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[prettylilyanime]

Our Blessing ♡ Chapter 04

♡ Pairing: Toji Zenin x reader

♡ Synopsis: in which your ex boyfriend left you with your biggest blessing in life, or- a bundle of a blessing. And he doesn’t even know it.

♡ tags/warnings: 18+, (explicit content in later chapters) angst, and drama, exes to lovers, hidden baby trope, Toji is an asshole (but we love him), Reader just wants to raise Megumi in peace, CEO Toji, possessive Toji, emotionally constipated Toji, Tension, misunderstandings, Flashbacks to past relationship, Heavy themes of abandonment, trust issues, and redemption, baby Megumi is a cutie, Megumi is a mama’s boy, reader works at a flower shop, Hidden Baby Trope

♡ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next

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Winter is in full swing, and a small snowstorm has draped Tokyo’s streets in soft white. Classes have been suspended for the week, and though Megumi’s birthday isn’t until the end of the month—just a few days shy of Christmas, you’re grateful this mini blizzard hasn’t disrupted your plans.

In fact, you’ve been quietly enjoying it. Having your baby home for a few extra days has brought a kind of warmth that’s helped keep your mind off other things.

Off him.

It’s ridiculous, the way Toji’s managed to creep back into your head after all this time.

Years of silence, and yet here you are, thinking about him more than you should. His number still tucked away under the lamp on your nightstand. And those photos of him holding hands with that woman outside some exclusive Tokyo bar, now etched behind your eyelids no matter how hard you try to forget them.

The power he still holds over your heart terrifies you.

But Megumi being home has helped. You haven’t gone into work either, not that there’s been much foot traffic in your flower shop lately. The snow has slowed down everything, sales included. But thankfully, you’d planned for quiet seasons like this. Years of careful saving and smart investments have cushioned the blow.

You’re no Toji, casually dropping six figures at a bar like it’s nothing, but you’re doing your best. You’re building a good life for your son, one full of love, comfort, and stability.

Today’s comfort comes in the form of homemade cookies. It’s a simple activity, but it beats another afternoon of TV or the dreaded iPad. One of your biggest fears is raising Megumi to be an iPad kid.

“Okay honey, remember to roll the cookie dough into little balls. And no tasting! The stomach bug could get you,” you warn, watching him from the corner of your eye.

To your surprise, Megumi actually listens. Ever since he got his first real cold at the start of the school year, complete with aches and nausea—he’s been a little traumatized by the idea of getting sick again.

Still, when he’s not looking, you sneak a guilty spoonful of dough. You know it’s probably fine, but what if he is the one percent that gets salmonella? You shake the thought off.

Your spiral is interrupted by the painfully adorable sight of your son rolling cookie dough into near-perfect balls. His pajama sleeves are pushed up, his little brows furrowed in concentration, and the tip of his tongue pokes out in focus.

Your heart clenches.

You lean down without thinking and press a kiss to the top of his head, wrapping your arms around his small frame and earning a soft little groan from him.

“Mama, my cookies...” he whines, more dramatic than upset.

You laugh softly. “Sorry, sorry. You’re doing such a good job, though,” you say, and his cheeks flush pink from the praise.

The two of you move through the rest of the dough like a well-oiled machine. There’s a rhythm to it, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if you missed your calling. Maybe you should’ve opened a bakery instead of a flower shop.

“Okay, honey. Stand behind me—the oven’s hot,” you say, slipping on oven mitts.

Megumi clings to the fabric of your pants as you slide the tray in. His eyes are wide, like he’s trying to protect you with his gaze alone.

“No burns,” you announce playfully as you shut the oven. “Success.”

You lift him easily under the arms and settle him on your hip, ignoring the slight strain in your back. You don’t let yourself think too long about how much heavier he’s gotten or how fast time is flying.

“Let’s wash our hands and pick a movie while the cookies bake,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Soon, the two of you are curled up on the pale blue couch you’ve had for years, tucked under one of your favorite plush blankets. Megumi fits snugly in your lap, his freshly cleaned hands tangled in the fabric of your shirt.

It’s the kind of moment you want to bottle forever.

And yet... something feels off.

Just a whisper of unease in the back of your mind. A memory. A ghost.

No matter how perfect this moment is, you can’t quite shake it.

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Memory: Six Years Ago

“Doll, you’re breaking my heart.”

You’ve always loved the sound of Toji’s voice—low, raspy, and just a little bit rough. It wraps around your spine like velvet, makes your stomach flutter every time. Tonight is no exception.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, tall and broad, already shrugging off his coat. He hooks it on the wall like he lives here. Like it’s second nature.

“It’s only a week, Toji. And I invited you to come, remember?” you say, lips curved in a soft smile. A spark of warmth blooms in your chest when he leans down to press a kiss to your lips—careless and casual, but still enough to send your pulse skipping.

His gaze drops to the open suitcase on your living room floor, then shifts to you. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?” he groans, flopping back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

The pale blue cushions creak beneath his weight, the fabric dipping slightly to cradle his frame. The sight of a man that massive lounging in your tiny apartment, limbs sprawled and comfortable, never fails to make you grin.

You slide closer and lean against his leg as you fold a sweater into your bag. “I don’t know… pick up a hobby that isn’t me. Pottery? Painting?” You perk up. “Ooh, what if you finally give in and try floral arranging? I have books I can lend you!”

Toji snorts. “Doll, you’re not a hobby,” he says, voice quieter now, more honest. “You’re my life. Can’t say flowers are gonna fill that void.”

Your fingers pause mid-fold, heart catching in your throat at the softness in his voice. You don’t look at him—just smile to yourself and keep packing.

“I think you’ll manage,” you say quietly.

You don’t know yet how wrong you are.

He sighs, all pouty and petulant in that rare, vulnerable way he only ever shows you. You glance up, snickering at the exaggerated look on his face.

“What? A week with your dad got you that bummed?”

“You’ve got no idea, doll. The old man’s gonna be up my ass,” he groans, spreading his thighs instinctively and reaching out as you rise from the floor. You let him pull you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your arms wrap around his neck; your head rests easily on his shoulder. His big arms fold around you in turn, holding you close like he needs to memorize how you feel. You breathe him in—that addictive scent of clean spice and something unmistakably him, the cologne you’ve loved from the very beginning.

“I’m sorry he always gives you a hard time,” you murmur, fingers gently combing through the back of his hair, twirling locks of raven strands between them.

He’s quiet for a while, gaze locked on the black screen of the TV. Then, without saying a word, he grabs the remote, flicks it on to some random movie neither of you care about, and shifts you both deeper into the couch. He tosses a blanket over your legs—he always remembers how easily you get cold.

“Don’t worry about the old man,” he mutters. “He’s dying soon anyway. Won’t be my problem for much longer.”

You sigh, soft and weary. “Don’t say things like that. He’s your father.”

“And? You want me to list off all the shit he’s pulled?” Toji scoffs, the edge in his voice sharpening. “I don’t get why you keep defending him. The man trashes your name every chance he gets.”

His words are blunt, too blunt—and they sting, even though you know he’s trying to deflect the real pain underneath. Of course you hate that his father despises you. You’ve been with Toji for five years now, and every interaction with his family has felt like walking on broken glass.

You frown, not wanting to ruin this quiet moment before your trip, but the tension is already curling tight in your chest. “He’s never taken the time to get to know me.” you murmur against his shirt. “So I’m not putting too much weight into anything he says.”

Toji exhales, long and slow, then pulls you closer like he’s trying to shield you from something invisible.

“He doesn’t know you at all, my perfect girl. And I want to fucking keep it that way. He ruins everything he touches.”

You snort softly, tapping his shoulder. “I’m not perfect, Toji.”

He huffs and grabs your face as gently as those big hands allow, palms warm as they cradle your cheeks. He squishes them just enough to make your lips pout, then bumps his forehead against yours.

“Most perfect girl in the whole damn world,” he mutters. “And I won’t let anybody say otherwise. Not even you.”

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Current day

In his high-rise penthouse, the city below blanketed in white, Suguru exhales slowly, the smoke from his cigar curling through the air like a ghost of a thought he can’t shake.

Across from him, Ryomen Sukuna lounges on a leather chair with a beer in hand, pink hair mussed, eyes half-lidded but unmistakably sharp.

The two of them have been through hell and back, especially with Satoru and Toji in the mix. Boarding school years, globetrotting misadventures, a few too many nights in Amsterdam that landed all four of them in jail as teenagers—

But nothing ever has, or ever will compare to this. To the quiet, heavy weight of the thing they’ve both been carrying in silence.

“So… you know,” Suguru finally says. Not a question. He knew the second Sukuna looked at him during that last meet-up at Horizon.

Sukuna takes a long swig like the alcohol might soften the edge. He’s never done well with serious shit.

“Yeah. Yuuji’s best friends with the kid.”

Suguru’s eyes snap to him, disbelief etched across his face. “Seriously? That’s how you found out?”

Sukuna groans, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Jin begged me to take Yuuji on a playdate. I was expecting some married, middle-aged lady with a brat. Imagine my surprise when I show up and it’s Y/N—who, by the way, is even sexier now, with a mini-Toji in light up sneakers.”

He snorts, amused at the memory. Seeing Toji’s permanently pissed-off face on an adorable kid is a surreal kind of comedy.

Suguru pointedly ignores the comment about you being sexier, though, if he’s honest, he agrees. Motherhood did something to you.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. If his hair weren’t tied back in its usual bun, he’d be gripping it by the roots out of stress.

“I ran into her a few months ago. Her and the kid. Pizza place by her old shop. Satoru didn’t notice them, but I did. She looked pretty terrified when she saw me.”

Sukuna lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah? She looked like she wanted to choke me out. The kid too, honestly. Gave me this nasty glare. Kid’s got dark vibes already—very Toji.”

Suguru nods, gaze distant. “Too much like Toji. I don’t know how she wakes up every day and doesn’t think about him.”

“She probably does,” Sukuna says, casually. “Especially now. Now that she knows we know.”

Silence settles between them. The only sound is the soft hum of the heater and the quiet clink of Sukuna’s bottle against the marble tabletop.

“You think she’ll tell him?” Suguru asks eventually, voice low. “I gave her his number. Thought maybe… I don’t know. I feel like an asshole keeping this from him.”

Sukuna doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the amber of his drink like it holds a timeline he can’t fix.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “She’ll tell him.”

Suguru waits for more. Sukuna sighs.

“Jin mentioned Yuuji got invited to the brat’s birthday party. It’s in like two weeks.”

Suguru raises a brow. “Shit. That’s right around Toji’s birthday.”

Sukuna nods. “Guilt’s gonna eat her alive. I bet she’ll crack any day now.”

Suguru scowls. “We are not betting on Toji’s baby mama finally confessing she’s been hiding his kid for five years.”

Sukuna smirks, raising his bottle. “You’re only saying that ‘cause you know I’d win.”

The door swings open without so much as a knock, the echo of it bouncing off the marble floors of Suguru’s penthouse.

From where they sit, low on dark leather chairs near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sprawling city of Tokyo glows in soft gray tones beneath a blanket of snow.

Neon lights blink in the distance, diffused by the frost-kissed glass. It’s serene, in a heavy, expensive kind of way.

That peace is shattered immediately.

“Helloooo!”

Satoru Gojo strides in like a man with a mission and zero boundaries, wool coat flapping behind him, sunglasses still obnoxiously on despite the gloomy sky outside. His shoes squeak slightly against the polished marble as he kicks them off and makes a beeline for the liquor tray like he pays rent.

“I know I gave you access to my house,” Suguru mutters without looking up, “but would it kill you to knock for once?”

“Nah,” Satoru grins, grabbing a crystal tumbler and inspecting the bottle of whiskey before pouring generously. “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Sukuna slouches further into his chair, stretching out his legs like a cat who wants everyone to know he's deeply inconvenienced. “Your existence is a surprise. A tragic one.”

Satoru ignores the jab with a grin. “You say that now, but you’d miss me the moment I stopped showing up.”

He flops theatrically onto the white sectional, the ice in his glass clinking like punctuation. Stretching out like he owns the place, he props his feet (still dusted with snow) on the edge of the marble coffee table.

Suguru shoots him a cold glare. Predictably, Satoru pretends not to notice.

“What were you two whispering about, anyway?” he asks, voice far too casual to be innocent.

“You shut up like I walked in on a cartel meeting. If there’s any snow involved, you know I want a cut.”

Suguru, back in his chair, swirls the amber in his glass and stares out the window like the answers might be hiding somewhere in the drifting snowflakes.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he says smoothly, the weight behind his words dulled by exhaustion.

Satoru squints, lips pursed. “Lame. You guys always act weird when I’m not around. Just admit it, you’re planning Toji’s birthday without me again.”

Sukuna snorts, eyes still on the snow-covered skyline. “Yeah. Full clown theme this year actually.”

“You joke, but strippers in clown outfits could be magical,” Satoru says, deadpan, leaning back with a pleased sigh like he’s cracked a genius idea.

Suguru gives him a sideways look. Sukuna takes a sip of his beer and mutters, “Yeah, real magical.”

Outside, the snow starts up again. Thick, slow flakes falling against the glass, smudging out the neon sprawl of Tokyo Tower.

Suguru sips his drink, the familiar, suffocating weight of what he knows pressing heavier now. But he says nothing more.

Because if there’s one thing they all know beyond a doubt :

You don’t tell Satoru Gojo a secret unless you’re ready for Toji to know it five minutes later.

Like clockwork, Satoru shifts upright, eyebrows raised in gleeful disbelief. “Speaking of Toji, can you believe he sent that girl from the bar home in an Uber? Didn’t even hook up with her!”

Suguru arches a brow, unimpressed. “Honestly? Not shocked.”

Satoru lets out a dramatic scoff. “We’re watching our hot bachelor bestie spiral into eternal celibacy, and everyone’s just fine with that?!”

Sukuna exhales slowly, lifting his glass. “He’s a grown-ass man, Satoru. Let him make his own choices.”

Satoru rolls his crystalline blue eyes from behind his ever-present shades. “That’s no fun.”

Satoru starts rambling again. Some half-baked scheme about dragging Toji to a club to “reawaken his libido”—but Suguru’s already tuning him out.

He doesn’t say it out loud. Not with Satoru here. Not with Sukuna sipping his beer like nothing matters.

But in the back of his mind, the thought lingers stubbornly—quiet and sharp.

Please just call him, Y/N.

He closes his eyes briefly, letting the silence stretch as far as it’ll go before Satoru shatters it again.

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The sun has long dipped below the skyline, leaving Tokyo cloaked in a deep navy hue. The city lights outside your window glitter more vividly than usual, wrapped in the glow of the approaching holidays. Neon signs blink in festive colors, red and green twinkling against glass and steel.

Inside, your apartment feels warmer than usual—not just from the heater, but from the familiar comfort of December. The Christmas tree in the corner glows softly, its deep green branches dotted with glittering ornaments and rainbow lights that flicker gently against the walls. The scent of freshly baked cookies still lingers in the air from earlier.

You carry Megumi to bed with ease, his body relaxed and heavy in your arms, freshly showered and with his little belly full of warm cookies. He’s drowsy, blinking slowly as his head hits the pillow, his cheeks still faintly rosy from the heat of the oven and the laughter you shared in the kitchen.

He curls into the covers easily, the kind of sleepiness only little kids know. So full, so satisfied, so safe. 

You kneel beside his small twin-sized bed, letting your eyes linger on the way his lashes rest against his cheeks. You would stay here forever if you could, watching him drift into dreamland.

But then—

“Mama,” he murmurs, tugging at your sleeve again with drowsy fingers.

“Yes, honey?” you whisper, brushing his soft black hair gently from his face.

He doesn’t open his eyes right away. “Is my dad coming to my birthday party this year?”

Your entire body stills, muscles coiling instinctively beneath your skin. Even in the warmth of the room, it’s like someone’s poured ice water down your spine.

Your gaze drops to him, and your heart aches. He’s still half-asleep, lashes fluttering as he stares at the ceiling, but his voice carries something heavy. Something unspoken.

“My friends keep asking me…” he trails off, small fingers fidgeting with his blanket now. “I don’t care if he comes or not. I just wanna know.”

It’s the pout that gives him away. The slight downturn of his mouth. The hesitation in his voice. And suddenly, you see through him with painful clarity.

He does care.

Your breath catches in your throat as you take him in - so small, so brave, and yet so vulnerable. There’s a thousand things you could say.

You want to lie. You want to change the subject. You want to shield him from the tangled mess of adult decisions and past pain. But that’s not who you are.

That’s not the kind of mother you promised yourself you’d be.

So instead, you lean forward and press a tender kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger there for a moment, grounding yourself in your love for your child.

“I’ll make sure he’s there, Megumi,” you whisper, and the words alone make you nauseous out of anxiety and fear.

And the words burn on the way out—sharp with anxiety, heavy with dread. But you say them anyway.

His little fingers finally relax their grip on the blanket, and the tension in his body melts into the mattress. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to.

His tiny heart trusts you with everything it has.

And you’ve never let him down.

You won’t start now.

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[honeydippedfiction]

Pretty When You Scream {LSU!Joe x Angel}

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Synopsis: At LSU, Halloween isn’t just a holiday—it’s a full-on lifestyle, and no one embraces it harder than Angel. Between slutty group costumes, haunted house décor, and fog machines galore, she’s got big spooky season plans—and she’s dragging her long-suffering boyfriend Joe along for the ride. But when a certain slasher mask enters the mix, their playful banter turns into something a lot darker… and a whole lot hotter.

Warnings: Suggestive/Spicy Scenes, Explicit Sexual Content (18+), Roleplay and Consensual Power Dynamics, Includes sexually charged horror-themed roleplay (e.g., “Ghostface” stalking), Objectification and Sexualization of Characters, Mild Violence (Fictional/Thematic), Alcohol References. MDNI🔞

WC: 13.2k

A/N: Someone take the movies away from me

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

It was finally October at LSU—Angel’s favorite time of year, hands down. The brutal Louisiana heat had finally backed off just enough to invite oversized flannels, ankle boots, and the occasional cozy beanie. The sidewalks were littered with crunchy leaves, the smell of pumpkin spice danced from every coffee shop within walking distance, and the entire campus buzzed with the electric promise of game days, tailgates, horror movie marathons, and—most importantly—Halloween.

Spooky season wasn’t just a vibe for Angel, it was a lifestyle.

