.

"My Love!" he practically shouted, shoving off the wall and jogging toward you with that big, dopey grin you secretly loved.

Your arms stayed crossed. Your glare sharpened.

"You have my ring," you said flatly.

Umemiya laughed, half-nervous, half-lovestruck. "Yeah, yeah, I was just about to bring it back! I was keepin’ it safe for ya, promise."

You didn’t move as he dug into his pocket, producing the tiny silver band with almost ridiculous care like it was priceless.

He slid it onto your finger, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

"There," he said, softer now. "Right where it belongs."

You stared up at him, unimpressed.

"You’re an idiot," you muttered.

He beamed. "Your idiot."

Behind you, you could feel the stunned silence of everyone else watching, mouths open, eyes wide.

Hajime didn’t care.

He hooked an arm around your shoulders, tugging you against his chest, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

"Missed you," he said, almost sheepish.

"I saw you yesterday."

"Still missed you."

You grumbled under your breath but didn’t pull away. Of course, you didn’t.

He was the only one you let close.

The only one who could see past the frost and sharp words and grumpy glares.

And maybe, but just maybe, you missed him too.

"Oi!" Hajime shouted suddenly, looking back at the boys still frozen in shock. "Whatcha lookin’ at?! Ain’t she the cutest thing you've ever seen?!"

You whacked his chest lightly with the back of your hand, mortified.

"Shut up, Hajime."

He laughed, full and bright, holding you closer like you were something precious he was never letting go.

"Can’t. Love you too much."

You rolled your eyes. But your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his jacket, holding on. Just for a little longer.

Maybe forever.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

[kxsagi]

imagine the blue lock boys as dads seeing their children with plushie versions of themselves.

like the boys have just woken up or come home and their young kids are all over this giant plushie of their dad, and its like the same size as their kid too.

the babies just missed their dad 🩵🤭

“𝐬𝐧𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐭𝐞”

a/n: alternated between boy and girl toddlers depending on which one i thought suited them best!

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, bachira meguru, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, nagi seishiro, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

he’s barely taken two steps into the house before his suitcase slips out of his hand. 

he’s exhausted, bags under his eyes, hair a mess, and all he wanted to do was collapse into bed or maybe your arms, whichever one’s closer. 

but then he sees it. 

on the living room rug, bathed in soft morning light, is your toddler in a tiny blue jersey snuggled up on top of a nearly life-size plushie of him. it has the same blue eyes, ahoge, and even stitched-in messy black hair. 

isagi’s heart does a triple backflip. 

he doesn’t even say anything. he just crouches down slowly, wide-eyed, mouth parted like he’s seeing a miracle. 

his son looks up blearily, rubbing his face into the plush. 

“daddy…?” he mumbles sleepily, blinking at him like he’s a dream. “you came home…” 

his voice cracks. “yeah… yeah, i’m home.” 

then he gently scoops him up, still tangled with the plush, and holds him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. 

later, he sits on the couch holding both his sleeping child and the plush and quietly asks you, “where’d you get this… and do they make me in travel size?” 

itoshi rin

rin’s still in a half-zombie state, hair unbrushed and hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, when he walks into the living room and just… stops. 

his brain is buffering. 

because there’s his child, kneeling on a giant plush version of him, using its face for makeup practice. 

“daddy, you’re so pretty!” 

the plushie, now with blush and messy lipstick, has his exact flat expression stitched on. 

he blinks once. twice. “… what the hell is that.” 

“it’s you!” your daughter yells, grinning. “but softer!” 

you’re trying so hard not to laugh from the kitchen. 

rin glares at you, then glares at plushie-rin like it personally insulted him. 

his toddler slides down, toddles up, and wraps her arms around his legs with a pout. “you were gone so i used fake-you. but real-you is warm, too…” 

his face crumbles. he picks her up instantly, muttering something like, “you don’t need that fake one. i’m real and better.” 

but that night you catch him curled up next to both the baby and the plush on the couch… fast asleep, arms around both of them like a grumpy cat with too many feelings. 

itoshi sae

sae opens the front door, tosses his keys on the counter, and fully expects the usual: you cleaning around the house, the toddler trying to feed the fish crayons, something normal. 

but instead he finds his child absolutely sprawled out across a plush version of him, limbs tangled with the thing like a koala. 

“... are you serious right now,” he mumbles. 

the plush even has his crooked ahh bangs and bored stare. it’s wearing one of his old jerseys. 

the kid looks up and beams. “fake papa kept me company!” 

“... fake what?” 

“he’s so squishy,” his daughter says, patting its chest. “but not as squishy as real papa!” 

she leaps at him like a flying squirrel and he catches her with a soft “oof.” 

after a few moments of silence, sae glances at you. 

“… did you commission this? did you bribe our daughter into replacing me?” 

he pretends to sulk, but later you find him napping on the couch with the plush under his arm and your toddler tucked into his side. 

he doesn’t let you bring the plush to family events, though. “i’m the real deal. they can meet me in person.” 

kaiser michael

he walks out of the bedroom shirtless, yawning and dramatically scratching his abs, only to stop mid-stretch. 

“what the hell…” 

in the middle of your living room, his toddler is standing on the shoulders of a life-size kaiser plushie like she’s posing for a music video. 

it has everything – his smirk, his stupid little eyebrow slit, even a tiny gold crown. 

“i am… baby daddy,” she announces. “king of the house!” 

kaiser puts his hands on his hips. “hey, i didn’t retire. i still live here, you know.” 

your toddler gasps. “the real one? you’re alive?!” 

he fake-sobs. “replaced by my own child… betrayed…” 

you roll your eyes as he dramatically throws himself onto the floor. your daughter giggles and pounces on him instead of the plush. 

he’s smug about it for days. starts using the plush to teach the baby “cool” poses. 

you overhear him muttering one night: “maybe i do look good in plush form…” 

bachira meguru

bachira sprints out of the hallway the second he hears his kid yell, “BEEEEE PAPA!!!” 

he thinks something’s wrong. 

nope. he walks in and finds his toddler straddling a massive plushie version of him, holding toy paintbrushes and doodling little smiley faces on its cheeks. 

the plush has his chaotic hair and the stitched-on goofy grin. 

“look, papa! now there’s two of you! double bees!” 

he clutches his chest. “two of me?! i’ve always wanted a twin!” 

the boy giggles, and bachira plops down next to him, already reaching for glitter glue like he’s not a grown man. 

they spend the next hour giving plush-bachira a makeover while he tells it, “you’re handsome, brother. you’re the prettier twin.” 

you come back to find him asleep next to the plush, your toddler drooling on his chest, and all three covered in stickers. 

he refuses to let you clean it. “it’s a masterpiece. it’s art. leave it forever.” 

mikage reo

there’s a plush version of him – no, a glamorous, smug-faced, model-tier plush version of him – sitting on a beanbag chair. 

his toddler is sitting on its lap like it’s santa claus. 

“dada number two said i’m his favorite.” 

reo blinks. “... he did?” 

you walk in sipping coffee like this is just another thursday. 

“she missed you while you were in meetings,” you say. “so i got her a luxury stand-in.” 

“luxury stand-in?!?” 

he’s laughing but he’s offended. “baby, i’m your real dada!” 

“but plush-dada’s always here…” 

he ends up buying five more just in case one breaks. 

starts calling them “my stand-ins for investor dinners.” 

genuinely considers launching a plush reo merch line for fun. 

poses with both the plush and your toddler for a fake magazine cover titled “rich, soft, and cuddly.” 

chigiri hyoma

he comes home from training sweaty and flushed, untying his hair as he walks in… and stops dead in his tracks when he sees it. 

his child is brushing a giant plush version of him, humming while carefully braiding the strands. 

“so pretty…” she murmurs. “papa’s so pretty…” 

his heart flips over like a pancake. 

he crouches beside his daughter slowly, fingers twitching like he doesn’t want to interrupt the salon session. 

“hey, sweetheart,” he says gently. “what’s all this?” 

“this is fake-papa. he stayed with me while real-papa was kicking the balls.” 

he chokes. “kicking the… yep. that’s right.” 

she presses a kiss to plush-chigiri’s head, then turns and smushes her face into his. “but i missed this one more.” 

he’s instantly scooping her up with a little laugh and a kiss to her temple. 

asks if she’ll braid his real hair next. 

you come back to find your daughter sitting behind him, brushing chigiri’s actual hair while the plush sits beside them like their assistant. 

nagi seishiro

it takes everything in him just to make it back home. 

he’s dragging his feet like a sleep-deprived ghost, hair messy from the flight, phone barely hanging onto 2%. 

“i’m gonna sleep for five days,” he mumbles, pulling open the front door. 

what he doesn’t expect is to see your toddler curled up like a sleepy dumpling on top of a giant plush version of him. like same white hair, same half-lidded sleepy eyes, same slouched posture. the plush is even laying down with its arms open like it’s always ready for a nap. 

your toddler is lying right on its chest, using its stomach as a pillow, cuddled under one of your oversized hoodies like it’s a whole bed. 

nagi stares. blinks. softly says, “... yo.” 

the baby boy lifts his head blearily. “papa?” 

“mhm.” he walks over and flops right down beside them. “who’s this lazy guy?” 

“it’s fake-you,” your son says proudly, clinging to the plush’s arm. “he naps with me when you’re gone.” 

nagi hums. “figures. he looks lazy. just like me.” 

you peek in and see them both lying on the floor – your real baby curled up with two oversized plushies: one soft and fake, one sleepy and real. 

he’s out cold within five minutes. 

later, when you ask what he thinks of the plush, nagi mumbles, “it’s chill. keep it around. less work for me.” 

ness alexis

the second he opens the door, he’s already calling out, “i’m home! did you miss meeee?” 

he’s expecting your toddler to come barreling down the hallway, as usual. but the house is suspiciously quiet. he tiptoes in, peeking into the living room… and stops dead in his tracks. 

there, smack in the middle of the floor, is a giant plush version of him. same brown/purple hair, same sweet smile. 

your toddler is curled into its lap, cradled like a baby, wrapped in a blanket and surrounded by picture books and little toy animals. 