She thrived in October, the way some people thrived in summer or spring. Her dorm was already decked out with twinkle lights shaped like bats, mini pumpkins lined her windowsill, and her iPhone wallpaper was a rotating slideshow of her favorite horror movie villains. She’d had her Pinterest board of costume ideas locked and loaded since mid-June, and it was bursting with slutty group theme concepts, pose references, and potential couple’s looks that she’d half-jokingly, half-seriously hoped to rope Joe into.

So when she and her best girls, Monica, Kelsey, and Rae, decided to go full-throttle this year with multiple group costumes (all of them sexy and slutty, because duh), there was only one place worthy of their chaos: Spirit Halloween.

And Angel, naturally, dragged Joe along for the ride.

“Just one couple’s costume,” she’d bargained that morning, wrapping her arms around his waist while he brushed his teeth, her cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his t-shirt. “One. You can even pick it if you want.”

Joe had grunted through a mouthful of toothpaste foam, not committing to anything, but Angel had taken that non-answer as a yes. She always did.

Now they were knee-deep in seasonal madness, wandering through the cavernous warehouse-sized pop-up store that smelled like fresh plastic, rubber, synthetic wigs, and a faint hint of fog machine oil. Chaotic Top 40 remixes pulsed through crackling speakers overhead. Kids darted past in pirate hats and witch capes. Animatronic clowns screeched in corners every time someone walked by.

Angel was in her element.

She wove expertly through the glittering aisles of devil horns, rhinestone fishnets, and scandalously short hemlines, her wire shopping basket already half full. Joe followed behind her, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his hoodie, wearing the unmistakable expression of a man who had lost all control of his afternoon.

“You look like a lost dad at Disney,” Angel teased, glancing over her shoulder with a grin.

Joe raised a brow. “You dragged me into a war zone.”

She blew him a kiss and kept walking. “For a noble cause.”

They passed a rack of latex catsuits and cleavage-baring angel dresses, then a display of extra-short nun outfits that had made Monica snort so hard she’d nearly dropped her purse earlier. Somewhere between the pleather and the fishnets, the group had split up—Kelsey and Rae off in search of fairy wings and whip props, Monica debating whether to go full commitment with gold body glitter for their Teen Titans night.

Angel had her sights on something else entirely.

She tugged Joe’s hand and led him to the darker, quieter corner of the store—the horror section. The shelves dimmed, the pop music faded into a spooky ambient loop, and the merch shifted from sparkle and scandal to gore and grit. Rows of classic slasher masks, fake blood kits, animatronic ghouls, severed limbs in bins, and creepy dolls with cracked porcelain faces filled the space.

Angel’s eyes sparkled as she made a beeline for a particular display.

“There it is,” she murmured like it was a sacred relic.

Leatherface. Freddy. Jason. Michael.

And Ghostface.

She stopped in front of the wall, reaching up to pluck the iconic Scream mask from the hook with careful fingers. She turned it over in her hands, brushing a thumb along the edge. The white face leered back at her, vacant and eerie.

Then she looked at Joe, and a mischievous smirk curved her lips.

“You’d make a hot Ghostface, Joey.”

Joe gave her a skeptical look, then glanced at the mask. “That’s... not a sentence I expected to hear today.”

Angel laughed. “I’m serious! Tall, broody, and lethal with a sexy voice? You’d kill it. Literally.”

He blinked. “Did you just flirt with me and threaten me in the same sentence?”

“Maybe.” She grinned and tossed the mask into the basket. “We’re buying it.”

“Are we?” he asked, watching her like he already knew there was no point in resisting.

“We are,” she said simply. “I have plans. You’ll see.”

Joe sighed but didn’t argue. He didn't reach to take the mask out either, which to Angel meant she’d already won.

They walked again, fingers laced. Angel leaned her head against his shoulder, still giddy as she scanned the shelves with a strategist’s eye. “Now I just need some spiderwebs, a fog machine, maybe a skeleton or two for your couch…”

Joe glanced down at her. “You’re not turning my apartment into a haunted house.”

Angel looked up at him with a sweet, wicked smile. “Oh, baby. That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

He groaned again, but this time there was a faint trace of laughter under it. “Should’ve known better than to bring you.”

“You love it,” she sing-songed, standing on her tiptoes to snag a pack of battery-powered candles.

“I love you,” Joe corrected, “even when you’re out here plotting my decorative downfall.”

Angel kissed his arm. “That’s the spirit.”

Just then, Monica’s voice echoed from across the store. “Y’all better hurry up—Kels is trying to convince Rae to be a slutty frog!”

Angel cackled, already pulling Joe toward the group’s laughter. “Okay, we gotta go save her. Then you’re helping me hang skeleton lights over your TV.”

“I regret everything,” Joe muttered—but followed without complaint, the Ghostface mask bouncing in the basket between them.

They kept moving through the store, Angel practically vibrating with excitement as she tugged Joe deeper into the chaos. He trailed behind her, his long, slow strides a contrast to her quick, purposeful ones, but he didn’t resist. His fingers stayed loosely tangled with hers, and the basket in his free hand was noticeably heavier now—weighted down with plastic pumpkins, string lights shaped like tiny bats, a roll of caution tape, fake cobwebs, and the fog machine Angel had insisted was absolutely essential for “ambience.”

“Trust me,” she’d said, dropping it into the cart with a dramatic flourish. “A little dry ice magic never hurt anybody.”

Joe had grunted, unbothered but skeptical. “I’m starting to think you’re turning my apartment into a haunted brothel.”

“Exactly the vibe,” Angel replied, chipper.

Now, they were slowing in front of one of the more ridiculous aisles—an entire section of couples’ costumes, with rows and rows of clear plastic bags holding outfits that ranged from absurdly wholesome to downright unhinged. Oversized cartoon props, food pairings, matching superheroes, punny visual gags.

Angel turned, planting herself in front of the wall like a game show host.

“Okay, okay,” she said, gesturing grandly with one arm. “This is the moment, Burrow. Pick your poison.”

Joe stared at the selection, unimpressed. His mouth opened, then closed again in disbelief as he slowly took it all in. “You’re joking.”

Angel didn’t even try to hide her grin. “Come on. Some of these are fun.”

He stepped closer to inspect the wall, muttering under his breath. “Fun for who? The people judging us on Instagram?”

Angel swatted his arm lightly. “You promised one couple’s costume. A man of your word, remember?”

Joe gave her a long, withering look, then began reading the labels aloud in deadpan disbelief. “‘Plug and Socket’? ‘Milk and Cookies’? ‘Avocado and Toast’?” He turned toward her with raised brows. “Who actually buys this crap?”

“Drunk girls,” Angel replied sweetly, “and their patient, wonderful boyfriends who love them.”

Joe made a show of sighing deeply. “Please tell me we’re not seriously considering ‘Peanut Butter and Jelly.’”

Angel snorted. “Only if you want me to dump you in front of everyone at the Halloween party.”

“Tempting,” he said under his breath, still scanning.

They continued down the aisle, past pirate duos, matching astronauts, vampires with plastic capes, a cowboy and saloon girl combo, even a baffling ‘sexy beekeeper and honey pot’ pairing that made Joe physically recoil.

He paused, lifting the honey pot costume with two fingers like it might sting. “There are children in this store.”

Angel giggled, dragging him farther until something caught her eye. Her hand shot out toward a black-and-red pair of costumes displayed on a higher hook—something with more edge, more drama. She tugged it down and held it in front of them with excitement gleaming in her eyes.

It was a Vampire Queen and her Gothic Consort—hers a corseted, high-slit dress with sheer black sleeves and blood-red velvet; his a long black velvet coat with silver trim, paired with leather-look pants and a high-collared shirt underneath.

“Ooh. This is hot,” she said, holding the packaging up for him to see. “It’s sexy without being corny. And you’d look good in this coat. Like, suspiciously good.”

Joe studied the image, nodding slowly. “It’s not terrible.”

“Not terrible? That’s basically a rave review coming from you,” she teased.

He leaned down, close enough that his breath tickled the shell of her ear. “I’d rather be Ghostface,” he murmured, voice low and wicked. “No talking. Just watching you scream.”

Angel froze for a second, breath catching hard in her chest. Her spine straightened. Her fingers gripped the costume tighter.

“Okay, damn,” she whispered, shooting him a wide-eyed look. “You can’t just say stuff like that to me in public, I'll jump your bones.”

Joe smirked, unbothered.

She blinked, recovering. “We’re buying both. That’s non-negotiable now.”

Without waiting for a reply, she dropped the Vampire Queen costume into the basket next to the Scream mask.

Joe chuckled, the sound warm and a little dangerous. “You’re gonna make me wear eyeliner, aren’t you?”

“Oh absolutely,” Angel said brightly, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Smudged and smoky. I’ll do it myself. Maybe throw in a little fake blood on your collarbone for effect.”

He gave her a sideways glance, somewhere between amused and aroused. “Why do I feel like this is less about a costume and more about a kink reveal?”

Angel just shrugged, totally unbothered. “You say that like those things are mutually exclusive.”

Joe only laughed, shaking his head and following as she tugged him farther down the aisle, a proud smirk curving her lips.

“C’mon, baby. I still need to find glitter for our rave night,” she said over her shoulder. “And—oh my God—is that a fog bubble machine?”

He didn’t even ask.

They were leaving with it.

Before Joe could get a word in, a familiar voice rang out from two aisles over.

“Bitch, we found the costumes!”

Angel’s head snapped up like a bloodhound catching a scent. “Come on.”

Still gripping Joe’s hand, she tugged him toward the source of the chaos. They rounded a corner into what could only be described as a fluorescent-lit war zone of tiny skirts, lace-up bodysuits, and glittery accessories. Monica, Kelsey, and Rae stood in the middle of it all like witches around a cauldron, holding up outfit pieces with the seriousness of curators designing a museum exhibit—if that museum only displayed “slutty but iconic” looks.

“We’re doing slutty Scooby-Doo,” Kelsey announced, lifting a purple crop top and matching mini skirt triumphantly above her head like Simba on Pride Rock.

Monica was already halfway into character, slipping a lilac headband over her curls and adjusting an imaginary camera-ready smirk. “I’m Daphne, obviously.”

“Rae’s Velma,” Kelsey continued, jerking her thumb toward Rae, who held up a red-orange pleated micro skirt and a cropped turtleneck that would’ve made the cartoon version combust.

“And I’m Fred—slutty Fred, don’t ask,” Kelsey added with a dramatic hair flip.

Angel blinked. “Wait. Then who the hell am I?”

All three turned toward her in synchronized delight.

“You’re Scooby,” Monica said, smug.

Angel’s jaw dropped. “You made me the dog?”

Monica nodded proudly. “The hot dog. It’s a serve, I promise. Ears. Tail. Booty for days.”

Joe let out a choked laugh behind her that he barely managed to muffle with the back of his hand. His shoulders shook with the effort.

Angel slowly turned, eyes narrowing. “Not. A. Word.”

Joe held both hands up in surrender, lips twitching. “Didn’t say a thing.”

Kelsey, unfazed, handed Angel a brown velvet two-piece trimmed in teal-blue, complete with a pair of scooped dog ears and a tiny fuzzy tail. “It’s cute. Trust. And your ass’ll look phenomenal in it.”

Angel held it up, inspecting the pieces like a fashion judge. The cheeky cut. The soft texture. The way the top was clearly engineered for cleavage.

“…Okay. Yeah,” she finally said, lips curling. “Yeah, I’ll eat this up.”

The girls erupted into cheers like they’d won a playoff game.

“And we’re doing sexy firefighters for the frat crawl,” Rae announced, fishing a red suspender set out of their cart. It came with fishnet tights, a cropped patent jacket, and what looked like a plastic toy axe. “Matching accessories and all.”

Angel cackled. “That’s so trashy. I love it.”

“Oh, we’re not done,” Monica chimed in, holding up a hot pink velvet mini coat trimmed in white faux fur. “For my birthday pregame? We’re going full pimp mode. Heels, gold chains, go-go boots. No bras. Just chaos.”

Joe arched a brow. “So… a ‘Pimps and Hoes’ party where y’all are just the pimps?”

“Exactly,” Kelsey said, adjusting her invisible crown. “Equality, bitch.”

Joe ran a hand down his face. “You’re all menaces.”

“And for the Halloween rave,” Angel said with a dramatic flair, “we’re doing Twisted Fairytales. I’m gonna be undead Red Riding Hood.”

She held up the costume, spinning it slightly to show off the tattered mesh, black and blood-splattered hood, corset lacing across the front, and a dagger-shaped thigh strap.

Joe stared at it like it had personally offended him. “Jesus.”

“And then,” Monica added, eyes gleaming, “Teen Titans for the Instagram drop. Group photo. Full beat. Filters ready.”

“I’m Raven,” Rae said, clearly thrilled. She held up a tight black bodysuit and a purple cloak with a high collar.

“Beast Boy, baby,” Monica said, grinning like the devil herself. “Green body glitter everywhere.”

“Slutty Robin,” Kelsey said, holding up a red-and-yellow corset and black micro skirt with fishnet sleeves. “No explanation needed.”

Angel tilted her head, eyebrows raised. “Wait. Who am I?”

Without missing a beat, Monica tossed a bundle toward her—a flaming orange and violet two-piece with matching glittery arm cuffs and thigh-high boots. Angel caught it midair and held it up.

“Starfire, duh,” Monica said. “You’ve got the tits for it.”

Joe took one glance at the outfit and blinked like he’d just been hit in the chest. “That’s not a costume. That’s lingerie with space boots.”

Angel snatched it back and winked. “And I’m gonna look amazing.”

Joe muttered something under his breath—probably a prayer or worse.

“And last but not least…” Kelsey dug through the growing pile of chaos and pulled out a fan-adorned blue mask. “Mortal Kombat night. Sexy ninja edition. I’m Jade. Rae’s Mileena. Monica’s obviously Scorpion because she wants to breathe fire on men.”

Angel’s mouth dropped when Rae handed her the matching costume—deep blue, barely-there, with silver accents and detachable fans.

“Wait—am I Kitana?”

“Absolutely,” Rae said. “You with those fans? It’s over.”

Joe crossed his arms, brow raised. “So y’all are dressing like deadly lingerie models and going to war.”

Kelsey winked. “Exactly.”

He squinted at the costume. “Do any of these come with pants?”

All four girls turned in perfect sync. “No.”

Angel’s eyes lit up. “I’ve been waiting to be her. Say less.”

Joe looked like he was already preparing himself for battle. “Y’all are gonna get kicked out of every party.”

“Or win best group costume and score free drinks,” Angel said, striking a pose and snapping her fan open with a dramatic flick. “And if I end up on LSU Barstool, so be it.”

Joe groaned like he was in pain, but the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “You’re gonna turn my apartment into a glittery war zone.”

Angel leaned up and kissed his cheek sweetly, patting his chest. “Your sacrifice is appreciated.”

They spent another twenty minutes diving deeper into what could only be described as Halloween mayhem. Wigs were tried on and tossed aside like fast fashion, tiaras were compared with the intensity of Olympic judging, and a heated debate broke out over glitter spray versus body shimmer.

Angel held up two different chokers—one with a tiny red vial of “blood” and the other decked out in rhinestones shaped like bats. “Which says sexy but might kill you more?”

Joe, trailing behind them like a battle-worn bodyguard on his last nerve, gave a quick glance before muttering, “The vial. More murder-y.”

“Perfect,” Angel said, tossing it into the cart.

Joe texted Ja’Marr under the table of costume wigs.

'deep in the trenches. send help. they just debated glitter particle sizes. Send the military.'

Monica popped around the corner holding up a rainbow afro wig. “Be honest. Would this ruin the slutty firefighter vibe?”

“Yes,” Joe deadpanned. “Immediately.”

Angel doubled over laughing, then tugged him toward the next aisle. “Come on, we still haven’t picked devil horns!”

He groaned softly but followed anyway, only to find himself being used as a mannequin two minutes later.

“Hold these,” she said, passing him a pair of red glitter devil horns and a matching pitchfork. Then a feather boa. Then a corset.

Joe looked down at himself—half-dressed in accessories he didn’t ask for—and blinked. “How did I become the group’s overworked stylist?”

“You’re tall and handsome with great shoulders,” Angel replied, digging through a bin of mesh gloves. “You're made for this.”

Occasionally, he offered input—grudging but useful.

“Yes, the boots match. No, you don’t need glow-in-the-dark nipple pasties.”

“I could need them,” Angel said defensively, folding her arms.

Joe gave her a look over the rim of his sunglasses.

Angel smirked. “Don’t stifle my sparkle, Burrow.”

The chaos only escalated. Rae had opinions about fake blood textures (“If it looks like ketchup, I swear I’m walking”), Monica nearly started a turf war over the last bag of webbed stockings, and Kelsey insisted on testing different body shimmers on everyone’s forearms like she was prepping for a runway show.

They argued over wigs in the mirror. Rae looked surprisingly good as a platinum blonde. Monica discovered her inner redhead. Kelsey nearly bought a mullet “just for vibes.”

Joe stood silently behind them, now holding six costumes, two wigs, a glittery sword that doubled as a broomstick, and a fake butcher knife Rae had used to poke him in the back for fun. Angel made him wear a witch hat for no reason. He didn’t take it off.

“This,” Angel said proudly, patting his chest as she tossed a bag of glow-in-the-dark body glitter into their basket, “is what love looks like.”

Joe didn’t respond. He was too busy readjusting the stack of plastic tiaras digging into his arm.

By the time they finally made it to the checkout counter, their cart looked like a Halloween tornado had spun through the store, picked up everything sparkly and vaguely demonic, and dumped it all in one spot. The cashier blinked twice, clearly overwhelmed.

Inside the avalanche: Costumes for every event. Masks. Fishnets in every imaginable color. Fake fangs. Glow-in-the-dark chokers. Black lipstick. Two candle holders shaped like skeleton hands. A mini cauldron Rae swore she needed for shots. A “Sexy Pumpkin Spice” costume that Monica promised she’d wear ironically (but everyone knew she meant it). And nestled at the very bottom—almost reverently placed—was the Ghostface mask Angel had been grinning about for an hour straight.

Joe eyed the mask, then Angel. “You’re gonna make me regret that one.”

Angel leaned in, whispering low against his ear, “No, I’m gonna make you suffer in the best way.”

He swallowed hard and paid for everything without a single further complaint.

The sun had started to dip when they pushed their overstuffed cart across the cracked parking lot, their shadows stretching behind them as dusk crept in. Angel looped her arm through Joe’s, practically glowing.

“This is going to be the best spooky season ever,” she declared, sighing in satisfaction as the breeze fluttered her hoodie.

Joe glanced down at the overflowing bags in their hands—costumes spilling from tissue paper, glitter dusting the edges, something suspiciously sticky oozing from a plastic fangs package. “It better be. I think we just personally funded the entire Spirit Halloween corporation.”

Angel smirked. “Spooky season is my Super Bowl, Joey. You knew what this was.”

“I thought I knew,” Joe said, bumping his shoulder lightly against hers. “I didn’t know y’all had military-level strategy.”

Angel winked and lifted a bag like a trophy. “Consider it my love language.”

He groaned but didn’t argue.

Because despite the glitter. Despite the plastic weaponry. Despite the fake blood and devil horns and body shimmer smeared across his hand—

She was right.

He did know what this was.

And secretly?

He wouldn’t change a damn thing.

After they checked out, the girls spilled into the parking lot like glitter-dusted chaos, arms full of bags and already halfway into planning round two.

“I’m calling first dibs on the living room mirror for selfies,” Rae said, adjusting her ponytail as she balanced a giant Party City bag on one hip. “That lighting is elite.”

“You mean my mirror,” Kelsey corrected, unlocking her car. “And Rae, don’t forget to clean your lash glue off it this time.”

“I’m not making promises I can’t keep,” Rae shot back, smirking.

Monica huffed, tossing a plastic pumpkin bucket into Kelsey’s trunk. “You better not ditch me halfway through Target, Kel. I still need black-out curtains, makeup drawers, and—oh yeah—a lamp.”

“Why didn’t you get a lamp weeks ago?” Angel asked.

“I don’t know, bitch, I’ve been prioritizing things like fishnets and glitter body oil!”

Angel cracked up, stepping in for a round of goodbye hugs that turned into a tangled, giggly mess of “Text me later,” “Send pics when you try it on,” and “If you lose your fishnet gloves again, I’m not lending you mine.”

By the time Rae peeled off to go crash at her boyfriend’s, and Monica and Kelsey headed out bickering toward Target, Angel turned back to the only person still standing beside her.

Joe.

He was leaning against the side of his car, arms crossed, one brow raised like he’d just survived a war zone. Angel popped the trunk with a smug smile and started loading in their shared haul.

“Alright, Joey,” she said brightly, tossing in a bag labeled Aesthetic Shit Only. “You’re coming with me.”

Joe slid her a look that said he wasn’t even pretending to be surprised anymore. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not even a little,” she replied sweetly, slamming the trunk shut like a period at the end of a sentence.

He just grunted in mock defeat and climbed into the driver’s seat. She followed a second later, sinking into the passenger side with a satisfied sigh as her phone buzzed—another group chat lighting up over what Monica was calling “Pimp Coat Rehearsals.” Joe didn’t even flinch. His hand found her thigh without thought, resting there like it belonged, fingers brushing absent circles over her skin.

And like always, Angel leaned into the contact, settling in as she launched into a rambling, excited monologue about playlist ideas, party themes, potential backup costume choices, and whether Rae’s cousin Jaylen was actually a decent DJ or just hot with an aux cord.

Joe listened quietly, offering the occasional grunt or snort, letting her fill the space with her voice. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested—he just liked watching her in her element, bubbling with chaotic joy over something as simple as Halloween decorations. She was the storm. He was the anchor.

By the time they pulled into his apartment complex, the sun had begun to dip below the skyline, casting everything in a dusky violet haze that felt more October than the calendar ever could.

Angel was already out of the car before he cut the engine. “Okay, bring in the bags marked vibes and aesthetic,” she called over her shoulder, struggling to unlock the front door with her elbow while balancing a cauldron under one arm. “Not the costume ones—we’re saving those for later.”

Joe popped the trunk and grabbed a bag stuffed with a plush ghost pillow, fake cobwebs, and what appeared to be a glittery tombstone. “You labeled the bags?”

“I’m organized,” she shot back.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered, following her inside.

“Same thing,” she tossed over her shoulder with a wink.

Inside, Joe’s apartment was still very much a blank slate. Warm neutrals, clean corners, barely a whisper of Halloween spirit. Angel stopped in the entryway and clicked her tongue in disapproval like a disappointed interior designer.

“This is unacceptable,” she said, dropping her load on the couch with dramatic flair. “It looks like October skipped your entire floor.”

Joe shrugged as he toed off his sneakers. “It’s a football apartment, not a haunted mansion.”

“Not for long.”

She turned to face him, hands planted firmly on her hips, dark eyes glittering with mischief. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Joe narrowed his gaze immediately. “I don’t like your deals.”

“You’ll like this one,” she purred, stepping forward until they were nearly chest to chest.

He instinctively slipped his hands to her hips, pulling her a little closer. “Convince me.”

“If you let me decorate this place”—she raised a single finger—“and help me without complaining, you get a private preview of all my costumes. Every single one. Before anyone else sees them. Before the girls even try them on. Before Rae takes her dramatic-ass mirror selfies.”

Joe’s jaw twitched. “All of them?”

Angel nodded, slow and deliberate. “Every. Single. One.”

There was a long pause. The kind where you could practically hear the mental math happening behind his eyes.

Then, without a word, Joe dropped the bag he was holding, turned on his heel, and walked to the closet to grab the step stool.

Angel grinned, victorious. “Knew you were smart.”

What followed could only be described as organized chaos. For two hours, they transformed his pristine apartment into a haunted hideaway. Angel directed with the precision of a general, flitting from room to room with string lights draped over one shoulder and plastic spiders clutched in one fist.

Joe followed orders like a good soldier, occasionally throwing in a sarcastic comment.

“Why are we putting a skeleton in the pantry?”

“So it can greet you every time you get your protein powder.”

“Fantastic. Can’t wait to scream for no reason before a 6 a.m. workout.”

She hung cobwebs across the upper cabinets, placed tiny skulls between his sports trophies, and perched a black cat statue on the toilet tank like a watchful Halloween sentinel.

They argued over which shade of purple string lights looked less “tacky rave” and more “haunted chic,” and Angel made him take down and rehang the paper bats three times until they looked “properly menacing.”

Joe’s favorite part was the ten-foot inflatable pumpkin Angel made him set up just outside the balcony.

“For the vibes,” she explained, fluffing its hat.

“For the HOA violations,” he countered.

But he didn’t stop her. Not even when she added a fog machine next to it and squealed in delight as it puffed out its first cloud.

By the time they were finished, the apartment looked like a Spirit Halloween exploded inside a Pinterest board.

Joe stood in the middle of it all, hands on his hips, surveying the glittering chaos. He should’ve been annoyed by the sheer amount of fake blood, sparkly pumpkins, and unnecessary skull candles…

But then Angel turned to him, cheeks flushed, curls tied back with a black satin bow, and a tiny smear of glitter clinging to her collarbone.

And he smiled.

Because damn it—she was right.

This was what love looked like.

And he’d let her turn his apartment into a haunted house a hundred times over just to see her this happy.

The lights were dimmed, casting an eerie glow over the purple string lights framing the TV. The fog machine let out a satisfied hiss, releasing a puff that curled like ghostly fingers into the living room.

The candy bowl on the coffee table—currently empty except for a single, sad roll of Smarties—was surrounded by a circle of tea light candles and mini plastic rats. Angel swore it was “for ambiance.” The couch was now home to three plush skeletons she’d insisted on adopting from the store and naming on the spot.

“Bones, Bonita, and Larry,” she said proudly as she arranged them in various lounging positions. “Larry’s the quiet one.”

Joe dropped onto the couch beside them with a long, exaggerated sigh, stretching out his legs and letting his head fall back against the cushion. “Is this everything? Or is there like, a Phase Three I don’t know about?”

Angel didn’t answer. She simply turned, straddled his lap without warning, and looped her arms lazily around his neck.

“Almost,” she said, voice all honey and heat.

Joe raised an eyebrow, not trusting that glint in her eye one bit. “Almost?”

Her lips hovered just above his, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath. “You still haven’t gotten your reward.”

That got his attention.

His hands slid to her thighs automatically, fingers pressing into the soft skin beneath her shorts. “Yeah?”

Angel gave him a wicked smirk, her voice lowering to a sultry whisper. “I’ll let you pick which one you want to see first…”

Before he could respond, she was up again, grabbing his hand and tugging him off the couch. “Come on,” she said, already halfway to his bedroom. “Sit your ass down.”

Joe let out a breath that was half a groan, half a laugh, and let himself be dragged, his legs suddenly a little wobbly. “Yes, ma’am.”

He sank onto the edge of the bed like a man preparing for battle, eyes locked on her every move.

Angel dropped the bags at the bedroom door and turned back, shooting him a dangerous smile. “Ready for your private fashion show?”

Joe leaned back on his palms, trying to look cool, even though his pulse was definitely speeding up. “Hit me.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, door clicking shut behind her.

Ten minutes passed. He could hear the shuffle of hangers, the rustle of plastic bags, the soft thud of makeup bags and costume boxes being opened and rearranged. His leg bounced restlessly. He didn’t know if it was nerves or anticipation—or both.

The door creaked open.

Angel stepped out slowly, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other resting on her hip, smirk already in place.

Joe’s brain short-circuited.

Blue. Leather. Cutouts. High slits. God help him.

The Kitana costume clung to her like sin—sleek, form-fitting halter crop top with sharp black piping that drew his eyes to her waist and shoulders. The matching high-cut bottoms left most of her thighs exposed, black leg straps hugging her curves like weapons in disguise. Her long curls had been pulled up into a slick half-ponytail, and in one hand, she casually spun a plastic fan that looked like it could decapitate a man on sight.

“Finish him,” Joe whispered under his breath.

Angel twirled slowly, giving him a 360-degree view of every lethal curve, then stalked toward him with deliberate grace, like she was hunting something. “So?” she asked, stopping right between his knees. “Think I’ll win the Mortal Kombat group contest?”

Joe blinked, completely gone. “I think I just lost my will to live unless you sit on my face immediately.”

Angel laughed, straddling his lap just long enough to kiss his cheek before hopping off again. “You can’t touch. That was the deal.”

He groaned, like her words physically hurt. “Why do I agree to anything you say?”

“Because I’m cute and manipulative,” she called over her shoulder, already vanishing back into the bathroom.

Joe let his head fall back with a soft thud against the wall. “Angel,” he called after her, voice strained. “You are actually trying to kill me.”

“Good!” she yelled. “Means I’m doing it right!”

Minutes passed.

Joe rubbed his hands over his face, breathing through the chaos in his chest. The anticipation was killing him. He’d never wanted to break a no-touching rule so badly in his life. He heard the door open again—and this time?

He genuinely almost choked.

Angel strutted out in a cropped firefighter jacket, unzipped and hanging off her shoulders like it had no business covering anything. Her matching red mini skirt was more suggestive than functional, showing off miles of leg wrapped in black fishnets that crisscrossed up into glossy, thigh-high boots. A plastic firefighter hat sat tilted on her head like a dare.

Emblazoned across her cleavage in bold white letters were the words: EMERGENCY SERVICE.

Joe blinked slowly. “Someone call 911,” he muttered, eyes trailing every inch of her. “There’s a fire in my pants.”

Angel gave a playful spin, striking a pose as she adjusted the hat. “I could’ve brought the hose,” she said, tossing him a wink, “but I thought that might be overkill.”

Joe’s fists clenched on his thighs. “I know a hose you can play with. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

Angel leaned down, kissed his forehead like he was a sick child, and whispered, “You’ll survive. Maybe.”

And then she vanished again.

Joe sat in stunned silence, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth dry. He wasn’t sure if this was heaven or hell. All he knew was that he was sweating and there was no AC malfunction to blame.

The bathroom door opened a third time, and this?

This was criminal.

Angel stepped out in a velvet bodysuit patterned with $100 bills—tight, high-cut, and deeply disrespectful. White faux fur trimmed the deep V neckline and cuffs, matching the oversized pimp coat draped dramatically over her shoulders. Her legs sparkled with white fishnets dotted in rhinestones, and the shiny white go-go boots on her feet clicked against the hardwood as she sauntered forward like she owned the whole apartment.

Joe’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t even speak—he just grabbed a pillow and flung it at the floor with a frustrated yell, like that could express the internal scream in his soul.

“Nope. I’m done. I can’t. You win. Take my money. Take my soul. Take everything.”

Angel planted her hands on her hips, one brow arched high. “You like this one, baby?”

Joe looked at her like she was made of gold, like God had carved her out of his fantasies and added a white fur collar for drama. “I am this close to breaking our no-touching rule and risking death by horny.”

Angel stepped between his knees, leaned down until their noses nearly brushed, and whispered, “Then I guess you better behave… if you want to see Starfire next.”

Joe groaned—loud, desperate, and honest. “I hate you.”

She kissed him once, soft and fleeting, just enough to ruin his composure. “No, you don’t.”

And before he could respond, she was gone again, hips swaying like a slow curse as the door clicked shut behind her.

Joe let out a strangled noise, buried his face in his hands, and dragged his palms down his cheeks like he could physically cool himself off.

October was going to kill him.

And he was ready to die.

Joe was still mentally recovering from the pimp outfit—heart rate beginning to stabilize, breath no longer caught in his throat, thoughts just starting to find their way back through the fog of lust—when he heard the soft, mechanical click of the bathroom lock turning again.

He froze.

His hands curled into the comforter beneath him, every nerve in his body snapping back to attention like a soldier hearing a war drum. He looked up, already bracing himself for impact. Angel had been steadily escalating all night, and by now he knew better than to underestimate her. But nothing—not the Kitana slits, not the firefighter cleavage, not the velvet pimp coat—could have prepared him for what stepped through that door next.

Angel emerged slowly, like a vision carved out of light and fantasy.

The costume shimmered—metallic purple that glinted under the warm glow of the bedroom lamp. A two-piece so tight it looked airbrushed onto her skin, as if she’d been dipped in molten chrome and pulled out just in time to destroy him. The top was a halter cut that bared her shoulders completely, the collar hugging her throat and lifting her breasts into view with unapologetic power. The bottoms rode dangerously low on her hips, cut high at the thigh and somehow connected to lavender thigh-high boots that turned her into something not entirely human. Something celestial. Something lethal.

Her hair had been brushed out into long, glossy curls, tumbling over her shoulders like cascading fire. Her lips shimmered with glossy pink, and her eyes—Jesus. She’d put in green contacts. Bright, alien, glowing green.

Starfire.

Sexy, dangerous, invincible Starfire.

Joe's jaw dropped. It wasn’t even dramatic. His body simply stopped functioning. Mouth open. Lungs paused. Brain completely unplugged.

“You’re not real,” he said, the words escaping in a reverent breath, like a prayer he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

Angel cocked her hip and raised her arms in a theatrical ta-da gesture, her smile radiating wicked glee. “Surprise. I’m your intergalactic baddie.”

Joe whimpered. Actually whimpered.

That sound shocked even him, but there was no taking it back now. He was on the ropes, and she was loving every second.

Angel started toward him slowly, her boots clicking against the hardwood with deliberate seduction, each step a countdown to destruction. The sway of her hips was hypnotic. Her smirk? Criminal.

Joe’s eyes never left her. He tracked every movement like she was some kind of rare cosmic event—one he wasn’t meant to survive.

“You okay, baby?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head as she approached, the green of her eyes glowing beneath thick lashes.

“No,” Joe said immediately. No hesitation. No façade. Just raw, desperate truth. “No, I’m not.”

Angel bit her lip like she was trying not to laugh, her expression full of faux concern. “No?”

“I’m not okay,” he repeated, voice fraying at the edges. “I am not mentally, emotionally, or physically okay.”

She was standing between his knees now, tall and powerful in her boots and glowing eyes, all confidence and control. She bent slightly, hands sliding up his chest as she climbed into his lap like a queen taking her throne, straddling him with slow, deliberate weight.

“So…” she purred, trailing her fingers up his neck, “is this your favorite?”

Joe couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look anywhere else. The shimmering purple clung to every curve, her thighs bracketing his like temptation incarnate. His hands gripped the edge of the bed so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

“I swear to God,” he whispered hoarsely, throat thick with restraint, “if you don’t get off me right now, I’m going to ruin this costume.”

Angel leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered, “That’s kind of the goal, Joey.”

He let out a strangled groan, his head falling back, neck tense with effort. “Angel, please,” he muttered, like he wasn’t even sure what he was begging for—mercy, relief, permission, salvation.

She giggled, feather-light and unbothered, and slowly peeled herself off his lap with a sensual roll of her hips. The shimmering fabric glinted under the bedroom light as she turned, giving him one last look over her shoulder.

“I told you,” she said, sashaying back toward the bathroom. “If you helped me decorate, you got a private show.”

“That wasn’t a show,” Joe called after her, still breathless. “That was psychological warfare.”

Angel turned at the doorway, one hand on her hip. “You say that like you didn’t love every second of it.”

“I did,” he admitted, dragging a hand down his face. “And I think I have a boner-induced concussion.”

Angel cackled, her laughter echoing through the room like a taunt. “Good. That means I’m just getting started.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Joe sat in stunned silence for a few moments, then slowly collapsed backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling like he’d just lived through a natural disaster. His chest rose and fell in deep, heavy breaths. He was sweating again. His heart wouldn’t slow down. His pants were criminally tight.

He groaned into the nearest pillow.

It was officially spooky season.

And Angel? Angel was the scariest, hottest thing he’d ever survived.

And she wasn’t done yet.

Angel emerged from the bathroom one final time—no costume this time, no exaggerated theatrics or flashing lights of glamour, but somehow this version of her hit Joe even harder. She was dressed in the aftermath of all that teasing, and the impact was nuclear.

Black fishnets clung to her legs like a second skin, the soft diamond weave disappearing into a pair of tiny, worn cotton shorts that rode up the curve of her thighs indecently. Her plain black bra—the same one she’d had on earlier when the try-on marathon began—had transformed. Maybe it was the context, maybe it was the confidence she wore like perfume, but it now looked like the most sinful thing Joe had ever seen. Her skin held the faint shimmer of exertion, a post-costume-glow that made her look kissed by starlight. Her curls were tousled, framing her face with just the right amount of chaos, and her smile—lazy, lethal—spoke volumes. Mischief danced in her eyes like a dare.

Joe was still perched on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, breathing like he’d just survived a ten-round fight. Emotionally, he was wrecked. Physically? Wrecked again. Spiritually? Teetering somewhere between heaven and hell, barely tethered to Earth. His gaze locked on Angel as she sauntered over, her hips moving with slow, devastating intent.