“... huh? when did i become a babysitter and a pillow?” 

your toddler perks up immediately. “real papa!” 

your son clambers out of the plushie’s arms (it sort of flops over sideways), racing over to him with a huge grin. 

“you came back! fake-papa was here ‘cause i missed you so much.” 

ness’s face melts. 

“you… you replaced me… with me?” he laughs, picking his son up and spinning him around. “that’s so cute it should be illegal.” 

he nuzzles his face into his toddler’s cheek and coos dramatically, “i can’t believe you made me into a plush. i’m already soft, though! did you need softer papa?” 

your toddler nods, whispering, “for snuggles.” 

“okay, that’s fair,” he whispers back, suddenly very serious. 

he ends up taking the plush everywhere in the house like it’s part of the family now. dinner? plushie gets a chair. bedtime? plushie gets tucked in. 

he even jokingly gets jealous when the baby says he loves “both papas.” 

“i love you more, right? right??” 

(you catch him whispering to the plush one night: “i guess we’re co-parenting now. don’t you dare steal my spot.”) 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[tarotbyjam24]

Pick a pile :You and your future spouse's relationship dynamics

LGBTQ+ friendly

Masterlist \pick a pile feedback

this is a collab w one and only @delulutarot 🩷

pile 1 pile 2 pile 3

Hi there! If you find my readings helpful, a tip on Kofi is always appreciated, or you can book a personalized reading for a one-on-one experience. Please support me financially and help to reach my monthly goals . [Currently full moon offer on moodboard is available I'm very excited and eager to make moodboards for y'all 🎀]

Your likes, reblogs, and feedback mean so much to me 🩷.

Take a look at the piles and see which one speaks to you 🫶🏻 – I'd love to know which you chose! These are general readings, so take what feels right for you.

Pile एक

🎀 5'2 wife who loves art and tall spouse who loves game

🎀 doesn't talk a lot - falls in love anyway

🎀 confident - shy

🎀 manipulative - naive

🎀 obsessed wife and beautiful husband

🎀 "no" - "tell me "

🎀 asshole - cinnamon roll

🎀 plays an instrument - likes listening to them practicing

🎀 quiet introvert - the extrovert that won't leave them alone

🎀 the demon - the angel

🎀 will kill you - will also kill you

get your personalized readings

Pile दो

🎀short but older - tall but younger

🎀overthinker wife - greenflag understanding husband

🎀 I'm fine - no you're not sweetheart

🎀 wide eyed and curious - the cool ones that admires them

🎀buggy - ah yess a cicadelliedae of the hemiptera order aka leaf hooper

🎀visibly suffering absolutely haunted - also suffering but just represses it 100 %

🎀normally sleeps - rarely sleeps

🎀 gets loud sometimes because they get really excited about the things they love - is okay with it

🎀 2 mentally ill partners 😭 [ idky this mentally ill thing is so persistent please take care of yourself y'all]

🎀 buys coffee - pays for them

🎀will say pretty much anything with zero shame - gets flustered easily 🎀

get your personalized readings

Pile तीन

read by @delulutarot 💗

🎀 clingy - used to it

🎀do you still like me - we're literally married

🎀 not interested - one sided pining

🎀 calm funny supportive - hyper emotional

🎀 peaceful - gets angry at everything

🎀 sleeps like a big spoon - let them cuddle

🎀 good internet - bad internet

🎀 inactive - active

🎀replies immediately - replies in million years

🎀 doesn't gaf - emotional

🎀massive compilmentor - doesn't know how to handle them

🎀 speaks for them - shy mf

🎀 golden retriever - black cat

🎀 reserved doesn't express much - very dating affectionate

get your personalized readings

Thank you for allowing me to share my insights with you. Wishing you a day/night filled with good vibes! Love, Jam

[cupofteatoyou2]

balcony

(+18)

Barcelona hadn’t felt like home yet.

You were still moving around the city with the wide-eyed clumsiness of someone trying not to look lost, but always somehow ending up on the wrong metro line. Your Spanish was good enough, Catalan… barely there. Most days you kept your head down, your headphones in, and told yourself that adjusting just took time.

Your apartment, at least, was something you could make your own. It was small, but the ceilings were high and the light came in warm in the afternoons. And the balcony— it wasn’t big,but not small either —had sold you on the place the second you stepped into it. Just enough space for a chair, small coffee table, probably small couch in future and the quiet hope that maybe you'd start to feel like yourself again, even so far from what used to be familiar.

Your schedule was still awkward. Architecture classes were long and intense, all theory and pressure, with just enough free time to make you guilty for not doing more. You spent your mornings on campus, your afternoons sketching—or pretending to—and your evenings curled up on the bed, half-listening to music as you convinced yourself to work.

The first week went by like that. Quiet. Uneventful. No real contact with anyone besides classmates and your advisor. You’d seen glimpses of neighbors, sure—someone carrying a bike upstairs, an older woman with laundry baskets and bright pink slippers—but no one close enough to say hello to.

Your own balcony faced another. Separated by a thin divider, waist-high, painted in the same tired white as the rest of the complex. You’d never seen anyone out there. Maybe the apartment next to yours was empty.

So when you stepped into your living room that afternoon, barefoot, cup of tea in hand, the last thing you expected was to find a massive black cat staring at you like he’d been there the whole time.

You froze mid-step. Tea sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

He was sitting perfectly still by the sliding glass door, halfway between inside and out, tail curled neatly around his paws. The kind of black that looked almost blue in the sunlight. Broad head, golden eyes. Quiet confidence.

You stared.

“…Where the hell did you come from?”

No collar. No sound. He blinked once, like you were the one being strange.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped fully into your apartment.

You stood there, mouth slightly open, as he padded across the wooden floor like it belonged to him. No rush, no nerves. Just… calm. Like this was a routine visit.

You turned slowly to follow him with your eyes. “Okay.. Great.”

He paused near your low coffee table, sniffed your sketchbook, and then—because apparently this was his home now—curled up in the warm square of light spilling in through the window.

You blinked again.

“I didn’t even… I didn’t leave food out or anything.” You rubbed a hand over your face. “You just—broke in?”

The cat lifted his head slightly, then lowered it again with a deep, satisfied sigh. He was clearly not going anywhere.

You hesitated for a few seconds longer“Okay” you muttered, “Make yourself at home.”

After that first afternoon, you expected the cat to disappear.

Barcelona didn’t feel like the kind of city where things just showed up and stayed. Everything here moved too fast. The days bled together in a haze of heat, noise, and effort—so many things to learn, so much to adapt to. And yet, the next day, at exactly the same time, cat returned.

You’d barely noticed the sound—a soft scratch against the tile, the faint thump of paws—but there he was again, settling into the same pool of afternoon light by your bookshelf with a long, theatrical sigh.

You stared at him for a moment from behind your laptop. “You’re serious about this, huh?”

He didn’t answer. Just flicked his tail once and closed his eyes.

And so, day after day, he came back.

Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, but always after noon and always alone. You started expecting him. Started leaving the balcony door open just wide enough. Started refilling the little water bowl by the couch.

By day three, you’d caught yourself talking to him out loud. Not full conversations, but soft comments here and there as you worked through sketches and models. Your studio space was small, and quiet, and cat filled it with a presence that didn’t demand anything from you—which, weirdly, made it easier to think.

He wasn’t affectionate. Not exactly. He’d occasionally brush against your ankle or curl beside you on the couch, but mostly he existed like a shadow—steady and unbothered. You grew used to the shape of him in your space. Like a black spill of ink across the light. Like something that made your borrowed apartment feel a little more like home.

You wondered where he came from. Who he belonged to. But there hadn’t been any notes, no one knocking at your door, no complaints. Just the occasional sound from the balcony next door—faint music, the clink of a cup, a brief laugh that disappeared too quickly to hold onto.

Whoever lived there wasn’t nosy. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

Still, you caught yourself glancing over the divider more and more often.

The mystery of it made your chest itch.

On the fifth day, you came back late from a critique session and found him already waiting. He was sitting neatly just outside the door, staring in like you were the one running late. You let out a soft, surprised laugh and opened it without thinking.

“You’ve got some nerve.”

Cat walked in like he owned the place.

That night, he stayed longer than usual. You worked on your laptop while he snored softly under the window. And for the first time since you’d moved here, you didn’t feel the weight of distance as heavily as before.

On the sixth day, it rained.

You thought maybe that would break the pattern. Maybe you’d just imagined this weird ritual into something bigger than it was. But around four in the afternoon, when the skies were a dull, relentless gray and your mood was worse, you heard the faintest sound by the window.

You turned. And there he was.

Drenched. Displeased. Regal.

You hurried to open the door, and he padded in without hesitation, shaking droplets onto your floor like a dog.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing a towel. “You’re going to ruin my landlord’s precious fake wood flooring.”

He tolerated your fussing for about ten seconds, then walked off to dry himself on your throw blanket anyway.

That night, you boiled some pasta and set a small plate of plain tuna down beside your chair. You didn’t know if cats were supposed to eat tuna that often, but he was a guest. And honestly? He’d earned it.

You were stretched out on the balcony floor, cat a warm weight against your thigh, the sky above painted that deep indigo right before full night. It was finally quiet. No metro, no street shouting, just the hum of the city settling and the occasional flick of Bagheera’s tail.

You scratched gently behind his ears. “You really know how to pick a spot, huh?”

He purred like he agreed.

And then—

“Bagheera!”

A voice. From just over the divider.

Low. Rough. Confident.