He looked up at her like she was salvation wrapped in temptation. Like she was the only thing still holding his fragile self together.

Angel stopped just in front of him, her hands on her hips, a devilish glint in her eye. “Your turn, Burrow.”

Joe blinked, still trying to reboot. “I didn’t get anything?”

His voice came out rough, husky, like desire had permanently scarred his vocal cords. He raised a tired eyebrow, suspicious but curious, too far gone to be anything but utterly hers.

Angel’s grin stretched wider, and before he could process what was coming, she climbed into his lap with practiced ease, her thighs hugging his hips like she belonged there. His hands flew to her waist automatically—muscle memory, instinct, obsession. He didn’t even think. His body knew hers like it knew gravity.

“You didn’t,” she murmured, voice like warm honey and sin, “but I did.”

From behind her back, she pulled out a black-and-white plastic mask.

Ghostface.

Joe’s eyebrows lifted as his lips parted, recognition flashing across his face. His amusement sparked like a fuse, but right behind it came something darker—something interested.

“Guess you’re about to get your costume after all,” Angel whispered, inching closer, pressing her body flush against his. Her fingers curled around the mask as she guided it into his lap, right between them, right over where he was already hard and aching for her.

Joe inhaled sharply, and his grip on her hips tightened. That was all it took for the air to change—again. One moment, playful. The next? Thick. Tense. Charged with electric anticipation. Her hips rolled slowly in his lap, teasing him through the layers, and he felt it down to his bones.

“I did say I had plans for you, didn’t I?” she asked, voice a silk ribbon winding around his spine, her curls brushing his jaw as she tilted her head with dangerous sweetness. Her eyes sparkled with too much heat for something innocent.

Joe looked down at the mask now resting between them, turning it over slowly in his hands. He ran his thumb along the edge like he was committing it to memory, as if it were a weapon he was about to wield.

“And what plans are those, exactly?” he asked, his voice lower now. Darker. Intrigued. Wanting.

Angel leaned in until her lips hovered at the shell of his ear, her breath warm and tantalizing.

“Well, Mr. Ghostface…” she whispered, her fingers dancing down his chest like a countdown, slow and deliberate, “…why don’t you catch your willing victim—and find out?”

Before he could even blink, she placed a kiss at the corner of his mouth—a featherlight promise—and slipped off his lap, giggling as she bolted toward the bedroom door.

Joe stared after her, still holding the mask in both hands like she’d just handed him the keys to the kingdom and told him to come take it.

For a beat, he didn’t move. Just processed. Let it sink in.

And then he stood.

The transformation was instant. A grin curled at his lips—hungry, unhinged, unholy. He was smiling like a man who had just been dared to sin and couldn’t wait to get started.

He dragged the mask up to eye level, considering it for a second longer. Then, slowly—purposefully—he slid it down over his face.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered behind the plastic, already heading toward the door with a predator’s gait, dark laughter bubbling in his throat.

Angel wanted to play?

She had no idea what she just started.

And Joe? He wasn’t just going to play Ghostface.

He was going to make her scream.

“Angel,” Joe called out, his voice low, gravelly, and dangerous as he stepped into the hallway, the black-and-white mask dangling from one hand. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t run, baby.”

Her laughter answered him from somewhere near the kitchen—bright, breathless, and wicked. Taunting. Daring. Inviting.

Joe’s lips curled beneath the mask as he slid it over his face and adjusted it into place. His entire body shifted with it. Gone was the tired, overwhelmed boyfriend recovering from a costume-induced fever dream. In his place now stood something far more dangerous.

Ghostface.

And Ghostface was coming for her.

The hunt had begun.

Angel tore through the apartment, feet slipping slightly in her socks as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. Her chest heaved with laughter and adrenaline, not fear. Not even close. It was the thrill of the chase—the electric, full-body high of knowing he wanted her, was hunting her, and was close.

She ducked behind the island, heart racing, crouching low to the cool tile as she tried to stifle her giggles. She peeked around the edge cautiously, her breathing shallow and quick. The bedroom door creaked shut somewhere behind her.

Then… silence.

It stretched. Too long. A beat. Then two.

Her smile faltered.

“Joe?” she whispered into the quiet, her voice barely audible. Her eyes darted down the dim hallway.

No response.

Her skin prickled.

Then—

BANG!

A loud, jarring thud hit the wall, and Angel yelped, her whole body jerking as her hands flew to her chest. She slapped a palm over her mouth, trying not to laugh—or scream. Her giggles trembled with anticipation.

Heavy footsteps followed. Slow. Deliberate. Unhurried. Each one echoed through the apartment like a countdown.

And then… he appeared.

Joe stepped into the kitchen shadows, cloaked in dim light, tall and broad and fucking terrifying in that mask. The blank expression, stretched wide in its frozen scream, made her skin prickle. But what really sent a shiver down her spine was the way he moved—smooth, slow, loose. Predatory. His head tilted slightly to one side, like he was studying her. Or deciding what to do with her once he caught her.

“Shit,” Angel whispered with a giddy grin, ducking lower behind the counter, trying to catch her breath.

She could hear the swish of his sweatpants, the faint creak of the floor beneath his weight. Every move calculated. Intentional.

And silent.

Until he spoke.

“Come out, come out…” Joe sing-songed softly, his voice muffled and distorted behind the plastic, making it all the more haunting. He dragged his fingers slowly across the kitchen island’s edge as he moved, the tips tapping gently in rhythm. “You really thought I wasn’t gonna chase you?”

Angel bit her knuckle, eyes wide and glittering. She had to bite down hard to keep from moaning. Her body pulsed with the tension, the fearlessness of his confidence making her blood pump faster.

She stayed quiet. Didn’t give herself away.

Then—creak. A floorboard betrayed her.

Joe paused. Tilted his head again, listening.

He moved toward the pantry, creeping forward with theatrical menace. Her giggles froze in her throat as he reached for the handle and—

Pulled it open.

Empty.

He smirked beneath the mask. Smart girl. Playing with him now. Making him search. Making him want.

Then he heard it. The faintest shift of movement behind him. Too late.

She darted past him like a shadow, brushing against his chest as she laughed and sprinted back down the hallway. Her shorts rode high, her laugh turned feral, and her hair bounced behind her in a blur of motion.

Joe whipped around with a growl. “You are so dead.”

“JOSEPH!” she squealed through a cascade of laughter.

She turned into the living room, trying to leap over the back of the couch for cover, but Joe was faster now—driven by something deeper than the game. He caught her mid-jump, arms wrapping around her waist and yanking her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing.

“AHH!” she shrieked, legs kicking, giggling uncontrollably as he spun her around.

Then he dropped with her onto the couch cushions, his weight pressing her down, his body caging her in as she writhed beneath him.

“Gotcha,” he breathed, voice low, calm, and dangerous. A predator satisfied.

Angel tried to wiggle free, still giggling. “Oh my god—Joe!”

He didn’t answer. Just lifted her like a prize, throwing her over his shoulder as she yelped, laughing and pounding playfully at his back.

“You’re really committing to this bit, huh?” she teased, her voice breathless, muffled by his shoulder.

Again, he didn’t answer.

Instead, he kicked open the bedroom door and marched them inside.

The door slammed shut behind him with a final, decisive thud.

He tossed her onto the mattress like a wolf tossing its prey, then climbed over her slowly, deliberately, the Ghostface mask still covering his face. He crawled up her body, planting a knee on either side of her thighs. His chest rose and fell with shallow, heated breaths. The way he loomed over her, silent and imposing, made her heartbeat thrum in her throat.

Angel looked up at the mask, her legs spread beneath him, arms falling over her head. Her lips curved. “I thought Ghostface only used knives.”

He tilted his head again, just like in the movies, and even with the mask on, she could feel him smirking beneath it.

“That’s not my weapon of choice.”

Her breath hitched. Her thighs clenched.

“Joe…”

He leaned down, slow and heavy, the cool rubber of the mask brushing the curve of her ear.

“Scream for me anyway,” he whispered, voice barely audible but dripping with hunger.

Angel gasped—sharp and soft—and that was it.

She was done.

And Joe? Joe hadn’t even started.

Angel’s breath caught in her throat.

The room felt hotter now, though a chill swept down her spine. Joe’s voice was low—teasing, dark with promise, and distorted just enough behind the mask to send goosebumps racing across her skin. The air between them pulsed with anticipation, thick enough to taste. Her fingers curled into the sheets beneath her, anchoring herself against the pull of everything he was doing to her without even truly touching her yet.

His body hovered above hers, a solid wall of heat. She could feel it rolling off him, even through the soft fabric of his t-shirt. The Ghostface mask hung inches from her face, its smooth, emotionless surface both unsettling and thrilling. The hollow, black eye sockets stared her down, and still—still—she found herself unable to look away.

She swallowed hard. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

The question was barely a whisper, a breath between them, but the way her voice trembled betrayed her arousal.

Joe didn’t answer at first. Instead, he let the silence hang between them, heavy with tension. Then, wordlessly, he trailed one hand up the outside of her bare thigh. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, dragging over the textured pattern of her black fishnets until she shivered beneath his touch. Every nerve ending came alive beneath his palm. His thumb brushed just beneath the hem of her shorts, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

“You said I’d make a hot Ghostface,” he murmured, his voice muffled behind the mask but still dark and velvety. “Thought I should give you the full fantasy.”

Angel let out a breathless laugh, trying—failing—to keep the upper hand. “You’re lucky I like scary movies.”

“You’re lucky I don’t make you sit through one first,” he replied smoothly, his fingers drawing small, slow circles just above her knee. “Tie you up. Make you wait through all ninety minutes. Touching you just enough to drive you fucking insane.”

Her thighs parted on instinct, a desperate little whimper caught at the back of her throat. His words—his tone—his control… it all clawed at something primal inside her.

“Joe—”

“Not Joe tonight.” He adjusted the mask with one hand, tilting it downward so it sat perfectly over his face, like it was never meant to come off. “Ghostface, remember?”

Angel bit her lip, her smile crooked and full of heat. “Alright, Ghostface,” she whispered, reaching up to trace a fingertip along the edge of the mask. “What happens next?”

He didn’t answer.

He acted.

With slow, deliberate precision, he reached down and hooked two fingers into the waistband of her shorts. His eyes never left hers, not that she could see them—but she could feel them, heavy and focused beneath the mask. In one long, maddening motion, he tugged her shorts down her hips, dragging them past the swell of her ass and down her thighs.

Her breath caught when the cool air kissed her heated skin. She was soaked already—shamelessly so—and from the way his masked head tilted, she knew he saw it. Knew he felt it in the air between them.

A low sound escaped him. Pleasure. Possession.

“Now I hunt,” Ghostface said, voice rough and sure.

Angel barely had time to react before he slid down her body. His hands gripped her thighs firmly as he kissed along the inside of one, then the other—small, teasing presses of his lips through the fishnets. Every pass of his mouth was fire and friction. He didn’t lift the mask higher than the bridge of his nose, and somehow that made it worse. The anonymity of it. The performance. The way it twisted something sweet into something dark and filthy.

“Tell me, baby,” he murmured against her skin, “you gonna be a good girl for me?”

His voice was lower now, gravel and sin. The kind of sound that slithered straight to the base of her spine.

Angel gasped, her back arching off the mattress. “God—Joe—”

“I said that’s not my name.”

Her eyes flew open. She looked down at the mask looming between her thighs, the blank mouth hovering above her skin.

She swallowed. “Ghostface.”

He hummed in approval. “Mm. That’s better.”

With that, he slid his fingers beneath the edge of her fishnets and tugged them aside with one practiced motion. His gaze dropped. He paused, just for a second, like he was admiring the view. Then his fingers found her—slipping between her folds, slow and easy, like he already knew how badly she needed him. The pad of his thumb brushed her clit, and her entire body jolted beneath him.

The other hand pressed firmly on her hip, holding her down. Claiming her.

Controlling her.

He knew exactly what he was doing. The same control he’d shown earlier was back now, only this time it was his fingers, his heat, his hands making her fall apart.

Angel tried—desperately—to hold herself together. But the rhythm of his touch, the way he filled every space between them with the threat of more, the promise of worse… it was too much. Every time his fingers curled inside her, her vision blurred. Every teasing graze of his tongue through the torn edge of her fishnets made her thighs quake.

She was unraveling. Fast.

And he was loving it.

“You feel that?” he rasped. “How fucking wet you are for me?”

Her lips parted in a breathless moan, her chest rising and falling with ragged urgency.

“You like being hunted?” he taunted. “Tied down? Stretched out?”

“Fuck,” she gasped. “Yes—yes, I—God, please—”

“Please what?”

She whined, twisting beneath his grip, toes curling in the sheets. “Please, Ghostface—don’t stop—”

His fingers moved faster, tighter. His mouth replaced them suddenly, tongue flicking expertly across her clit while two fingers curled deep inside her, coaxing, demanding, destroying. The mask framed his movements like something out of a fever dream—her worst nightmare and her hottest fantasy all in one.

Angel cried out, the sound raw and high and broken. She wasn’t pretending anymore. She wasn’t playing.

She was gone.

And Ghostface?

Ghostface hadn’t even shown mercy yet.

His fingers didn’t slow.

In fact, they drove deeper, stronger—two thick digits stretching her in a rhythm that had her thighs shaking and her hands fisting the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.

Joe—Ghostface—hovered above her, the mask making every movement feel more intense, more surreal. That smooth, expressionless face was all she could see when she opened her eyes, all sharp angles and black holes for eyes. It should’ve been terrifying.

It was terrifying.

And she loved every fucking second of it.

He leaned in close, breath hot behind the plastic. She could feel it fan across her cheek even through the shallow mouth opening of the mask. Her own breath came fast, her chest rising and falling beneath her black bra, the cups slightly askew from how much she’d writhed beneath him.

Then, in that low, gravel-slick voice that made her toes curl and her stomach flip, he asked:

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

The question rolled from his tongue like a threat, raspy and deliberate.

And then his fingers plunged deeper—curling, thrusting, pressing in just the right spot that made her cry out, the sound strangled and unfiltered.

“Fuck,” Angel gasped, heels digging into the bed. “Oh my God—”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t falter.

If anything, the growl that vibrated in his throat told her he was just getting started.

Before she could catch her breath—before she could process the way her body was beginning to fray at the edges—he ducked his head low between her thighs. Still wearing the mask. Still deep in character.

And when his mouth found her again—tongue flicking mercilessly against her clit, hot and wet and focused—she didn’t stand a chance.

Angel screamed.

A real one. Sharp, high-pitched, echoing off the walls of the bedroom. Her back bowed off the mattress, her hips fighting the pressure of his hold on her waist, but he kept her pinned with one arm and never let up.

His tongue was unrelenting. Flicking. Circling. Flattening and dragging in maddening strokes. The plastic mask shifted slightly against her inner thigh as he moved, the sensation a strange mix of smooth and jarring. He moaned low into her, the sound vibrating straight through her core like a shockwave.

Every flick of his tongue felt like punishment and reward all at once.

“Jesus Christ—Joe—Ghostface—I—” She couldn't even finish the thought. Her mind scattered like dry leaves in the wind.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled back just enough to rasp, “One scream down, baby. Let’s see how many more I can get.”

Angel whimpered, her head thrashing against the pillow, curls spilling wildly across the mattress. “You’re insane.”

“No,” he murmured darkly. “I’m obsessed.”

And he dove back in.

This time, he sucked her clit between his lips, tongue working in tandem with his still-thrusting fingers, the pressure sending her careening toward the edge again. Her hands flew down, grabbing at his hair, at the mask, at anything, but he was locked in—focused, precise, relentless.

The orgasm built in slow, relentless waves. Pressure coiling low and tight in her belly, heat radiating out to every trembling limb. Her body bowed again, legs closing in around his shoulders as she chased the edge.

Then he crooked his fingers just right—and she shattered.

Angel’s second scream was louder than the first. Rawer. A sound born from deep in her chest, pulled from a place only he could reach. Her thighs shook around him as her climax ripped through her in wave after wave, drowning her in heat and static and sensation.

And still—he didn’t stop.

He licked her through it, gentle now but still thorough, easing her down only after every tremor had wracked her body, after every breath was spent and every thought wiped clean.

Finally, finally, he lifted his head.

The mask stared up at her, gleaming in the low light. And behind it—Joe’s eyes burned. Even if she couldn’t see them, she could feel them.

Predatory.

Proud.

Possessive.

Angel lay there, panting, utterly wrecked. Her chest heaved, the black bra a twisted mess, her skin damp with sweat, thighs still twitching from aftershocks.

She blinked up at him with a dazed smile.

“Well…” she breathed, voice hoarse and trembling. “That’s definitely top five.”

He chuckled—low, dark, and satisfied. The sound made her core clench all over again.

“Good,” he said, sliding the mask off slowly, revealing his flushed face and swollen lips slick with her. His eyes locked onto hers, hungry and electric. “Because we’re not done.”

Angel’s lips parted on instinct, her body already rising to meet him as he leaned over her again.

The hunt?

Far from over.

Joe’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile as he hovered over her, the Ghostface mask still clinging to his face like a second skin. His eyes, dark and sharp behind the hollow black sockets, bore into hers, demanding submission and promising pleasure wrapped in delicious danger.

He didn’t give her a moment to catch her breath before his hands were firm on her hips, gripping tightly as if reminding her who was in control tonight.

“Did you think this was just a game?” His voice dropped to a low growl, the rasp behind the mask sending a thrill straight to her core. “Ghostface doesn’t play nice.”

Angel’s breath hitched, a mixture of excitement and challenge flashing in her eyes. “I’m your willing victim,” she whispered, voice trembling with anticipation. “Try me.”

Joe’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, his grip possessive, not cruel but commanding. He pressed down harder, pinning her to the bed as he shifted his weight over her, muscles taut beneath his shirt.

“Good girl,” he murmured, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, his breath ragged and hot. “But don’t think you get to decide everything.”

Joe didn’t hesitate. His hands traveled over her body with purpose—rough, demanding—skimming the curves, tracing the outline of her ribs, cupping her breasts firmly through the fabric of her bra.

He yanked the straps down in one practiced motion, baring her to him completely.

Angel gasped at the sudden chill, the feel of his warm hands on her skin igniting sparks that roared through her veins.

“I always get what I want,” he whispered darkly, trailing kisses along her collarbone, biting lightly as he made his way down the expanse of her neck.

His hands roamed lower, fingers trailing teasing patterns down her stomach, before hooking into the band of her bra and pulling it free.

Joe’s mouth descended onto one breast, tongue flicking over the hardened nipple while his other hand tightened on the other, pinching and rolling the sensitive skin between his fingers.

Angel’s head fell back against the pillow, a moan slipping from her lips, raw and unguarded.

“Say my name,” he demanded, voice thick with authority and desire.

Angel swallowed hard, eyes fluttering open to meet his masked gaze. “Ghostface.”

“Good.” His grip on her tightened just enough to make her gasp again. “Because tonight, you belong to me. Every scream, every shiver—it’s mine.”

The mask made every touch feel electric, every sound a whisper of danger. It freed Joe to be bolder, rougher—the perfect predator to her willing prey.

And Angel? She was lost in it—wild and free under his control, craving the delicious torment only Ghostface could deliver.

His voice was a growl as he pulled back just enough to speak, breath ragged and heavy.

“Ready for the finale, baby?”

She nodded breathlessly, voice barely a whisper: “Always.”

He paused for a heartbeat, eyes dark and focused, before reaching up and tugging at the hem of his shirt. The fabric slipped over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the taut planes of his chest and the defined ridges of his abs. The soft overhead light caught the sheen of sweat on his skin, highlighting every muscle as it shifted beneath her touch. Then he pulled the mask back to cover the lower part of his face.

Angel’s nails traced a slow, deliberate path down his torso, dragging lightly but leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He shuddered under her fingers, a low growl vibrating in his throat as the delicate scratch of her nails ignited sparks along his skin. The tension in his body thickened, every breath growing heavier, more deliberate.

His cock sprang free of his sweats as he pushed them down, the head red and slick, dripping with pre-cum. He fisted it tight and rubbed it through her folds, the friction and heat making her hips buck up off the bed, seeking that final connection.

“Scream for me, baby,” he growled before pushing into her—slow at first, then in one hard, deep thrust.

The force of it knocked the breath out of her lungs, her walls tightening around him, adjusting to his size. She was already sensitive, still pulsing from her first orgasm, and the feeling of him filling her, stretching her, was almost too much to bear.

Her back arched, nails digging into his shoulders as he set a punishing pace. Each thrust hard, deep—hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur at the edges.

“Please—” she gasped, her voice breaking on a ragged cry as he angled his hips differently, grinding against her clit with each drive.

“Please what?” he taunted, slowing his pace just enough to make her whine, hips chasing the release that was so close, so close.

Her hands scrambled down his back, nails leaving red welts along his skin, gripping his ass and trying to pull him deeper—harder—faster.

“Say it,” he hissed, his control clearly slipping, sweat slicking his back as he fought to hold back, to make this last. To give her everything she needed.

“I need—”

“More?” he offered, hips snapping faster, cock throbbing as he felt her pulse around him. “You want more?”

“Yes!” she cried, her head thrashing against the pillows, hair wild around her flushed face. “God, yes, please—”

He didn’t make her ask again. He drove into her with a ferocity that bordered on animalistic, teeth bared, the mask still hiding his face as he pounded into her, chasing his own release while driving her higher and higher.

He reaches up and wraps a hand around her throat, watching as her eyes roll. "Feel good? Yeah you love being taken like this don't you Angel? Say it." he demanded and squeezed feeling her pulse thrum beneath his touch. "Yes--fuck--yes I love it Mr. Ghostface." she cried out and he smirked, his pace slowing once more.

He could see the frustration in her eyes as he slowed, that edge just out of reach. She squirmed beneath him, trying to find that friction, that release. But he held her firm, hips grinding against her slowly, torturously.

“Look at me,” he growled, his voice thick with lust, his own control barely hanging on. “Fucking look at me when I take you.”

Angel’s eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze through the holes of the mask. The intensity there was electric, consuming, and she felt herself falling into it, drowning in the dark promise of release.

He released her throat and leaned forward, his hands pinning hers beside her head as he drove into her with deep, powerful strokes.. “Mine,” he snarled against her lips, his thrusts growing erratic, harder, as he felt himself barreling towards the edge. “You’re fucking mine.”

Angel nodded frantically, her own climax coiling tight and hot in her core. “Yours,” she gasped, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “Always yours.”

That was all it took.

His control snapped.

Joe’s hips snapped forward once, a sharp, powerful motion that sent a surge of heat coursing through them both. Then again, twice—each thrust driving him deeper, closer to the edge he’d been holding back for too long. His body tensed, muscles coiling like springs ready to snap. With a final, shuddering pulse, he buried himself deep inside her, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself, spilling into her with a raw, primal force.

The suddenness of his release sent a jolt through Angel, igniting a fire she couldn’t hold back. Her body clenched around him instinctively, squeezing tight, the rhythm of her own climax crashing over her in waves. She gasped, nails digging fiercely into the flesh of his back—hard enough to draw faint, sharp lines of pain that mingled perfectly with the pleasure. The sensation sent him even further over the edge, a low groan escaping past the mask he still held loosely in one hand.

Then, without hesitation, Joe dropped the mask, pressing his lips to hers in a deep, searing kiss. Their mouths moved together—hungry, searching, desperate. The world shrank down to just the two of them, breath mingling, hearts pounding in sync beneath sweat-slicked skin.

For a long moment, they stayed locked like that, tangled in the aftermath of their storm, neither willing to break the connection. The room was silent except for the soft sounds of their ragged breathing and the occasional creak of the bed beneath them.

Slowly, carefully, Joe lowered his weight onto her, mindful of her smaller frame beneath him. His chest pressed against hers, still warm and rising with heavy breaths. His lips found the sensitive skin of her neck, nuzzling and kissing lightly, as if afraid to let go.

“Fuck, Angel,” he murmured, voice rough and hoarse, fingers tracing lazy circles along her spine. “Every time with you is…” He faltered, searching her eyes for the right words that always seemed to escape him.

Angel smiled softly, curling a hand in the thick curls at the nape of his neck, feeling the tremors still rippling through his body. “Life-changing?” she offered gently, her voice husky and full of affection.

Joe chuckled, a deep, vibrating sound that settled warmly in her chest. “Yeah,” he agreed, voice low and sure. “Something like that.” He lifted his head just enough to look into her eyes, his gaze steady and fierce. “I love you, you know that?”

Angel smiled softly, curling a hand in the thick curls at the nape of his neck, feeling the tremors still rippling through his body. “I know,” she said gently, her voice husky and full of affection. “And I love you too.” She smirked playfully, brushing a finger teasingly against his jaw. “I can tell you don’t regret buying that mask.”

Joe’s lips curved into a slow, mischievous grin before he bit her playfully on the finger, a low chuckle rumbling from deep in his chest. “Not even a little,” he teased, voice rough but tender.

Angel laughed softly, eyes sparkling with warmth and amusement. “Good,” she whispered, drawing him closer.

Angel barely had time to catch her breath before she felt him move again—Joe’s hands dragging slowly up her thighs, rough palms gliding over sweat-damp skin and grazing the curve of her ass like he was rediscovering her all over again. The heat of him radiated down her back, seeping into her bones. She shivered, a tremor passing through her limbs despite the sweltering aftermath of what they’d just done. Her body was still trembling from the aftershocks, thighs sticky, muscles twitching, breath coming in shallow pulls.

“You good?” Joe’s voice was low, gravel rough from exertion and desire, but laced with something gentler underneath. Something tender. Protective.

Angel turned her head on the cushion, her cheek pressed against the cool fabric, curls sticking to her temple. She smiled, hazy and breathless, but her eyes were sharp with mischief. “Better than good,” she said, dragging her fingers down his arm. Then she cocked a brow and added, “But I think you forgot something.”

Joe blinked down at her, confused for half a beat—until she reached out lazily, fingers fumbling over the side of the bed until they closed around something plastic. She pulled it up between them with a dramatic flourish.

The Ghostface mask.

She dangled it from one finger, the black hood swaying beneath it, and bit her lip through a grin. “No, please don’t kill me, Mr. Ghostface,” she said in a mock-panic voice, eyes glinting. “I wanna be in the sequel.”

Joe huffed a short laugh, one side of his mouth lifting into a wicked smirk. “Oh no,” he said darkly, taking it from her hand. “You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

He sat back on his knees, still straddling her thighs, and raised the mask with deliberate slowness. The second he slipped it over his head, the energy between them shifted like a dropped match in a gas leak—igniting something dangerous and electric in the air. The white, grinning leer of the mask turned him from her sweet, playful boyfriend into something else. Something rougher. Wilder. More dangerous.

Angel’s breath caught hard in her chest. Fuck.

Joe leaned over her slowly, the black hood of the costume hanging like a veil over his broad shoulders, his bare chest framed by shadows. When he spoke, his voice was distorted, hollow and low behind the plastic. “What’s your favorite position, baby?”

Angel’s pulse fluttered. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, but it was too late—he already knew. Her body betrayed her every time. “Surprise me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and thick with anticipation.

He didn’t waste time. His hands gripped her hips roughly, possessively, flipping her and pulling her up onto her knees. Her elbows gave a shaky bend as he pushed her upper body forward until her cheek was flush against the pillow, back arched perfectly for him. He swept her curls out of the way in a single, fluid motion, exposing the elegant slope of her neck. She gasped as his fingers slid between her thighs again—still soaked, still throbbing—and a low, filthy groan rumbled from behind the mask.

“You really are a dirty little victim,” he rasped, fingers dragging slowly through her folds. “Still this wet? You like getting hunted, Angel?”

“And you’re a sick bastard,” she breathed, flashing a grin even as her legs trembled. “Why is that turning you on?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

He gripped her thighs tighter, held her steady, and pushed into her in one slow, deliberate thrust. She cried out, her mouth falling open as he filled her again, every inch sliding in like he was carving his name inside her. Her body clenched around him, still hypersensitive, but still so fucking ready.

This time wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t fast or chaotic.

It was worse.

Joe stayed deep, hips rolling in slow, devastating waves that had her gasping, moaning, clawing at the cushions. Each grind of his hips pressed right against her sweet spot, and the weight of his body behind her made it impossible to escape. She didn’t want to. She wanted to drown in it. In him.

One of his hands slipped beneath her, fingers finding her clit and circling it with maddening precision. The other slid up the back of her neck, fingers wrapping around her throat—not enough to choke, just enough to hold her still, to remind her who was in control.

Behind the mask, his breathing was ragged. “You love this, don’t you?” he growled. “Knowing I’m behind you, hard as fuck, mask on… knife in hand.”

“Fuck,” she whimpered, body buckling beneath him. “Yes. Yes, Joe—”

He squeezed just enough to make her gasp. “That’s not my name.”

She choked out a laugh, breathless and ruined. “Ghostface. Fuck, Ghostface…”

“Mm.” His thrusts picked up just slightly, harder now, deeper. “You’re my favorite victim, Angel.”

That broke her.

She moaned so loud it echoed off the walls, her knees slipping against the sheets as her body struggled to keep up with the brutal pleasure building again. Joe didn’t let her fall—he held her firm, relentless in his rhythm, burying himself deeper, his control slipping at the edges.

And when he leaned down, chest slick against her back, lips brushing her ear beneath the mask, his voice turned velvet and venom.

“You gonna scream for me, pretty girl?”

Angel shattered.

Her orgasm hit like a freight train—violent, all-consuming, ripping through her body like fire. Her muscles locked, her cry sharp and broken as her whole world splintered into heat and light. Her hands scrambled for something to hold onto, nails dragging down the couch as she shook around him, spasming in wave after wave of release.

Joe groaned low and dark, stuttering inside her as he came too, spilling into her with a final, savage thrust that had both of them gasping. He stayed buried deep, his body slumping over hers as the tension bled out of him all at once.

They lay there for a moment—silent, trembling, breath catching like hiccups in the thick air.

Joe’s hand splayed across her stomach, anchoring her to him, unwilling to let go.

Then, slowly, he reached up and peeled the mask off, dropping it onto the floor with a dull thud. His forehead pressed to her shoulder as he let out a breathless, shaky laugh.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

Angel grinned, turning her head just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “And you love it.”

He kissed her back—slow, deep, and tender in a way that made her heart ache. “That was fucking wild.”

She smirked. “You still have all of October to survive, baby.”

Joe groaned, collapsing onto the cushions beside her. His cock twitched where it rested between them, already showing signs of life again. “Angel…” he warned, but his voice cracked with exhaustion and want. “I’m gonna die tonight.”

She giggled, licking the edge of his jaw with mock sweetness. “Then scream for me, Mr. Ghostface.”

And from the way his hand slid down her thigh again, the hunt wasn’t over yet.

[cafeconbrujeria]

You must stop holding out on us. Where did you get your green ocean binder/note cover?

Chicken! I'm flattered and delighted.

It is the hokusai wave journal from Oberon Designs in the teal color, and it is built like a TANK.

Many years ago, I lost most of my material possessions to flood damage. The journal cover, which was my bullet journal setup at the time and not my grimoire, was covered in disgusting skunky gunky disgusting flood water. After throwing out the inner contents, I figured I had nothing to lose, so I tossed the journal cover into...the washing machine. With some dr. bonner's liquid soap. On a normal cycle. I think I put it through the dryer, too, for a little, on low, though I ultimately dried it in the sun. Somehow, this was fine. Then I reconditioned with straight up coconut oil, and it's somehow both lusciously soft and still absurdly sturdy. This was years ago and this baby is still going strong, and I am not easy on my working items. I mention this because Oberon Designs did a limited release a while back with the Rider Waite Smith Fool card on it, and I bought it to make a more obvious grimoire, but because it's new it feels so stiff and like an entirely different product. But it isn't! It just hasn't had the shit beat out of it yet. So my point is: these things take a TON of abuse. They're absurdly well made. They're pricey, for notebook covers, but like. Worth it, imo.

More caveats: I don't actually use it entirely as intended because I have it set up midori traveler's notebook style, because I love a modular set up. Because it's the American half latter size and I have several elastics in there, I can just fold paper in half and scribble away on my makeshift notebook insert. Or I can print things out booklet style, and put that in there. And I buy those slim cheap roughly 5.5 × 8.5 kraft cover notebooks in bulk and burn through them as necessary, because for me, the grimoire is more a lab notebook and less a coffee table book, though the covers are so nice that they probably deserve a fancy grimoire.

in THEORY, the modular grimoire is also an all in one travel altar and all I need to pack for witchcraft while traveling. in actual reality, I've never travelled light in my life.

and now, because I've been given an excuse, thank you so much...here are some example pages. still sandy from last time I took The Book to the beach.

Starting with bookmarks:

For operative reasons, there is an antique key in there. I found a flat one, so that's nice, for the notebook format. The moon and stars charm is also from Oberon Designs--they tend to throw in a little freebie with their orders. I was trying to DIY a little in grimoire black mirror for a while, and none of my attempts really worked, and then i just made the St. Cyprian chaplet with the black mirror there, so--I'm not sure why this is still in here but why not. Why are there pressed flowers in here sometimes? It's a working item, baaaaebeee. All kinds of shit happens here.

reference materials:

like I said, I wanted a written by hand/printables for ease of use hybrid format so that's what I have. pictured: some sigils and reference notes for the dia de los reyes workings I always forget about until the absolute last minute so that I'm frantically running around the house very January 6.

etc

but fundamentally this grimoire is my grimoire so there's silly things in it because I am a silly person with ADHD who is also in a rush everywhere absolutely at all times. here is an origami dragon who lived in my wallet for many years--extremely effectively, so witchblr really does sometimes offer some fun yet useful ideas. also here are some fruit stickers? also my dog. also on the opposite page pictures I do not wish the internet to see. the big red envelope came with uhh...a mini waffle iron? shaped like a heart? and now houses a paper based charm. It's sturdy enough to take out of the grimoire and toss into a purse when necessary. also: kraft notebook with painter tape label.

further etc

I love journaling and notebooks in general so I have a lot of purchased and DIY folders and stuff in here, obviously. fu talisman from when I was reading the tao of craft. absolute banger of a talisman; very strong for what I needed/need it for. see also: pocket playing card meaning thing I do not use at all whatsoever. st jude card from seraphin station. ruler in case I need to make straight lines.

storage (and etc)

and here is my very DIY storage solution, which is: a slider ziploc bag and some medical tape. dr jose gregorio hernandez wallet card from, again seraphin station, who is also on here as @karmazain. background photo print of a Baron Samedi veve, for ritual focus or you know, whatever. big holy card of la caridad del cobre, aka our lady of charity, who is also Oshun or at least Oshun's catholic mask, depending on who you ask and how they look at it (maferefun oshun, of course, forever and ever). packet of black pepper and unseen similar packet of salt for some REALLY on the go magic, if necessary. big sticker / feng shui amulet of the three celestial guardians, which is usually tucked into the pocket flap meant to secure a notebook.

and ta da! far more information than you asked for! but I love witchy gear, i love talking about our gear, I LOVE LOOKING AT PEOPLE'S BOOKS, so.

[anonymous-dentist]

A Little (bit of) Love

My piece for @tryzine !!

-

It starts deceptively simple: Cellbit and Roier are taking a walk together through the Favela at sunset, fresh coffees in their hands from Starbobby. Cellbit can’t stop staring at Roier. Roier can’t stop staring at Cellbit. Bobby is watching from above, probably rolling his eyes at how goofy Roier looks when he’s in love. 

There are two creatures walking a step behind Cellbit and Roier that Cellbit is purposefully ignoring. 

Roier’s shoe comes untied next to a recently-added flowerbed. Cellbit offers to tie it, Roier laughs and teases Cellbit, Cellbit hands Roier his coffee to hold as he crouches and takes Roier’s shoelaces in his hands. 

Just barely visible through the gap between Roier’s legs, Pulgoier looks blankly up at the flowers. They’re taller than it is, but just barely. 

?, the disgusting little thing, follows Pulgoier’s gaze. And then, horrifyingly, and entirely of its own accord, it reaches up and snaps a flower off at the base of its stem. It holds the flower out to Pulgoier, head ducked just slightly, almost bashfully; Pulgoier doesn’t smile, because it can’t, because it isn’t real, but it does take the flower. 

Frozen in abject horror, Cellbit doesn’t react as Roier annoyedly taps at his head and asks what’s taking so long. Why is he just sitting there, what’s wrong? 

And then Roier turns around and sees his Mini-Me holding the flower close to its chest and pressing a plastic kiss to ?’s cheek, and Roier gasps. 