You froze.

“Baaagheeera, don’t make me come get you again,” the voice added, more amused now. “I’m not in the mood to scale balconies tonight.”

You blinked. Slowly turned your head toward the divider.

Bagheera lifted his head too, alert.

Then a soft scuff—bare feet?—and a shape appeared, leaning lazily over the railing.

You stared.

She was…

God. She was something else. Messy bun, oversized hoodie, sharp jawline catching the light from her apartment behind her. Her eyes found yours instantly, like she’d been expecting you.

You said nothing. Too busy trying to remember how to function.

“Oh,” she said, a little grin curling one side of her mouth. “So you’re the one he’s been cheating on me with.”

You made a noise. Somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

She nodded toward cat, apparently named Bagheera. “He’s got a routine, you know. Leaves after lunch, comes back smelling like someone else’s couch.”

You looked down at the cat, who offered exactly zero shame.

“I… didn’t know he had an owner,” you said finally, voice embarrassingly small.

“Hmm. He does. Kind of.” She studied you for a second. “You live alone?”

You hesitated. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking over you once—bare legs, oversized T-shirt, tea mug next to you—then back up, more amused now.

“Cool. Same.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence buzzed between you, charged.

Then she smirked. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around, vecina.”

She turned like that was it, already stepping back.

But you were still staring. Still holding her cat. Still… breathless.

She reappeared two seconds later with a blanket and leaned on the railing again, clearly not in a rush.

“You can breathe, you know,” she said. “I don’t bite.”

You flushed. “Sorry. You just—caught me off guard.”

“Yeah?” Her grin widened. “Guess I should’ve knocked first.”

“You’re technically outside.”

“So are you.”

Touché.

She extended her hand. “I’m Mapi.”

You took it, still dazed. “I’m Y/N.”

She held your hand half a second longer than necessary, then let go and nodded to Bagheera.

“He picks good people.”

And then she took him, her fingers brushing your arm with a warmth that lingered too long. No goodbye, no explanation—just a casual glance and a crooked smile before she slipped back through the sliding door like she hadn’t just turned your entire night upside down.

You sat there on the balcony for a long time after that.

The city quiet, your tea cold, your heart kind of wrecked in the nicest way.

It had been nearly a week since you’d seen Mapi.

Not that you were counting. Well. You were. A little.

After that first late afternoon—her standing barefoot and casual, Bagheera perched smugly in her arms, you still reeling from the fact that your mystery cat belonged to a very real, very attractive woman next door—she hadn’t come out again. Or maybe she had, just not when you were looking. Which was often.

Bagheera, on the other hand, had shown up daily. Like clockwork. Stretching across your floor like he paid rent. Following you from room to room. Sleeping beside your sketchbooks, stepping directly on your laptop keyboard, watching your every move with that regal, unbothered confidence.

You didn’t mind. He was company. Soft, quiet, steady.

And lately, your tiny balcony had started to feel like your favorite place to be.

A few days ago, you’d found a secondhand couch at a weekend market. The kind that looked like it was made for coffee shops and long conversations. A little beat up, perfectly squishy, and just narrow enough to wedge against your balcony wall beneath the window. The vendor helped you carry it home in exchange for a pastry and a grateful smile.

Now it lived out there permanently—blanketed and pillowed, sun-warmed in the day, breezy at night.

Tonight, you were curled into it, wine in hand, legs tucked beneath you as Bagheera snoozed along the backrest like a lazy panther.

The city hummed low around you. A breeze tugged at your hair. Your laptop was perched on a tray beside you, the screen casting soft light against the growing dark. Blue Is the Warmest Color played quietly. A movie you’d seen before, sure, but never on a night like this. Never while pressed into a couch under stars, with red wine on your tongue and the soft weight of a cat warming your side.

You didn’t mean to get so into it. But it sucked you in. The tension, the push and pull, the way longing built in silences more than words. Your glass was half-full and forgotten. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen.

And then the scene started.

The scene.

You felt the shift before it even happened. The way they looked at each other, breath shallow, eyes dark. The room blurred. Their fingers found each other slowly, reverently.

You swallowed. Shifted. The wine hit your bloodstream just enough to make the air feel heavier.

Onscreen, their mouths met. The first touch. Hands roaming, desperate and searching. The intimacy of it—raw, unhurried—tangled something low in your stomach.

You sat forward slightly, breathing shallow. Bagheera stretched, oblivious.

And then—

“Well,” a voice said lightly from the darkness, “this got interesting fast.”

You jumped so hard you nearly kicked your wine over.

Your head snapped toward the divider.

There she was.

Mapi.

Leaning over the railing like she’d been there the whole time. Hair pulled into a messy knot, arms fully tattooed, tank top hanging loose off one shoulder. Lit faintly by the golden glow from inside her apartment. A crooked smirk curving her lips.

You froze. Completely and totally frozen.

She tilted her chin toward your screen. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Looked like things were getting pretty… intense.”

You scrambled to pause the movie. The frozen frame was ridiculous. You slammed your laptop shut and threw your arm over it like a teen caught watching porn in a rom-com.

“I—I didn’t hear you,” you stammered, fully mortified.

Mapi grinned wider. “Clearly.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “You can’t just do that,.”

“Do what?” she asked innocently. “Existing?”

“Appearing out of thin air mid-sex scene!”

She laughed then. A full, rich sound that bounced between the walls. “In my defense,” she said, “you’re the one watching lesbian cinema with the volume at emotional devastation.”

You stared at her. “That’s not a genre.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Bagheera let out a dramatic yawn and stretched between you, like this entire conversation bored him.

Mapi leaned on the railing, still smiling. “I came out to call him, actually. Didn’t expect the free entertainment.”

You narrowed your eyes. “He’s ignoring you on purpose.”

“He’s got a type, apparently.”

You arched a brow. “Sarcastic neighbors who ruin perfectly good wine-fueled movie nights?”

She laughed again, and this time it wasn’t teasing—it was soft. A little warm.

“No,” she said, quieter now. “People who talk to him like he’s understands what they’re saying.”

You blinked at that. Your face warmed. “He can.”

Mapi smiles. “Most people treat animals like accessories. You don’t. He likes that.”

You looked down at Bagheera. He blinked slowly at you, then flopped back onto his side like he was too cool for this moment.

“So…” Mapi said after a beat, nodding toward your mostly-full wine glass. “You always drink alone on your balcony and get emotionally destroyed by French cinema?”

You gave her a dry look. “Only when I’m not being publicly humiliated by my neighbor.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, already stepping back inside. “I’ve got a bottle of rosé that could pair perfectly with your mortification.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

She reappeared a second later with two glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other.

Bagheera let out a little trill of approval.

“Move over,” Mapi said, gesturing to the couch as she stepped over the divider like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stared. Then you moved.

You stared as Mapi steeped over the divider. Literally.

One leg, then the other, barefoot and all like this was normal behavior and not a moment of sheer insanity. Her wine bottle tilted dangerously as she landed lightly on your balcony floor, casual as hell, like she hadn’t just scaled your wall like a hot lesbian raccoon.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered

“Relax,” she said with a grin, “the wall’s barely above my waist.”

“That’s not the point!”

Mapi handed you a new glass. “Then what is the point?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You looked at her, then at the wine, then at Bagheera who was now purring and rubbing against her ankle like she hadn’t abandoned him days ago. Traitor.

“I could be a serial killer,” you finally said.

Mapi poured. “You’re watching Blue Is the Warmest Color and drinking wine out of a stemmed glass on a couch you probably named. You’re not a serial killer.”

You stared at her. “You don’t know that.”

She lifted her brows, looking around at the pillows and the carefully draped blanket, the way you’d strung up two paper lanterns that swayed lazily in the breeze.

“Okay, fair. You’re an aesthetically pleasing serial killer.”

You took the wine and muttered, “That’s better.”

Bagheera jumped onto the couch between you like he’d been waiting for her to sit down all along. He promptly flopped onto her lap. She stroked his fur like it was second nature.

You hated how domestic it looked.

“Fine,” you said after a long sip, “you can stay. But you’re not allowed to judge me.”

She raised a brow. “For what, exactly?”

You gestured vaguely at the laptop, which was now partially hidden under a blanket out of sheer embarrassment.

Mapi smirked. “For the record, I wasn’t judging. That scene’s a masterpiece.”

You blinked at her.

“Like—cinematically,” she clarified. “Lighting, pacing, tension—ten out of ten. Should be studied.”

You choked on your wine. “You’re not helping.”

“Just saying. Could’ve picked something much worse. Imagine if I’d popped in during—what’s that one? ‘Below Her Mouth’?”

You slapped a hand over your face. “Please stop talking.”

She laughed, full-bodied and delighted. “Hey, I’m just trying to help you feel less mortified.”

“It’s not working!”

“Good. You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

Your brain short-circuited.

Your entire nervous system blinked like a neon sign: Did she say that? Did she actually say that?

Mapi just sipped her wine, looking completely unbothered.

You cleared your throat, trying to act like your pulse hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest. “So, you’re just… crashing balconies now?”

She shrugged. “Yours looked better than mine.”

“You don’t even know what mine looks like.”

“I do now,” she said, eyes scanning over the setup again. “Cozy. Thoughtful. Very queer. It’s giving…” She waved her glass around. “Main character energy.”

You gave her a look. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mapi beamed. “You like it.”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because she was right and you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. The silence stretched for a second, the clink of her glass against yours echoing in the small space. The city below murmured on.

Then, out of nowhere “Wait,” she said suddenly, squinting at your face. “Are you the one who sings to Bagheera sometimes?”

Your whole body seized. “No.”

“You are!” she said, grinning wide. “I knew it. He comes back humming.”

“I do not—I don’t hum to him.”

“Swear to god,” she said, nodding seriously, “last week he was practically purring in tune.”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t worry. It’s cute.”