“Aww, look!” he coos, fingers tangling in Cellbit’s hair excitedly. “They’re in love!”

And Cellbit feels nothing. 

-

Cellbit’s son is gone. So is a significant part of Cellbit’s heart, and yet he knows that he is still capable of feeling love. He’s alive, after all: he isn’t a religious man, but he likes to think that everything with a heart can feel love. Dogs love their owners. Lions love their mates. Crocodiles love the hunt. Parrots love to show off. 

The Mini-Mes? Notably not alive. They aren’t real. They’re plastic and felt and yarn and whatever-the-fuck electronics the Federation shoved into their fake little bodies. Their nerves are made out of copper. Their veins are filled with self-recycling machine oil. Their hearts are combustion engines that run off of the items that their islander counterparts provide them daily. 

Cellbit knows this. He’s cut his Mini-Me apart so many times that ? knows not to squirm on the dissection table. Every time he’s sewn ? back together, he’s made ? hold the roll of string so it doesn't roll away. He’s made ? bleed oil to the point that he once caught ? drinking gasoline when Cellbit’s back was turned. 

The Mini-Mes don’t feel emotions. They can’t. They aren’t real. They’re creatures, if one could call an inhuman amalgamation of wires and eco-friendly microplastics a creature. It’s more apt to call them robots. 

Monsters. 

Cellbit knows that the MIni-Mes were created for war. He watched the video at that conference, he knows exactly what the little assholes were made for. Now that they’re stolen, their purpose has probably been shifted by the Federation from fighting to spying. 

They can’t feel love. This much, Cellbit knows. They were created for battle, and now they’re just biding their time. Waiting. 

The fact that ? seems to be in love with Pulgoier is an outlier that should not be considered. They’re both just mimicking their owners, that’s all. Which begs the question of exactly how adaptive the Mini-Mes are; they can change appearance at the drop of a hat, but behavior? They’ve been robotic up to this point, what changed? 

Cellbit asks this to ? as ? sits in its cage staring at the oil-stained wall. 

?, of course, doesn’t respond. That’s good, Cellbit doesn’t know what he’d do if the little bastard learned how to talk. 

But, at the lack of a response, Cellbit inexplicably feels a sense of… God, is this bravery he’s feeling coming off of ?? Is that it? An attitude? 

Cellbit’s eyes narrow, and he leans in closer to the cage with a sneer. 

“Whatever you’re doing, I’m onto it,” he growls. 

? just adjusts its goggles in response. Its hand briefly dips into the Fear Room’s light, exposing a thin black line drawn around ?’s left hand ring finger. A ring. 

Cellbit is so surprised that he doesn’t even feel angry for a good moment. 

But then ? looks up at him as if asking, “And what about it?”, and Cellbit finds himself standing and kicking the cage so hard that it falls over, sending ? toppling. 

A ring. A goddamn ring. 

A goddamn mockery, more like. It’s mocking him. The Federation is mocking him, he knows it. He fucking knows it. 

(But… why?)

-

Pulgoier starts holding ?’s hand. ? keeps picking things off of the side of the road to give to Pulgoier, and Cellbit hates it. 

Roier makes a little shoebox bed for them that he puts under his and Cellbit’s own bed. Instead of powering off for the day in a corner of the room, ? and Pulgoier go there at night, and Cellbit hates it. 

? and Pulgoier sit across from each other on the floor when their owners have their meals. Sometimes they pretend to eat, usually pretending to feed each other, and Cellbit hates it. 

Richarlyson would have killed them by now. Cellbit wishes he was here to do so, but. 

But. 

-

But it’s well past midnight, and Cellbit can’t sleep. This isn’t anything too unusual; he learned how to live off minimal sleep back during the War, for better or for worse. 

But Roier can’t sleep, which means that he’s somewhere in the castle, which means that Cellbit is somewhere in the castle because there’s no way in Hell he’s letting his depressed and sleep-deprived husband wander around mourning. 

Tonight’s ‘somewhere’ is the garden, and Cellbit has Roier in his arms as they sway back and forth to the music playing softly on Roier’s communicator. (The Federation is shitty for so many reasons, but at least it’s providing the island with Spotify Premium free-of-charge.)

The song is unimportant. So are the two little freaks of nature watching from beneath a rosebush. So are the Federation’s hidden cameras, and Bad somewhere downstairs trying to carry Cellbit’s dining table out the door, and the itching bloodlust in the back of Cellbit’s brain. 

What is important is Roier, and so Cellbit focuses all his attention on him. 

He’s tired, clearly so: his hair is more of a mess than usual, his clothes are rumpled and wrinkled, his shoes are untied, his bandana is lost somewhere in the bedroom, his lips are chapped, and the circles under his eyes are dark enough to rival Cellbit’s. 

Cellbit doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful man in his life. 

He says as much, words ghosting across Roier’s pale lips. 

Roier smiles weakly, and he murmurs a quiet, “No, you.”

The song changes to something a bit quicker. They both ignore the change in tempo and decide to follow each other’s, instead. 

Cellbit’s arms tighten around Roier. He pulls him closer, nose burying itself in the side of Roier’s neck and breathing in his scent and internalizing it, filing it away in the little cabinet in his brain labeled ‘Roier’.

“You stink,” he grumbles. 

“Yeah, because you’re all over me,” Roier responds. He lightly pinches Cellbit’s side. “I know what we’re doing when we get back inside.”

Cellbit whines, sagging in Roier’s arms. He loves his husband, but he does not love showering with him; Roier takes so long under the water that it’s running cold by the time it’s Cellbit’s turn, and his shampoo smells so strongly that it makes Cellbit have an asthma attack. 

Cellbit doesn’t even have asthma!

What Cellbit does have is an unfortunately-acute sense of hearing. It’s a blessing at times, and it’s a curse. 

His eyebrow twitches in annoyance as he hears the absolute faintest of sounds: the crunching of grass beneath clumsy feet, and the overworking of machinery as it tries to figure out how to laugh.

At the same time, Roier gasps, “Mira, mira!”

But Cellbit doesn’t look. Why should he? He’s having a good time. He doesn’t need some… some… some things ruining it. 

“Ay,” Roier insists, poking Cellbit between his ribs once. “Gatinho, mira.” 

Another poke. “Mira.” 

Another poke. “Cellbit.” 

(Poke.) “Cellbo.”

Cellbit’s eyes squeeze shut. He presses a kiss to the crook of Roier’s neck to try and appease him, but Roier just pokes him again. With determination. 

“Stop ignoring me!” he huffs. “Unless… you hate me? You want a divorce?”

At that, Cellbit’s head snaps up in a panic. 

“Não!” he shouts. Why would Roier ever…

Lips twitching into a semblance of a smile, Roier grabs Cellbit’s face with one hand- squeezing his cheeks together and making him feel a bit like a fish- and turns it to the side. 

…right. If there’s one thing Roier is, it’s a fucking asshole. (And a handsome one at that.)

Cellbit’s shoulders sag in relief, but said relief quickly melts back into annoyance as he’s forced to look at the Mini-Mes and their… well. It isn’t dancing, that’s for certain. 

Pulgoier has taken the lead, just like Roier has. It’s holding ?’s little hands and rocking from side-to-side: left, right. Left, right. Left, right. It doesn’t move from its spot other than a small amount of shuffling as it tries pulling at ?’s hands in an attempt to get it to actually move. 

? is still. It’s staring directly into Pulgoier’s beady little eyes, absolutely frozen. If it could blush, Cellbit is sure that it would be doing so. 

Cellbit inadvertently copies it, stiffening against Roier’s body and stopping any and all movements. He doesn’t mean to- he wants to keep dancing, to keep ignoring the Mini-Mes and their bastardized attempt at “romance”, but… 

“Look,” Roier quietly says, sounding almost awed. 

He lets go of Cellbit’s face so he can press his cheek against Cellbit’s. 

Cellbit feels Roier’s jaw work against his as he concludes, “It’s us.”

Because… it is. It is, somehow, in such a fundamental way that Cellbit can’t really identify it as anything but Cellbit-And-Roier. 

“Oh,” says Cellbit, voice hardly above a whisper. 

He watches as Pulgoier tugs on ?’s arms, and as ?’s legs start to shake under it. 

Cellbit doesn’t actually remember a lot of his wedding reception; between the explosions and the alcohol, it’s all just a lot of blurry faces and the feeling of Roier-Roier-Roier-Roier-Roier. 

What he does remember is being ushered into the center of the dance floor along with Roier and freezing. The world faded from around him, and all he could think about was Roier’s smile as he took Cellbit into his arms; Roier’s warm hands on his body; Roier’s alcohol-laced breath across his face. His body was a stranger. 

He remembers thinking, ‘Shit. I don’t know how to dance.’  Because he didn’t, and he still doesn’t, because he never had a chance to learn how. It just never came up in his life, and then, suddenly, he was supposed to dance. At his wedding. In front of the entire island. And everyone he knew.

And he remembers the way Roier’s face softened as he picked up on Cellbit’s anxiety. His hands slid from Cellbit’s back, up to his shoulders, down the lengths of his arms, and to his hands. He tangled their fingers together, took a step back, and winked. 

Pulgoier physically can’t wink, but it otherwise does exactly what Roier did all those months ago: it takes a step back, and it just starts spinning. 

? can’t shout like Cellbit did back then, but it otherwise does what he did all those months ago: it gets pulled along, forced to spin along with its partner, stumbling over its own feet and flailing about like a doll caught in the wind. 

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Cellbit mutters. 

“I can,” Roier replies. “He’s your Mini-Me, of course he can’t dance for shit.”

He yelps out a laugh as Cellbit indignantly steps on his foot. 

Roier’s right, though; Cellbit can’t dance for shit. And neither can ?, being Cellbit’s shitty little clone. 

The night of the wedding, it took Cellbit a good solid minute to get his feet back under him. He felt himself smiling, and, maybe it was the wine in his system, but he found himself tugging Roier in a spin in the opposite direction. He was dizzy as Hell, but it made Roier laugh when he did it, so he just… kept doing it. Eventually, the spin led into a proper attempt at a slow dance that failed so miserably that the two of them gave up and jumped onto the stage for another round of karaoke.

Tonight, ? picks up on things a bit quicker than Cellbit had. It stabilizes, nods to itself, and starts pulling Pulgoier into its own spin. Almost immediately, they’re attempting a proper waltz, and Cellbit… 

Cellbit doesn’t get it. 

At first, Cellbit wasn’t sure what the end goal of the Mini-Mes was. Then, he realized that they’re little soldiers. Robotic supersoldiers capable of self-multiplication and growth, literal war machines. 

But then… why do they look like the islanders? Why does Pulgoier have the same dark circles as Roier? Why does ? have the same scar across its chest that Cellbit does? What’s the point? The Federation doesn’t do anything without a purpose, so why do the Mini-Mes have to look like their owners if they’re meant to grow up and kill them? 

Why can they dance? 

“What’s the point?” he murmurs. Roier hums in acknowledgement, and Cellbit takes that as a sign to continue: “Of copying us?”

“Because we’re sexy,” Roier responds. 

Cellbit rolls his eyes. “True. But, think about it, what purpose does any of…” (He waves his hand in the MIni-Mes’ general direction.) “...this serve?”

“I don’t know, but… look at them.”

Cellbit looks. He doesn’t understand. Something uncomfortable rises in his throat. 

? twirls Pulgoier, leading it into a dip. Pulgoier raises its head and presses its painted mouth against ?’s. 

Chest clenching, Cellbit tries to tear his eyes away, but he just… can’t. He can’t. Not when they’re right there, not when they’re-

“You think they’re learning from us, right?” Roier asks. “So… maybe they aren’t learning how to kill us. Maybe they’re learning to be us.”

Cellbit gives him a flat look. “Isn’t that just as bad?”

Roier shrugs, still watching the little monsters. 

“Maybe,” he replies. “I’m not a scientist. But… isn’t it kinda crazy that we taught robots how to love?”

But robots can’t love. They can’t. But. 

Roier’s arms tighten around Cellbit’s body. His smile is just as forced as it has been since the eggs all vanished, but his eyes are surprisingly soft as he watches the Mini-Mes tumble into the grass from the force of their silent, impossible laughter. 

“They’re just copying us,” Cellbit weakly says. “It isn’t actually real.”

“Maybe,” Roier hums. One hand travels up to cup the back of Cellbit’s head, gently pulling it against his chest. Cellbit listens to Roier’s heartbeat and wills his own heart to match its pace. 

“Or,” he continues, “maybe it is. We found our reasons. Maybe they found theirs.”

They watch the Mini-Mes, and the Mini-Mes don’t notice. 

The song changes, and Roier starts leading Cellbit into another dance. 

Cellbit’s eyes slip shut, and he lets himself get swept away by Roier’s movements. 

(Bagi would call Cellbit a monster, but Cellbit found love in the end. So maybe, just maybe, ? could have done the same.)

[wo8ngs]

⟢　　﹒ 　　CASE OF THE FIRST DAY JITTERS ..　۫　　◞

synopsis ⤷ first days can always be just a bit nerve-wracking, especially when you're interning at one of the most prestigious law firms in america. but why should you have nerves when only a few were even chosen for an interview, especially when you were the perfect fit? wait, you're interning at wong & associates, under THE ada wong? it's not like she could scrutinize your every move, right? wrong.

pairing: intern!reader x lawyer!ada wong

you were the perfect fit for the job, how could you not be?

you were at the top of all your classes. you have never missed a deadline—your ambition won’t allow it. you were always the first one to arrive and the last one to leave the building, and you push yourself past your limit because, for you, anything less than perfection is not good enough.

and if it wasn’t enough to just have the grades and the best recommendations from former professors and co-workers—you had to prove yourself. ada wong herself, famously known for her ruthlessness and high standards, personally interviewed you. she wanted to see the drive behind the résumé, to make sure you weren’t just another ambitious intern, but someone with the precision and dedication to match her own.

you impressed her, of course. how could you not? after all, you weren't just another candidate—you were the ideal one. you were the perfect fit for the role.

but now, as you stand in front of the mirror, clad in your signature mary janes, knee socks, and black mini-skirt, a wave of nerves wash over you. you can’t shake that fluttering anxiety in your stomach, as you adjust your hair for the tenth time. the reflection staring back at you looks polished to perfection, and put together, yet you can’t help but feel the weight of expectations pressing down on your shoulders.

what if you trip on your way in? what if your voice wavers during the morning brief? are you even supposed to talk as the intern on your first day? the very thought of it sends a shiver down your spine. you remind yourself of all the hours spent studying, the late nights you sacrificed, and that determination of yours that had brought you to the position you saw yourself in today. yet, standing there, it feels like its all on hinges on this moment, on how you present yourself. because, first impressions matter.

as you take a deep breath and straighten your shoulders, you force a smile at yourself through the mirror. you know you’re more than capable; you’ve earned this opportunity. but the nerves are relentless, the doubts still stuck in the forefront of your mind.

‘what if you’re not good enough?’

‘what if they think i’m inexperienced?’

‘what if they judge me before i even get a chance to prove myself?’

‘what if—?’

as soon as you blink, you’re standing in the large building at the top floor where ‘wong & associates’ is located. the moment you step through the glass doors, the energy of the office instantly envelops you. people are moving around the open space, files clutched in their hands, their eyes focused on the task at hand. the rhythmic clicking of keyboard fills in the air.

the scent of coffee waffs through the air, mingling with the subtle hum of conversations and the sound of printers whirring. it feels like one of those well-oiled machines, and it makes you feel intimidated to be apart of it.

you take a moment to soak it all in, feeling both exhilarated and overwhelmed at the same time. as you adjust your grip on your notebook, you can’t help but feel that flutter of nerves coming back in your stomach. you glance around, spotting a few familiar faces from your interview, their expressions serious and focused as they navigate their tasks.

suddenly, the door to ada’s office swings open, a young women stepping out of it, her expression one of clear distress. her brow is furrowed, and her lips press into a tight line, as if her emotions were rolling off of the surface. she glances over her shoulder, as if expecting ada to follow her with more criticism or a command, before hastily making her way back to her desk. her movements are frantic, a stark contrast to the usual composed demeanor expected in this office. papers flutter from her hands as she rushes, and you can’t help but notice the way her shoulders tense with each step.

and then ada emerges behind her, the door clicking shut with a sense of finality. her face is cold and unreadable, her sharp features set in a stoic expression that rarely ever reveals any hint of emotion. she surveys the scene, her eyes narrowing as she scans the bustling office floor.

you can’t help but feel a chill run down your spine as you observe her demeanor.

she's a force to be reckoned with, and everyone knows it.

with her hands resting firmly on her hips, ada stands tall and imposing. there’s tension in the room, a silent acknowledgment of the pressure that comes with working under someone like ada. her gaze remains steady and piercing, as if she’s assessing not only the situation but the very people involved. you can sense the unease that settles over the office as colleagues glance furtively at each other, trying to gauge ada’s reaction.

from your vantage point by the front door, you can’t help but feel a little bad for the women who had exited the office. the tension is almost tangible, a thick fog of anxiety that hangs in the air. you watch as the young woman attempts to collect herself, desperately shuffling through her papers in a bid to regain some semblance of control, her hands trembling slightly.

ada’s sharp eyes finally catch sight of you standing near the entrance, and she squints, scrutinizing your presence. the moment stretches, and you feel your heart race under her gaze, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable.

were you already making a bad impression? especially on the person who is your boss?

her expression shifts slightly, though it remains inscrutable, and you can’t quite tell if she’s annoyed by your presence or simply assessing who you are.

you feel like you’re going to be sick. ada’s gaze remains locked on you as she begins to make her way over, each step purposeful and measured.

the rhythm of her heels clicking against the polished floor resonates through the office. colleagues momentarily pause their conversations, glancing up as she approaches. everyone was in understanding that ada’s presence isn’t something to be taken lightly.

as she closes the distance between you, her expression shifts from one of cold assessment to something more nuanced. her eyes, sharp and calculating, scan your face, searching for any signs of weakness or uncertainty. you can feel your heart rate quicken under her scrutiny.

when she finally reaches you, ada pauses for a moment, her gaze unwavering, as if she’s trying to gauge your reaction to her proximity. you can’t help but feel small under her scrutiny, like a deer caught in headlights.

"are you lost?" she asks.

the question is blunt, cutting through the tension in the air, leaving no room for ambiguity. it was as if she’s daring you to prove your worth in this high-stakes environment. there’s an intensity in her gaze that makes you acutely aware of every detail—how you stand, how you respond, and what you choose to say.

because be careful with what you say.

you’re about to say something, but you feel an unexpected tightness in your throat. the words you rehearsed in your mind suddenly seem to vanish, leaving you with a jumble of thoughts that struggle to break free. you open your mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a slight stutter, a nervous breath that does nothing to convey the impression you wish to convey.

ada tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing just a bit, as if she’s peeling back the layers of your hesitation, trying to read what lies beneath your thoughts. the silence stretches between you, heavy and almost palpable, and you can feel your cheeks warm under her unwavering gaze. it’s as if time has slowed down, and the bustling office around you fades into a distant hum.

why was nothing coming out? you were desperate to articulate your thoughts while grappling with the overwhelming presence of the woman standing in front of you. you can see the slight twitch at the corner of ada’s mouth, a hint of amusement there, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. she remains steadfast, as she waits for you to gather your thoughts.

“um... i—” you begin, but the syllables falter before they can fully form. and in this moment, all you can do is clear your throat, willing yourself to sound more assured, but the sound only serves to amplify your nervousness.

before you can even finish constructing a full sentence, ada nods slightly, her expression shifting as if she’s already processed everything she needs to know from your brief attempt at a response. there’s an almost imperceptible spark of recognition in her eyes, as if she’s made a mental note about you—your hesitation, your ambition, the way you stand beneath her scrutiny. in that moment, you realize she’s not just assessing your words; she’s evaluating your potential.

with a smooth, authoritative motion, ada turns her attention away from you and calls out to the project manager, “jenna,” she says, her tone firm yet clear, slicing through the office chatter. you watch as a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a tailored suit that mirrors ada’s own style, glances up from her desk, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“come here for a moment,” ada instructs, and jenna rises to her feet, striding over with a confident gait that reflects her own position of authority. as she approaches, you can feel the tension in the air shift again, this time mingled with a sense of anticipation. you can’t help but feel the weight of ada’s gaze shifting back to you, her once again expression unreadable.

“this is the intern i mentioned,” ada states matter-of-factly, gesturing toward you with a flick of her wrist. “she’ll be working for me this fall term.” the way she introduces you carries a weight that sends a shiver down your spine; her words like a seal-of-approval. the significance of that statement sinks in, and you feel a rush of pride mixed with anxiety at the prospect of working under such a formidable figure.

THE ada wong.

jenna turns to you, her demeanor warm yet professional, and offers a friendly smile. “nice to meet you! i’ve heard great things about you already,” she says, extending her hand in greeting. as you shake jenna’s hand, as ada watches closely, her eyes assessing your response.

ada’s gaze shifts from jenna back to you, and she takes a moment to eye you up and down, slow and deliberate. her expression is inscrutable, making it hard to gauge what she’s thinking as she appraises every detail—from the way you stand to the way you’re dressed in your carefully chosen outfit. you can feel the weight of her scrutiny; it’s both intimidating and oddly exhilarating, making your heart race.

after a moment that stretches on for what feels like an eternity, ada finally breaks her inspection and turns on her heel, striding confidently back toward her office. the click of her heels against the polished floor resonates in the now-quiet space as she moves away. you can’t help but watch her, captivated.

as she reaches the threshold of her office, she pauses and glances over her shoulder one last time, her piercing gaze locking onto yours. there’s something almost inscrutable in her expression—perhaps it’s approval, or maybe it’s a silent warning to stay on your toes. you can feel your breath catch in your throat again.

with a slight tilt of her head, she seems to convey a message that says;

‘i’m watching you’.

then, in one fluid motion, she steps into her office and closes the door behind her. the click of the latch resonates in the stillness of the hallway. the sound reverberates through you, a reminder of her presence even as she disappears from view.

in ada’s own kind of way, she had acknowledged you on the first day of your orientation. and that doesn’t happen to a lot of interns on their first day.

consider yourself grateful, intern. your new internship is going to be interesting, to say the least.

© wo8ngs / do not repost, copy, steal, etc., any of my work and claim it as your own.

[snapthistiger]

exercise 05312025

bike ride to the gym

8 x 10 incline sit ups

3 x 10 pec machine

3 x 10 lat raise

3 x 10 low row

30 minutes on the step mill

3 x 10 cable row

3 x 10 cable press

bike ride home

the gym workers received mini Reeses

exercise felt good and felt better on the step mill

oldest daughter and her husband and Ariel are on the way back to Virginia

top right = handsome tuxedo cat on Avenue C

top left = found a vial of essential oil on the road

bottom = bride and her bridesmaids were at the gym for some pilates before the wedding. the bride is a super sweet fitness instructor at the gym

picked up a few groceries at Kroger

leftover pizza for lunch

mowed the yard

hope you have a peaceful afternoon and evening..

[confuzing]

I've put together a fun lil Stardew Valley Challenge designed to be hard for casual players like myself ( I'm sure some people will think this is easy). Gonna type it up and post it it here. OK, here goes.

The Doomsday Prepper Challenge

Premise: You've just found out a startling truth, the apocalypse is imminent, the world will end in 2 Years! So you quit your job and go head out to your Grandpa's farm where you hope to stockpile enough supplies and become self sufficient enough that you can survive the coming end. Can you get your farm in order and your supplies all ready before time runs out?

What you need to do/collect under the cut.

You do not anticipate most of the rest of Pelican Town surviving the apocalypse so don't bother making friends you'll lose anyway. (You can still fulfill quests, attend festivals and make friends to unlock things, but you're doing that to reach your end goal.)

You need to get married (kids not required) Gotta have a spouse to help repopulate the planet. Theoretically you should pick Harvey but if you can think of a good reason why your farmer would pick someone else go ahead.

Complete the Community Center (no Joja route, the Junimos are magic you could use them on your side.)

Unlock Ginger Island- Build the House and Farm Obelisk there, have the recipe for the island totem and at least one crafted one in storage (essentially you need to be able to get to Ginger Island and back without relying on Willy.)

Upgrade all your tools to iridium quality

Have a fully upgraded backpack

Fully upgrade your house ( up to having a cellar- the optional upgrades of extra rooms not required)

Have a Calendar, Mini Fridge, Telephone, Farm Computer and Dresser in your house.

Have both a cat and dog

Have 500,000 gold in the bank

Have at least one of all the following farm buildings: Fully Upgraded Coop, Fully Upgraded Barn, a Stable, a Silo, a Well, a Mill, a Shed and a Fishpond

At the end of your challenge your Silo(s) must be full

Have at least one (or the number listed) of the following machines/items on your farm: A Workbench, A Woodchipper, 3 Tappers, 5 Furnaces, An Oil Maker, A Fish Smoker, A Dehydrator, A Charcoal Kiln, A Crystalarium, A Recycling Machine, a Bone Mill, A Mayo Machine, A Cheese Press, 5 Preserve Jars, a Loom, 5 Kegs, A Seedmaker, A Worm Bin, A Bee House, 5 Crab Pots, A Lightning Rod, A Solar Panel and A Mushroom Log

Have an Armory- A full chest (so 36) weapons. Scythes are included as weapons.

Have a First Aid Kit- A chest with 100 Energy Tonics, 100 Muscle Remedies, 100 Life Elixirs, and 100 pieces of cloth ( for bandages)

Your Dresser should have at least 50 articles of clothing in it not including hats and rings.

Have a Supplies Stockpile- 100 of each type of Bombs, 50 Tents, 50 Cookout Kits, 999 Sap, 999 Coal, 999 Fiber, 999 Wood, 999 Stone, 999 Hay ( in addition to your full Silo), 500 Clay, 100 Copper Bars, 100 Iron Bars, 100 Gold Bars, 100 iridium Bars, 100 Refined Quartz, 100 Pine Tar, 100 Oak Resin, 100 Maple Syrup, 100 Batteries and 300 Seeds of any type.

Have a Food Stockpile (some categories on this list overlap, you cannot count things for two categories)- 112 (a year's supply) Cooked Dishes, 112 Drinks, 112 Dried Fruit or Mushrooms, 112 Smoked Fish, 112 Preserves, 112 Berries, 112 Eggs, 112 Milk, 112 Cheese, 112 Vegetables, 112 Fruits, 112 Flour, 112 Sugar, 112 Oil, 112 Vinegar, 112 Rice, 112 Forage, and 112 Mushrooms

Ending: You did it! You're all set for the end of the world! What now?

...oh.

After talking to Grandpa's Ghost and waking up to an un-ended world you realize you were wrong, the world isn't ending at all! Sell as much of your stockpile as you want ( all of it is really fun) and find your farmer's happy ending. Did you marry someone you didn't actually care about? Divorce them and chase your sweetheart! Really want to get into Slimes? Go nuts! This is your life and there's no deadlines anymore. ( My Farmer on my successful play through divorced his wife, married his boyfriend and is now a Perfection Run.)

[atplblog]

Price: [price_with_discount] (as of [price_update_date] - Details) [ad_1] Product Description Make delicious, perfectly shaped mini donuts at home with ease using this Plastic Mini Donut Maker Dispenser. Designed for convenience and mess-free baking, this handy tool lets you pour just the right amount of batter every time. Simply fill the container, press the handle, and release — it dispenses uniform donut shapes straight onto your tray or into hot oil. Made from durable, food-grade plastic, it’s lightweight, easy to clean, and perfect for both beginners and seasoned bakers. Whether you're preparing breakfast treats or party snacks, this donut dispenser is your go-to gadget for quick, consistent, and fun donut making! Create picture-perfect mini donuts right at home with this easy-to-use Plastic Mini Donut Maker Dispenser! Crafted from high-quality ABS plastic and equipped with a sturdy stainless steel spring, this tool ensures smooth, one-handed operation for clean and consistent batter release. Just fill the dispenser with your favorite donut batter, hold it over hot oil or a baking tray, and press to release — no mess, no fuss. The compact design and precise nozzle give you uniform, round donuts every time, making it ideal for quick breakfasts, snacks, or party treats. Whether you're a home baker or just love fresh donuts, this mini donut dispenser brings fun and ease to your kitchen routine. DOUGHNUT MOLD: Hand‑squeezed doughnut maker, just press the handle to make delicious doughnuts, with this donut dispense, you can easy, fast and easy to make doughnuts with the same shape.DONUT DISPENSER: Doughnut maker machine is simple operation, you can easily make delicious donuts by yourself, perfect for making delicious old-fashioned doughnuts, this donuts maker also great for pancakes and waffles, allowing you to enjoy the fun of diy desserts.DONUT MAKER MOLD SET: You will receive 2 mini donut maker machines, can help you save time, donut dropper is non-stick and reusable, can rinse gently with water on the clean.MATERIAL: Reusable mini donut maker, using food‑grade abs plastic material, stainless steel compression spring, donut maker machine for home with non‑stick surface treatment, easy to clean and easy to demould, keep the doughnut intact. Manual operation, easy to twitch, but you should place food material into the machine before twitching. The fastest, easiest way to make delicious pancakes, waffles, and old-fashioned doughnuts. Now You Can Make Menduwada With Just A Single Press. With this machine you can make vadas directly, dont have to keep batter on Hand No more hassles of holding the batter in your hand. Medu-Vada Maker is one of the most Innovative Kitchenware Product No more hassles of holding the batter in your hand. Medu-Vada Maker is one of the most Innovative Kitchenware Product [ad_2]

[sonarappliancesprivatelimited]

How Commercial Cold Press Oil Machine Manufacturers Are Redefining Bulk Oil Processing

The edible oil industry today is where the all the other extraction industry were just prior to the industrial revolution. As one of the best Cold Press Oil Machine manufacturers, Sonar Appliances upholds the superiority of equipment. Our cold press machines are designed to process oil variety such as sesame, peanuts, sunflowers and coconuts, allowing you to have a flexible oil extraction on a wide variety of oil extraction requirements.

Efficiency Delivered by Commercial Cold Press Oil Machine Manufacturers

Catering to Major Oil Producers Bulk oil producers have new requirements – they need consistency, cleanliness, high throughput, and the assurance that they can offer oil of the highest quality. That’s what Commercial Cold Press Oil Machine Manufacturers such as we are trying to serve. Our machines are built to run around the clock and include automatic feed systems and stainless steel product contact points for food quality. For farmer groups, oil millers or organic brands, our answers are the answer to an increasing demand for clean label oils.

Custom-Engineered Solutions by Commercial Oil Expeller Manufacturers

We are not only from a range of OIL Processing Machines to Entrepreneurs, but also to large Companies.In addition to the normal and traditional Mini OIL Mill as I.I.T. / C.Sc. Student dvl.$lup. Setting up and running a small-scale cooking oil business - 6 - Lipids Lipids is the term used to Refer to the lipophilic components of plant and animal cells. We design customized systems that are based on the type of seeds /raw material you use and the desired oil yield. They are also equipped with heavy duty gearbox, along with facility of straining the extract from expeller will ensure oil is processed clean and last longer. The idea is straightforward: you want to provide sturdy machines that are simple for your customers to service and that run very efficiently over time.

Bridging Kitchen and Industry: From Domestic Flour Mill to Commercial Oil Processing

Sonar Appliances Private Limited as one of the trusted Domestic Flour Mill Manufacturers in the industry. This aptly applies when it comes to the food processing equipment at varying scales. The robustness, hygiene and functionality of our commercial oil machines are in line with the domestic oil mills. This crossover lets us handle clientele that range from the family home to the restaurant kitchen.

How Commercial Atta Chakki Manufacturers Are Shaping the Future

Niche or not, the market for cold-pressed and chemical-free oil is no longer restricted to the privileged few. As a society becomes more health-conscious, both retailers and restaurant owners are adopting natural oils. As reputable Cold Press Oil Machine manufacturer, we guide the industry providing a variety of Commercial Atta Chakki Manufacturers, depending on the requirements of the customers to make this introduction to allow the customers to spend less, get more Oil exploitation.The investment is only 103.2 million -119.6 million,which has a short payback period;and the work needs 5-6 people that you can get a return on your investment in a short period of time.These machines are compatible with all waste types thus doing a great save on the environment.

Conclusion

Sonar Appliances Private Limited redefining the Bulk oil processing sector with its quality machinery. Well, we have been in the industry of Commercial Cold Press Oil Machine Manufacturing All Over India since a long time now and needless to say; we are a pioneer Commercial Oil Expeller Manufacturers in the process of Cold Press Oil Machine upon which others are following suit.

[perfect-engineerings]

Unlock Freshness with a Mini Oil Press Machine

In today’s world, purity isn’t a luxury-it’s a demand. And when it comes to edible oils, your customers deserve nothing less than fresh, chemical-free, cold-pressed goodness.

That’s where a mini oil press machine becomes more than just a tool-it becomes a business partner. Designed for compact spaces but engineered for powerful performance, this machine is a game-changer for entrepreneurs, wellness shops and organic brands.

At Perfect Engineerings, we bring Coimbatore’s manufacturing legacy into modern kitchens, local stores and health-driven startups. Whether you're extracting sunflower, groundnut or sesame oil, our machines deliver consistent quality with ease.

🔧 Why Choose Our Mini Oil Press Machine?

🌻 Extract fresh oil from seeds within minutes

🧊 Cold press technology ensures nutrients remain intact

🔩 Stainless steel build, minimal maintenance

🛠️ Suitable for homes, shops & small-scale production

📦 Pan-India delivery with reliable service support

Start your oil journey with confidence-compact, cost-efficient and rooted in tradition.

👉 Explore more: www.perfectoilmachine.com 📍 https://maps.app.goo.gl/kWNUTZtF332Sv1H4A

Perfect Engineerings

Website | Facebook | Instagram | X | Pinterest | LinkedIn | Blogger | Medium | Youtube

[rohan9794]

Mustard Oil Machine: The Ultimate Guide to Extraction, Types, and Benefits

What is a Mustard Oil Machine? A mustard oil machine is a specialized equipment designed to extract oil from mustard seeds through mechanical or hydraulic pressure. These machines can be manual, semi-automatic, or fully automatic, depending on the production scale and operational requirements.

Types of Mustard Oil Machines

Cold Press Mustard Oil Machine Cold press machines extract oil at room temperature, preserving the natural flavor, aroma, and nutritional value of the mustard oil. This method is ideal for organic and health-focused oil producers.

Hot Press Mustard Oil Machine In contrast to cold press machines, hot press models heat the seeds before extraction. This method improves oil yield and efficiency, although it slightly reduces nutritional properties.

Mini Mustard Oil Expeller Designed for small businesses and startups, mini expellers are cost-effective, easy to maintain, and suitable for low-volume production.

Fully Automatic Mustard Oil Plant Fully automated systems include seed cleaning, pressing, filtering, and packaging units. These are best suited for large-scale industrial operations.

Commercial Mustard Oil Extraction Machine These machines are built for high capacity and offer robust durability, continuous operation, and automation for commercial oil production facilities.

Key Features to Consider in a Mustard Oil Machine High Extraction Rate Look for machines that offer an extraction efficiency of 95% or more, which ensures minimal seed wastage and maximum output.

Material Quality Ensure the machine body and pressing parts are made of food-grade stainless steel or cast iron, which increases durability and maintains oil purity.

Motor Power For efficient performance, machines with motors ranging from 1 HP to 10 HP are recommended depending on the output capacity.

Oil Filtering Mechanism Choose a machine with an integrated vacuum or centrifugal filter to remove impurities and deliver clear, market-ready oil.

Automation Level Modern mustard oil machines come with digital controls, auto seed feeders, and temperature regulation, minimizing labor and maximizing productivity.

How Does a Mustard Oil Machine Work? The working process of a mustard oil machine involves several stages:

Seed Cleaning: Removing dust, stones, and impurities.

Heating (in hot press): Pre-heating seeds to increase oil yield.

Pressing/Extraction: Crushing the mustard seeds to release oil.

Filtration: Purifying the crude oil using mesh or vacuum filtering.

Collection and Packaging: Storing the filtered oil in food-grade containers.

Installation Requirements for Mustard Oil Machines Before installing a mustard oil machine, make sure you have:

Adequate space: Depending on the size, a small expeller needs 100–200 sq. ft., while an automatic plant may require 2000+ sq. ft.

Three-phase or single-phase power supply depending on motor requirements.

Proper ventilation and safety features like fire extinguishers.

Raw material storage unit for seeds and a packaging area for the final product.

Maintenance Tips for Long-Lasting Performance Regular Lubrication: Apply oil or grease to moving parts to reduce wear.