“Stop calling me cute!”

“Can’t. It keeps being true.”

You groaned and leaned back into the cushions, covering your face. Mapi shifted beside you, stretching her legs out, her thigh brushing against yours with the easy confidence of someone who had zero awareness of personal space—or maybe just no intention of respecting it.

Bagheera purred louder.

You peeked at her through your fingers. “Do you flirt like this with everyone?”

Mapi turned her head lazily toward you. “No. Just the ones who name couches and get emotionally devastated by French girls in beanies.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“Speechless twice in one night,” she said, smirking. “I’m on fire.”

You stared at her. Warm skin, wine-stained lips, eyes like she already knew your answer to questions she hadn’t even asked yet.

The worst part? She was on fire. And you were probably about to get burned.

Three days later You’re halfway through folding laundry on the balcony couch when Mapi’s voice floats up.

“Didn’t take you for the kind of girl who folds underwear in public.”

You nearly drop your panties off the railing.

You glare over at her—barefoot, tank top, leaning on her balcony door with a popsicle in her mouth like she’s the main character in a queer fever dream.

“These are boxer briefs,” you say coolly.

Mapi licks her popsicle slowly. “Even better.”

Day after that, You’re watering your plants in your sports bra. It’s hot. You’re sweaty. You forgot your neighbor exists.

Mapi leans over the balcony ledge. “Careful, cariño. That basil’s not the only thing getting wet right now.”

You choke on air. The basil is fine. Your self-control is not.

Once,You're lying on the balcony couch in a hoodie and nothing else, trying to ignore the sound of someone doing things to someone in a nearby apartment. It's loud. Too loud. The cat’s tail twitches.

Then Mapi’s voice cuts through “Either that’s a really good time, or someone’s watching your movie again.”

You look up.

She’s holding popcorn. And a glass of rosé. And she’s already climbing over the railing.

You blink. “You can’t just climb into my apartment.”

“I brought snacks.”

You let her in.

Not long after that, You’re adjusting your top. You weren’t expecting anyone. Mapi shows up leaning backwards over the divider like she’s bored and accidentally hot.

“Wanna see my new tattoo?”

You raise a brow. “What if I say yes?”

She smirks. “Then I’ll show you the one under my shirt too.”

Bagheera knocks over your wineglass like he’s had enough.

Once,You hear a weird tapping sound. Look up. Mapi’s trying to throw pistachio shells onto your balcony.

She misses. A lot.

When she finally hits you in the forehead, she yells, “Gotcha!”

You shout back, “That’s assault.”

She grins. “You like it rough anyway.”

You do not respond. You cannot respond.

Bagheera meows. Even he’s judging you.

Another time,You’re on the couch in silk pajama shorts. You stretch without thinking. Legs out. Head back. The laptop’s on your chest.

Mapi leans over and whistles. “I don’t know what’s shinier—your laptop or your thighs.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

Then—“I was gonna ask if you wanted to come over, but now I think I’m gonna climb down instead.”

You stop breathing. She doesn’t climb. Yet.

Rain hit your windows in a steady rhythm, soft and hypnotic. Your lights were off—only the warm glow of your laptop screen lighting up your room, flickering over the walls like some low-budget art film.

You were in bed, sprawled under a blanket with a glass of wine balanced on your stomach, your legs slightly parted and your focus absolutely glued to the screen.

Below Her Mouth.

And below your blanket… well. Let’s just say, ovulation had you in a chokehold.

You weren’t even embarrassed about it. Not until—

tap-tap.

You froze.

The sex scene was peaking. Literally.

tap-tap-tap.

You blinked, leaned to the side, and slowly turned your head toward your balcony door.

Mapi León stood outside. Soaked. Hoodie sticking to her frame. Hair dripping onto her shoulders. And worst of all—smirking.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t explain why there was a half-empty bottle of wine on your nightstand and a woman literally getting railed on your screen.

You didn’t even press pause.

Mapi raised her eyebrows. Then, she pointed at the laptop, mouthed, “Seriously?”, and tapped again.

You scrambled up, tripped on the blanket, slammed the laptop shut so hard it clapped like a gunshot.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, rushing to the door.

You unlocked it, slid it open, and hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”

Mapi, absolutely unfazed, stepped inside your room like it was hers. “It’s raining. I brought wine. And your curtains were open. What was I supposed to do—ignore the live screening of lesbian porn?”

“It’s not porn, it’s art.”

She plopped down onto the foot of your bed, kicked off her soaked socks, and wiggled her eyebrows. “Right. Art that makes you squirm and squeeze your thighs together every five minutes.”

You were going to die.

Right here. In your room. In your underwear.

She glanced at the laptop. “You didn’t even pause it.”

“I panicked.”

Mapi leaned back on her hands, cocky and dripping onto your sheets. “You always this worked up on a Tuesday, or is it just that time?”

You groaned. “Get out of my room.”

“No.” She grinned. “I brought good wine, you’ve got good taste in movies, and that scene was getting interesting.”

“You climbed between balconies in the rain to crash my alone time.”

“I was bored. And wet. And curious.” She dragged her eyes over you—your flushed cheeks, your hoodie, the exposed strip of your thigh where the blanket had fallen. “And I’m very glad I did.”

You stared at her. “You’re actually insane.”

“And you,” she said, reaching to pull your blanket back over your legs like she owned them, “are dangerously cute when you’re flustered.”

You squinted at her, lips twitching. “What’s your plan, exactly? Seduce me over wine and stolen porn?”

She handed you the bottle and shrugged. “Depends. You gonna let me stay?”

The rain kept falling. Your heart kept racing. And your laptop, halfway closed, was still playing muffled moans you both ignored.

You took a sip of wine. “Fine. But don’t touch anything.”

Mapi grinned and slid up beside you in bed, whispering, “No promises, cariño.”

You’re trying to focus on the movie. Really. You are. You’ve even repositioned yourself twice—propped up against your pillows, blanket pulled to your waist, one leg curled beneath you like that’ll help. It doesn’t. Nothing helps.

Because she’s too close.

Mapi stretches like a cat, elbow grazing yours, and doesn’t apologize when she settles again with a satisfied sigh. Her bare leg brushes against yours with each small shift, warm and smooth where your knees touch under the blanket. Every movement she makes feels exaggerated, deliberate. Even when she’s quiet, she’s loud.

You’re painfully aware of her wine-stained lips and the way her shirt clings to her shoulder, slipping just slightly lower as she leans forward to grab the bottle. She does it slowly, like she’s giving you time to look. And maybe you do—just for a second. Just to feel the sharp sting of want rise in your throat.

She pours, not into her glass, but straight into her mouth, tilting the bottle back with a grin. Some of it dribbles down her chin, and she wipes it with the back of her hand, catching you staring.

“What?” she says, voice lazy, knowing.

You blink fast, looking away. “Nothing.”

She hums, the sound low and amused. “Thought so.”

“Why do they always make lesbian sex scenes look like a perfume ad?” Mapi mutters suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You snort, grateful for the interruption and the fact that she said something. “You complaining?”

“Not at all,” she says, head turning toward you. Her hair is still damp from the rain, curling slightly at the ends, and it smells like your shampoo now. Her eyes meet yours and stay there, steady and unblinking. “I just think we could do better.”

Your stomach flips. Your mouth opens, then closes again. You pretend to sip your wine, even though your glass has been empty for a while. She watches you do it like she knows.

Mapi leans her head on her hand, propped up by her elbow. Her fingers—rings cold against her skin—start idly playing with a strand of your hair.

“You’re really into this movie, huh?”

You try to sound casual. “It’s a good one.”

“Hmm,” she hums, like she agrees. But she’s not looking at the screen. She’s watching your mouth.

Her fingers move from your hair to the side of your neck, brushing barely there touches down the line of your jaw before pulling back just enough to rest again between you, dangerously close.

“Relax,” she murmurs, voice low, warm, and threaded with amusement. “You’re tense.”

You scoff, trying not to let your body betray you. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she says, her voice dipping lower. Her hand moves again, drifting across your forearm, her nails soft against your skin. The touch is featherlight—meaningless on its own, but combined with the look in her eyes and the curve of her smirk, it short-circuits your brain.

She’s not doing anything wrong. Technically. But your whole body reacts like she is.

Her hand finds your knee under the blanket and settles there like it belongs. She doesn’t move it, doesn’t squeeze. Just rests it. Warm and solid. Like a placeholder for something more.

“Do you always watch this kind of stuff alone?” she asks, voice teasing, like she’s trying to distract you.

You glare. “Do you always break into your neighbor’s apartment to flirt in the middle of a storm?”

Mapi leans in slightly, close enough that her breath tickles your cheek. “Only when they look this good doing nothing.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you.

On the screen, the tension builds between the characters—slow touches, quiet gasps, hands moving beneath clothes. Mapi doesn’t look away. But not at the movie. At you.

“You think that’s how we’d do it?” she asks softly.

You blink, trying to gather words.

“What?”

“That,” she says, nodding slightly toward the screen. “Would you let me take my time like that?”

Your pulse spikes. Her voice is silk-dipped sin. Casual, almost. But it lands hard. Heavy.

You try to keep it together. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re all talk.”

That gets you a slow, dangerous smile. Mapi shifts closer, until your thighs are pressed together. Her hand trails up slightly, fingers tapping once on the inside of your knee.

“You think I’m just teasing?” she whispers.

You nod, defiant. “I know you are.”

“Maybe,” she says, brushing a thumb along the seam of your shorts, just enough to make your breath catch. “But you like it.”

The characters on screen are moaning once again —soft, practiced sounds. In your room, it’s quiet except for the hum of rain against the window and the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears.

Mapi doesn’t kiss you.

She doesn’t move her hand any higher.

She just turns her attention back to the screen, like nothing’s happened, and starts sipping her wine again. But her fingers remain where they are—teasing, barely moving, still making those slow little circles on your thigh like she’s marking time.

You stay perfectly still, gripping your wineglass, pretending you’re not losing your mind.

And she sits there, smug and satisfied, like she’s got all night.

Because she does.

You’d barely restarted the next movie—a dirtier one this time, something more explicit, something neither of you pretended wasn’t intentional—when Mapi moved again.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate.

She just repositioned herself behind you, like it was the most natural thing in the world—pulling you back against her chest, wrapping you up in the blanket and her arms, her legs bracketing yours as her chin dropped to your shoulder.

You froze.

You could feel the shape of her body pressed into yours. The slow, deliberate way her hand slid across your stomach under the blanket. Her breath was warm against your neck. She said nothing—but every part of her touch said everything.

You stared at the screen, but you didn’t see anything.

Until the moans started.

On screen, the characters were tangled together—no build-up this time, just raw sex. Wet, slow, aching. No soft filters or background music. Just skin on skin, bodies grinding, the sound of breath catching and whispered, needy pleas.

And then—Mapi’s hand moved.

Her fingers slid under the hem of your shirt, just brushing your stomach. Light. Curious. Intimate.

You tensed instinctively—but she didn’t stop.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just focus on the movie.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t dare to look at her.

You couldn’t.

She dragged her fingers lower, pausing at your waistband. Not pushing, just tracing. Her touch so light it drove you crazy.

“You’re good at that” she murmured.

You swallowed. “At what?”

Her hand dipped beneath the band of your shorts.

“Pretending you don’t want this.”

Your body twitched at the first proper touch—her fingers stroking you over your underwear, slow and unbothered, like she was just warming up.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered, tone rough now. “And I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

You gripped the blanket tighter, head falling back slightly against her shoulder.

“Still pretending?”

She didn’t wait for an answer this time.

Her hand slipped beneath your underwear, fingers gliding through slick heat, parting you with the same careful patience you’d seen her use on the pitch—measured, sure, deadly.

The moans from the movie only got louder. Dirtier. One of the characters gasped something desperate, breathless.

Mapi’s fingers slid deeper, just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips stutter forward.

She groaned low, right in your ear. “You hear that? That sound she’s making?”

You whimpered.

“She’s not even close to how good you’re gonna sound.”

Her hand on your stomach flexed slightly—possessive, steady—while the one between your legs moved with maddening control. She didn’t rush. Didn’t chase. She teased. She ruined.

“Focus on the movie,” she whispered, dragging her fingers slow and slick through your folds, circling but never giving you exactly what you needed. “Watch. Let it build.”

You tried. You really did.

But your eyes fluttered half shut, lashes brushing your cheeks as your whole body tilted toward her, open, aching.

“Don’t close your eyes,” she murmured. “You’ll miss the best part.”

You whimpered. “Mapi…”

She smirked against your neck. “You want it? Then take it. I’m right here.”

Her hand slid lower again, dipping in just the slightest bit, enough to make you twitch.

But then she stopped.

Just rested her fingers there.

“You’re gonna come for me,” she whispered. “But not yet.”

And then she pulled her hand out entirely.

You gasped in protest, hips jerking involuntarily—but she just held you tighter, lips brushing the shell of your ear as she reached for her wine again with the same lazy calm she always had.

She sipped. Settled. Pressed her mouth to your jaw.

Then

“Next scene’s coming up,” she said, tone wicked and smooth. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll let you ride my fingers when it starts.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak.

You just nodded—barely.

And she smiled.

Like she knew.

Like she was already planning exactly how slow she’d ruin you next.

The next scene started soft—just breathy kisses and hands sliding under clothes—but you knew what was coming.

So did Mapi.

She shifted behind you again, legs snug against yours, blanket slipping slightly as she pushed your shirt up with both hands, slowly, exposing your stomach to the cool air.

You didn’t stop her.

You didn’t move at all.

“You still pretending to care about the plot?” she asked, her voice already thicker, lower.

You managed a nod.

“Liar,” she said, and her hand slid back between your legs.

This time, she didn’t waste any time teasing.

Her fingers found you fast—slick, warm, desperate—and she groaned under her breath.

“You’re dripping,” she whispered. “All over me.”

You whimpered, back arching against her.

“Shh,” she murmured, kissing the curve of your jaw. “Just stay still.”

Her hand worked you slow at first, deliberately matching the pace on screen. The characters were grinding now, panting, the kind of sex that was all friction and hunger and heat.

And Mapi let you feel every second of it.

“Ride my fingers,” she whispered. “Go on. Take what you want.”

You froze. “What?”

She didn’t repeat herself. Just slipped two fingers inside, deep and sure, her other hand sliding up to cup your chest, dragging your back harder against her.

“Fuck—Mapi—”

“Quiet.”

She didn’t mean it.

She wanted you loud. She wanted to feel every sound in your throat before you could even make it.

And you tried, you really did—but the way her fingers curled inside you, the way her palm ground against you on every slow thrust forward—you couldn’t help the way your hips started moving, chasing it, riding her hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the moment.

“That’s it,” she said, tone impossibly dark. “Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

Her fingers moved deeper, sharper, filling you with purpose—while her lips dragged slow down your neck, biting softly, possessive.

The movie faded completely. You couldn’t see the screen anymore. You didn’t care.

Your whole body was centered on the rhythm of her—inside you, against you, around you.

You moaned, louder this time, and she just smiled, her breath hot in your ear.

“You wanna come, don’t you?”

You nodded desperately.

She slowed her hand again—just enough to make you cry out in frustration.

“Not yet,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I want you begging first.”

You almost cursed at her.

Almost.

But her fingers curled just right, and all that came out was a strangled moan.

She chuckled low, lips ghosting over your cheek. “Yeah. Just like that.”

“You wanna come, don’t you?” she whispered again, slower now—almost sweet.

You nodded. Frantic. Shamefully desperate. You couldn’t speak.

“Then ask nicely,” she said, and she stilled her hand entirely.

You gasped like the air had been stolen from your lungs. “Mapi—”

“Uh-uh,” she smirked, brushing her nose against your cheek, her breath hot and wicked. “Use your words, cariño. You were doing so well.”

Her fingers didn’t move. They stayed buried inside you, hot and still and maddening, like a threat and a promise at once. The only movement came from her other hand, the one now tracing lazy circles across your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. And the soft drag of her teeth against your neck.

“Please,” you managed, barely more than a whisper. “I need—fuck—I need it.”

She hummed, pleased. “Need what, baby?”

You could hear the smile in her voice.

“You. Your hand. I need you to—”

Mapi laughed, low and dark. “Qué guarra.” Her hand moved again. Finally.

But slower this time.

Cruel.

She rocked her fingers inside you with obscene patience, dragging against the spot that made your toes curl, but never quite fast enough—never enough to let you tip over.

You were moaning now. Quiet at first. Then louder. Whining into your empty wineglass like it might hide the sounds falling from your mouth.

And Mapi was eating it up.

“Look at you,” she muttered, her fingers pressing deeper. “Fucking dripping, shaking, grinding all over me—just from my fingers.”

Your hand shot down to grab her wrist, trying to force her to move faster. She let you. For a second.

Then she stopped again. Completely.

“Mapi,” you whined, hips moving helplessly.

Her mouth was at your ear in a second, voice all gravel and heat.

“Beg.”

Your whole body was shaking now, thighs trembling, your orgasm so close you could taste it.

“I’m begging,” you gasped. “Please, please—let me come.”

And finally—finally—her rhythm returned, harder this time, relentless, each thrust perfectly angled, her palm slick and fast against your clit now.

“Good girl,” she whispered. “That’s what I wanted.”

The movie was long forgotten. All you could hear was your own ragged breathing, the wet sounds of her fingers working you open, the filthy praise in her voice as she pushed you closer and closer.

“Come for me,” she growled, right into your skin. “Now.”

You broke.

Your whole body tensed, then shattered, collapsing back against her with a sound you didn’t even recognize as yours. The kind of orgasm that stole your voice. Stole everything.

She didn’t stop.

She worked you through it, coaxing every last twitch and whimper from your oversensitive body, until you had to physically grab her hand to make her stop.

She finally pulled her fingers from you, slow and smug, and wrapped her arms tight around your waist, kissing the back of your shoulder like nothing had just happened.

“Still your favorite genre?” she asked, voice playful.

You couldn’t speak. You could only nod.

Mapi grinned against your skin.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because I’ve got another one queued up.”

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just kisses the base of your neck, then lower, and lower—her breath dragging down your spine in lazy, warm waves. Her hands anchor you, one still pressing your thigh open, the other running possessively down your side. You’re trembling now, fully at her mercy, the movie long forgotten. There’s only her.

When her mouth reaches your waistband, she pauses. She kisses just above it, then nudges your shorts down with her nose, her hands making quick work of the rest. You lift your hips without needing to be asked. You’d let her do anything right now.

“You’re so wet for me,” she murmurs, voice low, dark with amusement, and fuck, you are. She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Because she does.

And then she doesn’t wait.

She buries her face between your thighs, and it’s immediate—hot and wet and intense. Her tongue moves with precision, like she’s mapped every reaction you’ve ever had and memorized the blueprint. She licks slowly at first, savoring you, dragging it out, teasing the edges before circling in.

Your back arches off the bed. You grip the sheets. You moan—helplessly, desperately—as she groans against you like she can’t get enough.

Every movement is practiced. Confident. She works you open with her tongue, flicking, pressing, sucking just enough to make you shudder. Her grip tightens on your hips, holding you down when you try to writhe away from the intensity.

“Stay still,” she growls against your skin. “Let me taste you properly.”

It’s filthy. It’s everything.