Frequent Cleaning: Remove leftover seeds and oil residues daily to avoid contamination.

Check for Wear & Tear: Inspect belts, motors, and gears monthly.

Replace Filters: Clean or change oil filters weekly for high-quality output.

Professional Servicing: Schedule servicing every 6 months from the manufacturer or trained technician.

Advantages of Using a Mustard Oil Machine

High Profitability With increasing demand for organic and cold-pressed oils, mustard oil processing is a profitable venture.

Customizable Production Machines can be chosen and configured based on desired output, oil type, and automation level.

Quality Control In-house processing allows control over raw materials and processing techniques, ensuring purity and customer satisfaction.

Low Operational Cost Once installed, mustard oil machines offer high ROI due to low electricity consumption and minimal manpower needs.

Environmental Benefits Mechanical oil extraction is eco-friendly with negligible use of harmful chemicals.

Best Mustard Oil Machine Brands in the Market Sharma Expeller Company

Goyum Screw Press

Rajkumar Agro Engineers

Thomas International

ANDAVAR The Oil Mill Solution

These brands are known for durability, efficiency, and robust after-sales service.

How to Choose the Right Mustard Oil Machine for Your Needs Identify Your Production Capacity: Estimate how much oil you plan to produce daily.

Set a Budget: Decide based on initial cost, recurring maintenance, and electricity expenses.

Look for Certification: Choose machines with ISO or CE certification for safety and quality assurance.

Consider Warranty & Support: Always buy from vendors offering comprehensive warranties and tech support.

Read Reviews & Case Studies: Learn from others’ experiences to make an informed decision.

Estimated Cost of Mustard Oil Machines in India Mini Expeller (50-100 kg/hr): ₹50,000 – ₹1,00,000

Medium Capacity (100–500 kg/hr): ₹1,00,000 – ₹4,00,000

Automatic Plant (1–5 tons/day): ₹5,00,000 – ₹20,00,000+

Note: Prices vary based on brand, features, and region.

Future of Mustard Oil Production With rising health consciousness and preference for chemical-free cooking oils, the demand for mustard oil is growing rapidly. Investing in modern mustard oil machines ensures not only profitability but also a sustainable business model in the edible oil industry.

[lacollepro]

Love Gyoza? Here’s Why You Need a Gyoza Cooking Machine in Your Life

If you love Japanese dumplings you are not alone. The tasty little pockets of joy are crispy on the outside juicy on the inside and packed with flavor. But making them by hand especially in large batches can take a lot of time and effort. That's where gyoza cooking machine truly comes in the picture. Whether you own a restaurant a food truck or just love cooking at home this handy machine can save you a lot of time boost your cooking game and also make every dumpling perfect.

What do you need to know about the cooking machine?

Just like Mini Japanese Bread Crumbs Panko Maker gyoza machine is a special kitchen device designed to cook Japanese dumplings automatically. It usually works by steaming and pan frying the dumplings at just the right temperature and time giving you the perfect results whenever you want. Some machines also wrap and seal the dumplings from scratch. these are called Japanese dumpling machines and are perfect for restaurants that need to make hundreds or even thousands of dumplings per day. You need gyoza cooking machine for frying or steaming premade gyoza and gyoza making machines for shaping filling and sealing gyoza from dough and filling.

Why do you need a gyoza cooking machine?

Gyoza cooking the traditional way takes a lot of patience and skill. You need to heat the pan just right add oil place the Japanese dumpling carefully add water and cover it to steam and also uncover and let the bottom crisp up. That's why the machines are awesome perfect cooking every time saves time and effort and also know not broken or burnt dumplings.

How does it work?

The machines teams the dumplings to make the inside juicy and cooked through. Then it makes the bottom crisp with oil giving you that classic golden crunch. You just place the dumpling on the tray press a button and let the machine to the rest. Some machines even add water and oil automatically.

So above all you need to know that gyoza making machine is one of the best machines that you can invest in as it is one of the foods that everyone loves but not everyone wants to make from scratch all the time. That's where this machine shines. Whether you're feeding customers or feeding friends it brings speed convenience and perfect results every single time.

To know more about this products visit our website https://sanseidou.co.jp/en/

[ecosmartmacindia]

Cooking Oil Making Machine: Turn Raw Seeds into Liquid Gold

In today’s health-conscious and self-sustaining world, the demand for pure, chemical-free edible oil is rising. Whether you're a small-scale entrepreneur, a commercial processor, or an agro-based startup, investing in a cooking oil making machine can be a game-changer.

From sunflower and groundnut to mustard and sesame, a reliable oil extraction machine allows you to produce high-quality, cold-pressed or refined cooking oil efficiently and affordably. Let’s explore what makes this machinery essential in modern food processing.

What is a Cooking Oil Making Machine?

A cooking oil making machine (also known as an oil expeller or oil extraction machine) is a mechanical device that extracts oil from oil-bearing seeds and nuts through pressure or solvent-based methods.

It typically involves the following stages:

Seed Cleaning & Crushing

Oil Extraction (Cold or Hot Press)

Oil Filtration

Packaging (optional)

Key Features of Modern Cooking Oil Machines

✅ Multiple Seed Compatibility

Process a wide variety of seeds like:

Groundnut (peanut)

Sunflower

Mustard

Sesame

Soybean

Coconut

Flaxseed

Palm kernel (industrial scale)

✅ Cold Press & Hot Press Options

Choose cold pressing for organic and nutritionally rich oils, or hot pressing for higher yields and longer shelf life.

✅ Energy Efficient Design

Modern machines are built with low power consumption motors, ensuring high output with minimal energy use.

✅ Stainless Steel Construction

Food-grade materials for hygiene, durability, and rust resistance.

✅ Compact and User-Friendly

Ideal for both industrial and domestic uses, many machines are plug-and-play with automated temperature control and safety features.

Types of Cooking Oil Making Machines

Mini Oil Expeller Machines – Best for home use or small shops.

Commercial Oil Extraction Units – Mid-range capacity for small-scale industries.

Industrial Oil Processing Plants – High-capacity systems with integrated seed cleaning, crushing, and filtration units.

Benefits of Using a Cooking Oil Making Machine

Fresh, Pure & Preservative-Free Oil

No chemicals, no additives—just natural flavor and nutrients.

Cost-Efficient Production

Reduce dependency on market prices and quality uncertainty.

Business Opportunity

High demand for organic and local edible oils opens doors for profitable ventures.

Easy Maintenance

Machines are designed for easy cleaning and long operational life.

Custom Output

Control the texture, flavor, and filtration based on market or personal preferences.

Applications Across Sectors

Households & Organic Farms

Small and Medium Food Processing Units

Cold-pressed Oil Brands & Health Stores

Agro Cooperatives & Village Industries

Restaurants & Cloud Kitchens (for in-house oil pressing)

Choosing the Right Cooking Oil Making Machine

When selecting your machine, consider:

Required capacity (kg/hr or liters/day)

Type of seeds to process

Power consumption

Machine size and weight

Cold press vs. hot press capabilities

Local after-sales support and spare parts availability

Final Thoughts

Whether you want to start a small edible oil business, cater to a local organic market, or simply produce clean oil for your household, a cooking oil making machine is a smart, sustainable investment. With the right machine, you not only ensure quality but also gain independence from commercially processed oils.

Looking to buy a reliable, high-performance cooking oil extraction machine? Contact us today for a free consultation and product demo.

Let me know if you want this tailored with your brand, product specifications, or a call-to-action for your company. I can also help with meta title, meta description, or FAQs for SEO purposes.

[easthydraulics]

Understanding Hydraulic Power Units: The Heart of Hydraulic Systems

Hydraulic power units (HPUs) are the central component of hydraulic systems, providing the energy needed to drive machinery and perform heavy-duty work. From industrial equipment to construction machines and even aviation systems, hydraulic power units play a critical role in powering devices that require high force and precision. But what exactly is a hydraulic power unit, how does it work, and why is it so widely used?

In this blog, we’ll explore the basics of hydraulic power units, their components, applications, and why they remain an indispensable part of modern engineering.

What is a Hydraulic Power Unit?

A hydraulic power unit (HPU) is a self-contained system that generates and delivers hydraulic power to various machines and devices. Unlike electrical or mechanical power, which relies on motors or engines, hydraulic power units use fluid to transmit energy. By pressurizing hydraulic fluid (usually oil), HPUs create enough force to move and control heavy machinery and tools with precision.

These units are typically composed of a reservoir to store the hydraulic fluid, a pump to move the fluid through the system, valves to control the flow, and a motor to drive the pump. Together, these components provide the necessary power to operate everything from small hydraulic tools to large industrial systems.

How Does a Hydraulic Power Unit Work?

Hydraulic power units operate based on Pascal's law, which states that pressure applied to a confined fluid is transmitted equally in all directions. When hydraulic fluid is pressurized, it can be directed to different components of a machine, allowing them to perform tasks like lifting, moving, or compressing.

Here’s a step-by-step breakdown of how a typical HPU functions:

Reservoir: The hydraulic fluid is stored in a tank or reservoir, which also helps cool the fluid as it cycles through the system.

Pump: The hydraulic pump draws the fluid from the reservoir and pressurizes it, creating the force needed to move mechanical parts.

Motor: An electric or gas-powered motor drives the pump, ensuring the continuous flow of hydraulic fluid under pressure.

Valves: These control the direction and flow rate of the hydraulic fluid, allowing the operator to adjust the speed and direction of the machinery.

Cylinders/Actuators: The pressurized fluid is directed into hydraulic cylinders or actuators, which convert the hydraulic energy into mechanical motion, powering the machinery.

Types of Hydraulic Power Units

Hydraulic power units come in different shapes and sizes, depending on the application. Here are the most common types:

Standard HPUs: These are the most common and are used in a wide variety of industrial applications, from powering lifts and presses to factory automation systems.

Mini HPUs: Compact and portable, these units are ideal for mobile equipment or smaller machinery that requires hydraulic power but doesn't need a large system.

Custom HPUs: Built to meet specific industrial requirements, custom hydraulic power units are often used in complex or unique applications like offshore drilling, aerospace, or large-scale manufacturing.

Applications of Hydraulic Power Units

Hydraulic power units are used across a range of industries due to their ability to generate significant force with precision. Here are some common applications:

Industrial Machinery: HPUs power heavy machinery like presses, conveyors, and injection molding machines used in manufacturing and processing plants.

Construction Equipment: Many construction machines, such as excavators, bulldozers, and cranes, rely on hydraulic systems for lifting and moving heavy loads.

Agriculture: Tractors, combines, and other farming equipment use hydraulic power to control implements, operate lifts, and handle complex farm tasks efficiently.

Aerospace: In aircraft, hydraulic power units control vital systems like landing gear, brakes, and flight control surfaces.

Marine: Hydraulic systems are used in boats and ships to operate winches, steering systems, and deck equipment.

Automotive Industry: In automotive manufacturing, hydraulic presses are essential for shaping metal parts, assembling components, and even in testing vehicles for durability.

Advantages of Hydraulic Power Units

Hydraulic power units are preferred in many industries due to several key advantages:

High Power Density: HPUs can generate a tremendous amount of force in a relatively small system, making them ideal for applications where space is limited but power needs are high.

Precision Control: Hydraulic systems allow for fine control over movement, speed, and force, making them perfect for tasks that require accuracy, such as in aerospace or manufacturing.

Durability: Hydraulic power units are robust and can withstand harsh environments, heavy loads, and continuous use, making them highly reliable in demanding industries like construction and marine.

Efficiency: Although hydraulic systems require energy to operate, they are efficient in converting that energy into mechanical work, especially for tasks that require steady, high force.

Maintenance of Hydraulic Power Units

Like any other mechanical system, hydraulic power units require regular maintenance to ensure optimal performance and prevent breakdowns. Here are a few key maintenance tasks:

Fluid Checks: The hydraulic fluid should be checked regularly for contamination, proper levels, and viscosity. Clean fluid is essential for preventing damage to the pump and valves.

Filter Replacement: The filters in an HPU must be changed regularly to keep debris and contaminants from entering the system.

Component Inspection: Regularly inspecting seals, hoses, and valves for leaks or wear can prevent larger issues and keep the unit running efficiently.

Temperature Monitoring: Overheating can damage hydraulic systems, so it's important to monitor the temperature of both the fluid and the system as a whole.

Conclusion: The Essential Role of Hydraulic Power Units

Hydraulic power units are an integral part of many industries, providing the muscle and precision needed to power machinery that lifts, moves, and shapes the world around us. With their high force output, durability, and versatility, HPUs remain one of the most efficient and effective ways to deliver mechanical power in industrial settings. Whether in a massive construction crane or a delicate aerospace system, hydraulic power units continue to be a vital force in engineering and innovation.

[sylviareviar]

‘have we met?’ (@defonslaxii)

(Nice to meet you!)

Send me 'Have we met?' and I will give you little bits of my OC from 5 AUs

Pokemon AU

Breathe... Just breathe... It's going to be okay... Inhale... then exhale...

Natu growled and snarled, its beak still biting into her flesh as tightly as it could. She carefully lifted her hand and, slowing her heart rate as much as she could through controlled breathing, stroked the poor Psychic-type Pokemon's head. "Natu," she said, purposely calling its name. "Natu, it's okay. I know you've been hurt in the past, that's why I'm here."

"Pipiplup...!" Pip worriedly clung to her leg, staring up at her nervously.

She smiled, not minding the blood slowly oozing down her arm. "Everything's going to be okay. Natu, tell me what the issue is. Why did you fight? What hurt you? Tell me everything, and I will listen. Natu..."

She could see the darkness emanating from the small Pokemon slowly starting to die down. The pressure on her arm was starting to get lighter and lighter, as Natu soon regained its senses and slowly opened its heart back up, little by little. It wasn't fully healed or purified, sadly. But these things took time, and Sylvia fully intended to heal everyone she could. That's why she created this program. Why she held it in Sandgem Town, her home town, where there was plenty of land for a ranch outside of the overwhelming Jubilife City. Pip relaxed his tense little body, relieved that Natu let go. Sylvia whispered reassurances in Natu's ears and held it close.

She would do everything she could to make up for being Team Galactic's pawn.

Persona 5 AU (tw: suicidal ideation)

Rain always scared her, because following rain, almost always, was the rumble of thunder. Loud, abrasive, and bright. Days like this made her anxiety spike, so she did what she could to focus as hard as possible on her classes in an effort to distract herself. Unfortunately, it wasn't so easy with Japanese being her third language.

Still, she turned her head away from the windows, completely drenched in rainwater and steadily dripping down and down, and turned her gaze to the drawing she was making in her sketchbook. It wasn't amazing, but it was helpful. Doodling like this made her feel like she had at least a little bit of stability.

It would be okay. She'd die soon anyway, and no one would miss her. Why fear for her life when death was inevitable?

Yu-Gi-Oh! 5D's AU

"Hey, I need a tester for this."

"On it." Sylvia walked over to the Runner in the garage and mounted it, putting on her helmet and double-checking the controls to make sure everything was in working order. "Say when?"

"Sure." Yusei pressed some buttons on his mini-monitor, screwed something shut on the Runner, reapplied the muffler, then started his simulation. "Now."

She rested her feet on the pedals and twisted the handles, watching the speedometer steadily increase in number. The smell of oil and grease permeated the whole room, and it only got worse as she revved the engine of the vehicle trying to get to the standard Turbo Dueling speed and ensure it was working alright. Before, when Satellite had yet to be rebuilt, she and Yusei had to do this kind of testing down in the underground tunnels, where a subway used to run. When something went wrong, they were forced to drag their Runners back to the hideout and fix it. Lifting the Runner using machines like this and testing the wheel speed and strength on a treadmill was much easier. No trekking back required.

Yusei lifted his hand to the headset in his ear. After Jack's little incident, they realized it would be more efficient to have clear communication through the helmet.

"Alright, that's enough. I see the issue now."

"Understood."

Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem AU

"The seventh platoon is missing!" a guard cried. "They were last seen traveling into the forest, but we lost track of them!"

"Find them!" Jagen yelled, stomping his spear into the ground. "We can't have cadets going missing! Send the pegasus knights! Search for them at once!"

"What's going on...?" Sylvia whimpered, glancing up at the princess.

Elice pursed her lips and cast her gaze out to the forest. "Trouble, it seems..."

Sylvia had been learning magic from Elice using a tome, a method she was unfamiliar with. Having no memories, no weapons, and no other ways to defend herself, she relied upon the princess's assistance in learning magic. Princess Elice had sensed the potential within her, but for some reason, Sylvia could naught make but an ember of flame anytime she tried.

Yet, even though she knew she could do nothing, she fretted. Wasn't her savior in the seventh platoon? What if she was endangered? Or worse, what if...?

Pegasus knights sliced through the air overhead, their steeds racing through the skies in the direction of the forest, led by Princess Caeda, His Highness's betrothed. She couldn't do nothing.

Ignoring Princess Elice's protests, Sylvia rushed into the forest, taking her book with her and praying she wouldn't be too late.

Pokemon Legends Arceus AU

"Has she always been like this?"

"Yes. Not a single word spoken."

"Kinda odd, isn't it? Shiro and Haru speak fine, and they fell from the sky too."

"You think it's a personality thing?"

"Discussing it now is a waste of time, and time wasted is lost. I merely want to help her get back on her feet."

"How can we help?"

She could hear them discussing what to do about her. Admittedly, she wasn't sure herself. The Diamond Clan had been kind enough to take her in when she'd apparently fallen from the sky, and they even took their precious time to teach her their language and traditions. She was grateful, but nervous. What happened when they discovered she truly was wasting their time? Would she be kicked out? She didn't want that.

In truth, she was merely afraid. She spoke no words in front of the others not because she couldn't talk, but because she couldn't bring herself to. Instead, she helped where she could without words. She befriended some Pokemon and helped them along on their way, but did her best to avoid greeting human visitors. Whether they were the Pearl Clan, the Ginkgo Guild, or those Galactic people, she tried to make herself look busy and blend in as much as she could. However, Clan Leader Adaman had other plans.

Pearl Clan Leader Irida and Galactic Agents Shiro, Rei, and Akari now stood before her, and the white-haired Shiro would not stop staring at her, no matter how much she tried to avoid his gaze. He was persistent, she'd give him that.

"Sakura," Shiro finally spoke up, calling her name. She glanced up at him, turning her body away defensively. "Tell me; did you fall out of the sky with one of these?" He reached out his hand, holding something. Sakura's eyes widened in recognition.

It was an Arc-Phone.