And then she pushes two fingers into you, slow but deliberate, curling just right, just enough. You choke on your breath. Her pace doesn’t falter. Mouth and fingers moving in tandem, dragging you higher and higher, building pressure like she’s tuning an instrument only she can play.

You’re not going to last. You know it. She knows it.

And she doesn’t let up.

Your thighs start to tremble. Your moans turn breathless. Her name spills from your lips like a prayer.

And Mapi?

Mapi just smirks, glancing up through her lashes like she’s still got so much more planned.

Your thighs are shaking uncontrollably now, and Mapi loves it. You can feel it in the way her mouth moves even slower, savoring every sound you make, every twitch of your hips she forces you to hold back.

She presses her tongue flat against your clit, dragging it slowly upwards, making you whimper into the dark room. Then she pulls back just enough to let her breath wash over your soaked skin — cool, teasing — before she licks into you again with a filthy groan that vibrates through your whole body.

"Fuck, you taste good," she mutters, voice wrecked, almost feral.

And then she sinks her fingers deeper, curling them deliberately, expertly, finding that spot inside you that makes you sob without shame. You clench around her and she just laughs—low and cocky—and pushes in harder, like she’s trying to ruin you on her hand alone.

Your head thuds back against the pillows. Your fingers find her hair, grabbing blindly for something to ground yourself. She lets you, lets you tug her closer, like she wants you desperate for her, wants you to lose control completely.

"You wanted to watch dirty movies," Mapi says roughly, pulling her mouth away just enough to smirk against your inner thigh. "Guess you're living one now, princesa."

You can't even form words anymore. You're too busy panting, trembling, so fucking close it hurts.

She doesn't let up. Her tongue flicks back to your clit, fast and rhythmic now, perfectly timed with the relentless thrust of her fingers inside you. Every drag of her tongue feels like lightning under your skin. Every curl of her fingers punches another gasp from your throat.

And she keeps talking, filthy and low, right against you

"Bet you wish they showed this in those movies, huh?" she murmurs. "This is how it’s supposed to be. Someone making you fucking beg."

You're already there.

Your stomach knots impossibly tight. Your whole body locks up, trembling violently. You're seconds away from falling apart, and she fucking knows it.

"Cum for me, baby," she whispers against your soaked skin. "Let go. Let me hear you."

Her fingers slam into you just right. Her mouth clamps down on your clit, sucking hard, greedy, dirty.

And you shatter.

You cry out, clenching so hard around her fingers it almost hurts, your whole body jerking helplessly as she works you through it, not stopping, not slowing down until you’re sobbing from the overstimulation.

Only then — only then — does Mapi finally pull away, licking her lips like she’s tasting something addictive, dragging her fingers out of you slow and deliberate, watching you with dark, blown pupils like you’re the most perfect thing she’s ever seen.

She crawls up your body, presses a slow, dirty kiss against your open, gasping mouth, and grins against your lips.

“Told you we could do better than the movie.”

Not long after that she whispers, lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just… fuck.”

She chuckles quietly, pleased, but there’s no smugness in it now. Just affection. That slow, lazy sweetness that only comes out once she’s had her fill of teasing.

“Come here,” she says, and you don’t need to roll over—because she’s already shifting you herself, hands guiding you onto your side, pulling your back into her chest again. She curls around you like she was made to fit there, strong arms wrapping tightly around your waist, her thigh tucking between yours.

The storm is still going outside, rain tapping gently against the glass doors. The movie has long since faded into the background, the screen now just flickering light that dances across the messy sheets and your bare skin.

Mapi presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the back of your head.

You feel her reach for something, and a second later, a warm cloth touches between your legs — slow, careful, her hand steady as she cleans you up. She doesn’t say much. Just breathes with you. Focuses on you. Every movement quiet and sure, like it’s second nature.

“I got you,” she murmurs.

And she does.

When she’s done, she tosses the cloth aside and gathers you closer, pulling the blanket up over both your bodies. You press your face into her arm, and she hooks her chin over your head, fingers drawing soft, lazy shapes into your stomach.

Neither of you talks for a while.

Just the quiet rise and fall of your breathing, the beat of the rain, the gentle weight of her touch grounding you like a heartbeat.

Then—

“That was better than the movie,” she says eventually, voice a little smug again.

You huff out a laugh. “You think?”

“Should’ve gotten an Oscar for that performance.”

You roll your eyes and elbow her gently. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.”

And you do.

You don’t say it out loud. Not yet. But the way your fingers lace with hers under the blanket says enough.

She kisses your shoulder again, softer this time. “I guess we both agree that Next time,” she whispers, “I’m choosing the movie.”

You snort. “As long as you don’t talk through the sex scenes again.”

She grins against your skin. “No promises.”

[fox-guardian]

[ID: Digital meme drawings of Celia, Alice, Sam, and Gwen from The Magnus Protocol on a gray background. Celia is a slim Korean woman with short black hair and glasses. Sam is a shorter fat South Asian man with short, curly black hair and a mustache. Alice is a tall, lanky white trans woman with freckles, piercings, pink cat-eye glasses, and shaggy brown hair. Gwen is a short white woman with blonde hair in a ponytail. All their outfits vary slightly in each image.

The first image is Celia "cicada blocking" both Alice and Sam at once, by cornering them and death-gripping the walls around them with all four limbs. Her torso is at their collective eye-level, and they are both wide-eyed and blushing at her.

The second image is a redraw of the "cat pulling two people by their sweaters" meme in which Celia is the screaming cat pulling on Sam and Alice. Celia has been drawn via tracing over the cat directly, and is very small and oddly proportioned as a result.

Third image is another meme redraw featuring Sam and Celia embracing and kissing while Sam holds a drink in his hand behind Celia's back. Alice is squatting behind them, casually sipping from Sam's drink, despite holding a drink of her own.

Fourth image is of a lower quality than the others and shows Alice standing in a corner while Gwen attempts to crowd her in with both arms. She is significantly shorter and her hands are placed around Alice's waist height. Alice looks down at her, unimpressed, and Gwen is sweating.

Fifth image is a meme redraw showing Gwen standing on Sam's knees while he holds her up by her legs. Sam is winking at the viewer while Gwen leans her arm against the wall near Alice's head. She is still sweating but now Alice is covering her blushing face with her hands while looking up at her.

Sixth image is a meme redraw showing Alice smugly lifting Gwen and holding her against a wall while Gwen looks surprised and flustered at her.

end ID]

~~~~

idk why this last episode had me in a meme-making mood but here we are. featuring a lot of wall-related shenanigans and celia trying desperately to keep the gang together by any means necessary. also dyhard <3

[daxisyzz]

Why so serious? Sergeant

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader

Trope: Grumpy x Sunshine, Domestic Fluff

Summary: It’s a lazy weekend and you’re bored, so naturally, you ask to practice makeup on your very serious, very grumpy boyfriend. He reluctantly agrees… not knowing you’re about to Joker-fy him and put it on tiktok. The twist? He looks too good, and now you’re the one suffering.

Warnings and tags: grumpy!bucky, but he loves her so soft for her, joker!bucky??, chaotic avengers' group chat, reader is clearly turned on by him.

Word count: 1k+

A/n: yes, this was inspired by Sebastian's role in the short film "The magic of passion", but he's a magician in that. Check it out if you haven't already. 500 followers special.

Saturdays were for pancakes, questionable movie choices, and Bucky grumbling around the apartment like a feral cat learning to be domestic.

Today, however, you were dangerously bored.

You were sprawled out on the living room rug in one of Bucky’s ancient hoodies, surrounded by your makeup collection like it was a war zone. He walked in slowly, suspiciously, like he was approaching some kind of trap.

“What... are you doing?” he asked, voice still gravelly from sleep.

You sat up like a puppy spotting a treat. “I’m bored.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “That’s never ended well for me.”

You gasped dramatically. “Rude. I’m an angel when I’m bored.”

“You convinced me to sign up for goat yoga last time.”

“And your glutes looked amazing for weeks, so you’re welcome.”

He sighed, already regretting asking. “What do you want?”

You grinned. “Can I do your makeup?”

Dead silence. The kind that stretched just long enough for a tumbleweed to roll by.

“No.”

“Pleeeease? You have the best face. Like, if Michelangelo did eyeliner.”

“No.”

You crawled over on your knees, giving him the full wide-eyed, pouty-lip, you-know-you-love-me look. “Pretty please? You’d be helping me grow as an artist. You’re like… my beautiful, brooding canvas.”

Bucky blinked. “That sentence gave me secondhand embarrassment.”

You clutched your heart. “That’s a yes.”

He groaned but sat on the edge of the couch anyway. “Fine. But no glitter, no lashes, no weird colors. Normal makeup.”

“Of course,” you lied sweetly, already grabbing a white foundation stick.

The man was so tragically trusting when he loved someone. He let you brush and blend and buff without question, arms crossed like a sulking statue while you worked.

He muttered under his breath, “This better not end up on TikTok…”

You gave a noncommittal hum. Because, obviously, this was not going to be a natural glam look.

And of course you filmed it. You’d propped your phone up sneakily on the bookshelf, recording the whole transformation in time-lapse: serious, scowling Bucky slowly morphing into a chaos-clown masterpiece.

You whispered to the camera, “Trust. The. Process.” before cackling silently.

No, this was Heath Ledger Joker territory. And the best part? Bucky hadn’t caught on.

You smeared more white across his face, added deep shadows around his eyes, a little black liner for depth… and then came the red. You dragged the lipstick in that jagged grin shape across his cheeks, trying not to burst out laughing.

“This feels clowny,” he said, suspicious now.

“Shhh,” you whispered. “Trust the process.”

When you were done, you stepped back with a breathless grin. “Okay. Ready?”

Bucky opened his eyes. You handed him the mirror. He stared.

“…You made me the Joker.”

You waited for the grumbling, the classic “Doll, I said normal!” speech—but instead, something entirely different hit you.

You blinked.

Because… damn.

The chaos of it. The cheekbones. The angry smudges. The “I might burn the world for you” look in his eyes.

You felt something stir in your soul. And maybe lower.

“…You good?” Bucky asked, brow furrowing.

You stared at him. “Okay but like… why is this kind of hot?”

He froze. “What?”

You stepped closer, eyes wide. “Like—I thought this would be funny, but now I want to crawl into your lap and make out while ‘Candy’ plays in the background.”

His expression flickered between horrified and smug. “You’re insane.”

You whispered, “Say it like you’re threatening Gotham, please.”

Bucky covered his face with one hand. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

You were already straddling his lap, giggling like a woman possessed. “Do the voice.”

“No.”

“Do the voice, James.”

He exhaled, deadpan. “Why so serious, doll?”

You gasped. “I’m going to combust.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, hands settling on your hips anyway. “You have issues.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped suddenly. “This is going to break my feed.”

Bucky froze mid-eye roll. “You filmed it?”

You nodded gleefully, already editing it to the “Joker stairs” soundtrack.

“If this ends up on the internet, I swear—”

You kissed his cheek, smearing more red on his jaw. “Too late, internet’s already falling in love with you.”

He groaned into his hands. “I hate Saturdays.”

He tried to fight it. He really did. But you looked too happy, too deranged, and clearly too turned on by the Joker makeup to argue.

“Alright,” he muttered. “You got your fun. Take it off.”

“Not yet,” you said, eyes gleaming. “We’re gonna reenact that ‘You complete me’ scene.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Bucky, please, I need it emotionally.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” he grumbled, but he didn’t stop you as you dragged him toward the bedroom, red lipstick still smeared across his perfect jaw.

And maybe—just maybe—he did the voice again.

The next morning...

(The avengers find the tiktok you filmed, which may or may not have gone viral)

Avengers GC: “Earth’s Mightiest Disaster 💥”

Sam: nah. NAH. you let her joker you up AND film it???

Tony: I just choked on espresso why did that actually go hard

Peter: I don’t know whether to scream or hide he looked into the camera like it owed him money

Bruce: the eyeliner is flawless why was the growl necessary

Steve: …what did I just watch? why is Bucky in clown makeup? why is he talking like that?

Loki: because Midgard is rotting.

Thor: I thought it was performance art

Wanda: he did the voice now I’m rethinking some things

Nat: my soul left my body i need to lie down

Sam: [NAME]. [NAME] GET IN HERE. you enabled this

[Name]: I was bored he was sitting still what did you expect

Steve: what is “break me like a glowstick” and why is it the top comment? what does that even mean?

Peter: I googled it i regret everything

Bruce: there’s fan edits already one has “Toxic” playing over it i need bleach for my brain

Bucky: no one talk to me ever again

Sam: too late joker boy you’re the main character now

Clint: someone printed a screenshot and put it on the fridge in the kitchen btw not saying who but it’s me

[arcadia-smith]

My Sweet Life Ep1

Moodboard/Masterlist

Pairing: Simon Riley x Fem!reader

Summary: Navigating everyday life with Simon Riley. Sitcom-style fanfiction.

Word count: just under 800

Next episode

"Oh, no." Simon’s groan echoed from the living room, followed by the heavy thud of his footsteps as he strode toward the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway, holding up his phone like it personally offended him.

"Luv, thought you were working. But if they’re paying you for this," he waved the device for emphasis, "then you’ve got one hell of a job."

You didn’t look up from your laptop, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Okay, to be fair, you had been a little relentless lately—spamming him with kitten pictures on a daily basis. But how could you not? For the first time, you actually had the chance to adopt one, and all that stood in your way was convincing your fiancé.

Slowly, you swiveled your chair to face him, lips forming the lightest pout—the one you’d spent all morning perfecting in the mirror.

"Don’t you think they’re cute?"

Simon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. It was so damn hard to say no to you, especially when you looked at him like that—lips quivering just enough, eyebrows knitted together, eyes full of adoration.

"For the love of gods," he groaned. His arms crossed over his chest, but you could see the cracks forming. "Where the hell did you even find all these?"

Your eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. Were you actually getting through to him?

"The last two are from the shelter down the street, saw them there and just thought they were cute," you said, voice brimming with excitement.

And then—without pause—you launched into a ten-minute monologue about those kittens.

You told him everything—the way the tabby had stretched its tiny paws and yawned like it had all the time in the world, how the little black one had climbed onto your lap and immediately curled up, purring like a miniature engine.

You didn't notice when his phone lowered to his side. Didn't notice the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"And, Si, you should’ve seen their eyes," you pressed on, hands gesturing wildly now. "Big, round, and so full of love. Like they already chose me."

He sighed. A deep, long-suffering sigh, like he was about to dive into something he knew damn well he wouldn’t come out.

"So," he drawled, pushing off the frame, stepping into the kitchen. "You already named 'em, didn’t you?"

Your mouth snapped shut.

He knew.

You bit your lip, trying to play innocent, but his sharp eyes caught everything. He was a soldier, after all. A trained interrogator. You never really stood a chance.

"...Maybe."

His jaw flexed. "Luv."

You grinned, "Ghost and Soap."

That nearly broke him. You saw it—the flicker of amusement, the way his lips twitched before he caught himself.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You didn’t let him recover. "C’mon, Si," you pleaded, voice dipping into that soft, coaxing tone he had absolutely no defenses against. "Just come see them. We don’t have to adopt them today. Just—just look at them."

He lifted a brow. "You think I don’t know exactly how this plays out?"

You tilted your head, all wide-eyed innocence. "What do you mean?"

He huffed. "You get me to ‘just look.’ Then you put one in my hands, and suddenly I’m holding it. Then it falls asleep on me, and next thing I know, we’re coming home with a cat."

"...Or two," you mumbled.

Simon closed his eyes. Breathed. "I love you, I do. But this place is not for a cat, luv" he leaned against the counter "It's gonna leave his fur everywhere, probably piss in my boots-"

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest as if he’d just stabbed you. "Simon Riley, how dare you?"

"We’ve got enough to handle as it is," he reasoned.

You slid your chair closer, practically glowing with determination. "Think about it—"

"Oh, I have—"

"—a tiny little kitten curled up on your lap after a long mission."

Simon groaned again, tilting his head back like he was asking the heavens for patience. "Luv—"

"You walk in, exhausted, and there they are, all warm and soft, purring just for you."

His eye twitched.

"And, oh!" You clasped your hands together, eyes widening in faux surprise. "Did I mention they have the tiniest paws? So itty-bitty!"

Simon inhaled sharply through his nose. "You’re doin’ this on purpose."

"Just one visit," you said, voice soft, persuasive. "We’ll go to the shelter, just to look."

Simon’s jaw tensed. You could practically see the gears turning. He knew damn well there was no such thing as ‘just looking’.

[mommypieck]

𑄽୧ mutual masturbation with yuuji𔓘 ᰍ

kinktober day 13: touch me please!!!

✿ aged up!yuuji itadori x jealous!reader

✿ warnings: masturbation, fingering, jerking off

You and Yuuji have been best friends ever since you were little. He was always the bubbly golden retriever, and you were his shy black cat. he always stood by you when you were little, and he always stands by you now.

"And then she asked for my number," he exclaims, showing his hands all around. His smile is bright, and you're happy for him. He's so delighted that a girl hit on him for the first time. But there's something inside of you, that tells you it shouldn't be that way.

"What do you think of her?" Yuuji asks, almost breaking your nose with his phone. The girl in the picture is pretty, but you feel like Yuuji could get someone even prettier. For example, you think you are way cuter than that girl.

"Do you think I could lose my virginity to her?" The questions throw you off guard. Of course, you know that Yuuji is a virgin, but you didn't think he would lose it to someone he just met.

"Maybe we can practice," you mutter shyly, you don't want him to go and fuck some other girl. He kissed you when you were little, and even though you're both adults now, you can still feel that kiss on your lips

"Like to have sex?" he asks you, his eyes wide. You snort at him, "Of course not sex, but you probably don't know where the clit is."

He almost looks offended by your statement. Of course, he knows where the clit is, he thinks to himself. Gojo told him it was another name for the pee hole.

"You can just teach me a bit," you tell him, looking at him skeptically. His face suddenly turns serious, and you can see the wheels turning in his head.

"Okay." he breathes into your ear.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his hand traveling up your skirt. He almost whines when his fingers meet the warmth of your pussy. Yuuji rubs you over your panties, he's inexperienced, but he thinks he has an idea of what he's doing. You let out a surprised moan when he finds your clit.

"Did I find it?" he shoots you a teeth-full smile. You nod, he, in fact, found it so quickly. he hooks his fingers on the hem of your panties, pulling them down your legs. It's awkward with you sitting next to him, but he managed to do it.

"Oh my god." he moans, staring wide-eyed at your pussy. You want to slap him at that moment.

"What's the matter?" you ask him as you bite your lip.

"It's my first time seeing real pussy." he confesses, making you roll your eyes. You open your legs a bit more for him to get a better look, earning a whine from him.

"Do you want to touch me too?" he asks you, grabbing the tent in his pants and shoving it in your direction. You nod shyly, unable to look at him.

Your hand reaches out to cup him over his own hand, moving your hand with his own. he pulls down his pants, giving him a perfect view of the bulge in his boxers. You suppose he's big even though you have never seen a dick before.

Your hand slides into his boxers, fingers just gazing against his hard-on. You feel the veins on his dick under your fingers flexing. Your hand finds his tip, and you cringe at the slimy precum on the top.

He pulls his boxers down, finally revealing the hard-on you were playing with. You shut your lips shut, he's so pretty. He's pretty pink with his tip being a bit darker than the rest.

Your body shuffles closer to his, and you lay your head on his shoulder. Your hand cups his dick again, and you wrap your fist around him. Yuuji moans, and you can't help but think about how perfectly he fits in your hand.

While you're occupied with studying his cock, his own hand finds your pussy again. He tries to look for your clit again, and after a few swipes, he finds it again.

You lay side by side, your hand on his cock while he is between your legs. Both of you don't say anything. The only sounds are heavy breathing and moans and whines.

His fingers tease your opening, collecting all your juices on his digits. You jump a little at his gesture, closing your legs around his hand.

"Come on, let me touch you inside," he whines, pulling your legs apart so he can touch you again. You shake his head, there is no way you are gonna let him finger you.

"I'm gonna give you a kiss if you let me put fingers inside." Yuuji offers you, and your ears perk up. Maybe if he kisses you, he's gonna forget all about that other girl. You think for a moment before pecking his lips in a quick kiss, catching him off guard. He smiles at you, and he plants a kiss into your hair.

He carefully pushes one of his fingers inside, making you wince in pain. even just one digit is too big for you. Your hand speeds on his cock, trying to find some distraction from his hand. You have to agree that his finger doesn't feel as bad inside of you. It's a bit strange, but the spot he massages makes you see stars.

His whole palm is pressed against your pussy, adding pressure on your clit while he discovers your insides.

You can feel his twitching in your hand, indicating he's super close. Your focus is set on his cock, you wanna see how it looks when he cums. You grip him a little tighter, jerking him faster. It takes a few tugs before he's cumming all over your hand.

His hand between your legs doesn't stop, in fact, it gets rougher, trying to bring you to your orgasm too. Your stomach feels weird, and your whole body tenses as you cum. Your body jerks on its own as you ride out your orgasm.

You don't realize you closed your eyes until you see him smiling up at you. He looks like an angel, his eyes screaming a worried look.

"Did you like it?" he asks you, making you hide your face in the crook of his neck. He can feel your hot cheeks telling him that you did.

"I am not gonna answer that girl. I liked being like this with you."

taglist: @mcharris747 @huuuuut30 @krispsprite @bejewelledd @cawwn @veryninjanacho @jamayah @dngerwayz @nwptune @universlypiratecolor @ffakegucci @merachannie @d1lf-luvr @th3girln3xtdoor @nobody289x @iheartpieck @gia999 @kawasgirl @st4rrlighttt @candyeyeroll @7haze @banchangsbbbg @nigthmar3moon @softlilpeachxx @d1gitalbath @jaenniii

@satorustar @balenciagarette

[gdinthehouseee]

Whiskers and Warmth: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: you and ji-yong decide to adopt a cat together for the first time :3

word count: 1464

tags: pure fluff; established relationship with some soft domestic moments (requested)

ao3 link

The soft glow of the television flickered across the darkened living room as yet another cat video autoplayed. Ji-yong sat beside you, legs stretched out, his head lazily resting against your legs as you were sitting up typing away on your laptop. On the big screen, a tiny kitten swatted at a toy, only to lose its balance and topple over. Ji-yong let out a breathy chuckle, eyes warm with amusement. You couldn’t deny the way you found both him and the video cute. 

His eyes remained fixed on the video as he mumbled. “Y’know, it might be nice to have our own cat.”

“Yeah…” you murmured absent-mindedly in response. 

You continued typing away at whatever god-forsaken document you were working on, not fully getting the hint until you briefly looked up and made eye contact with your boyfriend, who was now staring at you over your work.

“Wait, like, actually?” 

He shrugged, playing it cool, but there was something thoughtful in the way he stared at you. “I mean… why not? We’ve got space. It’d be nice to have something waiting for us when we get home.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Something? Like a little gremlin running around, knocking stuff over and ignoring you?”

Ji-yong couldn’t help but smile at your sarcasm, lightly nudging you as you closed your laptop and set it aside to give him your full attention. “First of all, disrespectful. Second, it’s called ‘independent charm.’”

“Like your charm, you mean?”

You both laughed. However, the more you thought about it, the more the idea didn’t seem so ridiculous. Having a pet—a little companion curled up in your lap on lazy afternoons, greeting you at the door after a long day—sounded… nice. You glanced at Ji-yong, who had gone back to staring at the screen with his head now in your lap and a new-found softness in his expression.

“You really want a cat?” You asked, this time more seriously.

Ji-yong hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. I think it’d be fun. And—” He cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I dunno. I like the idea of having something to take care of together.”

Your heart warmed at that. He wasn’t just talking about a pet—he was talking about you and him.

A slow smile spread across your lips. “Alright. Tomorrow, we will go cat shopping.”

He scoffed, looking up at you. “It’s called adoption, jagiya.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. Ji-yong grinned back, excitement flickering in his eyes. Naturally, you watched as he scrolled through his phone, looking up different cat breeds or fancy pet accessories he’d insist on buying. His expression was relaxed, a small smile playing on his lips, and for a moment, you just looked at him—at the warmth in his eyes, the quiet excitement he tried to downplay. It wasn’t just about the cat. It was about building something together, about sharing responsibility, about picturing a life where you and him became something even bigger. The thought made your chest tighten, but in the best way—like something precious settling into place. Ji-yong wanted this, with you, and that realization made you fall for him just a little bit more.

And that was how, the very next day, you found yourselves at an animal shelter, wandering past rows of bright-eyed kittens and sleepy older cats. Ji-yong took his time, scanning each little enclosure like he was choosing a new designer jacket, while you crouched beside a timid tabby, offering your fingers in greeting.

Then, out of nowhere, a fluffy black cat with golden eyes leaped in front of Ji-yong and began weaving in and out of his legs, pushing itself up against him as if it was already marking its territory.  

The shelter worker laughed. “Looks like you’ve been chosen.”

Ji-yong, eyes wide, hesitated before bending down and hesitantly scratching behind the cat’s ears. The cat purred instantly. You grinned. “Guess we don’t have a choice now.”

Your heart was aching in the best way possible at the sight of him so fixated on this cat. It wasn’t until the animal made its way over to you, repeating what it had just done to your partner for you, that he had snapped out of his momentary trance. Amusement twinkled in his eyes as he watched the cat become more friendly with you. 

Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head fondly. “Yeah… Let’s take him home.”

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Ji-yong had bought the most extravagant toys, yet the cat ignored them in favor of the cardboard box the toys had arrived in. He tried (and failed) to get the cat to sleep in its fancy new bed, only for it to curl up in his spot on the couch.

“This is betrayal,” he pouted when the cat climbed onto your lap instead of his.

“You’re just jealous,” you teased, scratching behind the cat’s ears. 

“Yeah, whatever.” He huffed and rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitched up. “I can’t even tell if I’m jealous of you or him, with all the attention you’re giving him.” 

Ji-yong sat next to you and leaned back against the couch, his phone forgotten in his hand as he watched you fuss over the tiny ball of fur curled up in your lap. You were completely focused, scratching gently behind its ears, murmuring soft words he couldn’t quite hear, but it didn’t matter—just watching you was enough. The way your fingers moved so delicately, the way your lips curved into the smallest, sweetest smile, the way the cat nuzzled into you like it already knew it was safe in your arms—it made something in his chest tighten, warm and aching all at once.

Later that night, you dozed off on the couch, the cat nestled against your chest. Ji-yong, who had been scrolling through his phone, glanced over—and his heart melted. Carefully, he grabbed his phone and snapped a picture. Then another. And another.

A soft click stirred you awake. Blinking, you caught him with his phone in hand, mid-snap.

“Are you seriously taking pictures of me in my sleep?” You mumbled and rubbed some sleep out of your eye.

Ji-yong froze.

“I—uh—” He quickly lowered his phone, his face getting visibly warm. “You just… looked cute.”

A slow grin spread across your face. “Aww, is someone getting sentimental?”

“Forget it.” Ji-yong groaned, dragging a hand over his face. 

You couldn’t help but giggle, reaching for his phone. “Let me see.”

He tried to protest, but you were already scrolling through the pictures on his phone, your lips curving into a slow smile. Each one was softer than the last—your face relaxed in sleep, one hand resting over the tiny cat curled against your chest. In some, the cat’s ears twitched; in others, its tiny paws stretched out like it was dreaming. But the way he had captured it—carefully, quietly, like he was trying to preserve something fragile—made your heart squeeze. You glanced up at him, catching the embarrassed flush creeping up his neck as he rubbed the back of his head, avoiding your gaze.

“You’re such a softie,” you teased, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He muttered something under his breath but didn’t pull away, electing to practically melt into your affection. 

Later that night, as the cat stretched between you in the silk sheets of your shared bed, Ji-yong exhaled, his fingers absentmindedly gliding through its soft fur. His other arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you closer as you lay beside him, your head resting in the crook of his neck. The warmth of his skin, the slow and steady rhythm of his breathing—it was all so soothing, so him. The cat let out a tiny sigh in its sleep, its paws twitching slightly, and Ji-yong chuckled under his breath. 

“Didn’t think I’d ever be sharing a bed with a cat,” he murmured. 

You tilted your head, smiling against his collarbone. “Regretting it already?” 

He scoffed, shifting to press a kiss against your forehead. “Not even close.” His hand moved from the cat to your back, tracing slow, comforting circles. “This is perfect,” he whispered, almost like he was speaking more to himself than to you. And in that moment, with his touch warm against your skin and the soft rise and fall of the cat between you, you knew—this was perfect. This was home, for the both of you.

“We’ve got our own little family now.” He continued. 

You laced your fingers through his, squeezing gently. “Yeah. I think we made a pretty good decision.”

And as Ji-yong smiled, watching the cat purr between you, he couldn’t agree more.

taglist: @thanosscrossmain @maskedcrawford @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t