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[acupofqueercoffee]

I don't know why, but Laday Lesso seems so Lana Del Rey coded to me...

(Btw, how are you currently doing and all?)

darnnn bestie i’m so sorry for disappearing like that 😭 life’s been hectic with studying and working and all, and as much as i want to write, i just can’t find the time to. otherwise, everything’s cool. and hell yeah i agree lady lesso is sooooo lana coded 👏🏻

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Caught in a web, drunk on love”

Shutara Senjumaru x Reader

wc : 3100

cw : not really unrequited love // jealousy // misunderstandings // a sprinkle of drama // fluffy floofs

well what can i say. she’s so mommy and i’m a hoe for mommies so i couldn’t help it. always wanted to write something for her but i was just needing that little push which obviously her bankai gave me 😩

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Spider. A creature you have never been too big of a fan of. Those creepy crawlers with their beady eyes and fuzzy limbs are, and will always be the genesis of your nightmares. Simply the idea of the word will forever have dread burgeoning within you and ice cascading down your spine, or so you have believed. Why, then, are flowers blooming inside your chest as you watch the bane of your existence weaving a web? In other words, you are atrociously, irreversibly, positively, and utterly fucked.  

In the Soul King Palace, you are one of the less important guards under the direct command of one Shutara Senjumaru. Less important of course than the esteemed Royal Guards, but certainly on par with the strongest of shinigamis. Although there is no official title to it, your position beside your lady is an equivalent of a Lieutenant down in Seireitei.

Ever since the beginning, the divine general of the north, with her onyx hair and golden halo, eyes oozing with mesmerism, and lips a delightful red, but the most arresting of all, her spindly automatonic limbs sprouting from her back like six unworldly wings, has reminded you of a spider: one that is elegant and teeming with splendour. The lady’s introduction into your life has seeded in you a habit of conjuring up her face whenever you see or even think of your once-dreaded friends. In fact, when you think of an eight-legged crawler, you are rarely thinking of one and very much thinking of the six artificially limbed stunner. Hence, you are decisively fucked.

In pursuit of comfort, your hand, as if having a mind of its own, glide towards your waist where a knitted red charm dwells, the tassel of which dangles from the white sash of your uniform. Running delicate fingers along the intricate patterns of fine silk, your lips flourish into a smile.

From socks to scarfs and whatnots, your lady, the great weaver as her name suggests, has tailored many a thing for you. Not only has she remedied a great many holes in your battle worn uniforms, she has also graciously showered you with a miscellany of pristine garments. After all, artisanship is your lady’s forte, occurring as naturally as breathing to her, and her six hands are either sewing, knitting, embroidering or doing all three of it at the same time. She does it with such great finesse and dexterity that she may as well be carving a statue of herself out of your heart, for it worships the very ground she walks on. 

When you notice her presence, you smell it before you hear it. Delightfully floral with a touch of dark undertones, heavenly, mysterious and so undoubtedly her. 

“It was my understanding that you have a strong dislike for them, no?”

Comes the mesmerising lilt of her voice, glazed with a trickle of tease, and you smile a little, knowing smile, bringing your gaze from the spider to its human counterpart.

“I’ve steadily started finding them charming I’m afraid.” The little blossom of a smile on your lips once you search her eyes is that of softness. Your lady regards you coolly with a barely noticeable smile, drenched in enigma by her siren-eyed gaze, the caress of which is well-nigh tangible on your face. It does a quick travel to your waist, and upon finding the gift that you carry on your body since acquiring it, a hum spills forth a pair of bewitching, blood-red lips. 

“Walk with me.”

You take the hand that she offers, smooth, spindly and rather ample in size that you are only truly able to grasp two of her lithe digits. 

“With pleasure, my lady.”

“Am I allowed to wonder what exactly is the architect of your change in impression of arachnid? You of yore would flee the site if she so much as catches a glimpse of an itsy-bitsy one, I’m sure.”

You love that she remembers things about you the way you do things about her. She fancies her tea with a drizzle of honey. Not unlike a spider, she does have eight arms, the two of which are of her own flesh and blood, and because she keeps them hidden under her cloak at all times, only a handful of people have witnessed them. You have, during a visit to the hot spring in Kirinden. Nobody has given her a gift personally hand crafted by them, so when you have made for her a braided charm, a very clumsy attempt at that, she has told you that she would cherish it, and cherish it, she does. Despite it being faulty, it has found its forever home tucked safely in the red sash of her outfit, the tassel of it peeking out from under her haori with every elegant step she takes. Playful banter is her favourite pastime and it amuses her greatly that you indulge her. So once again, you do.

“You have every liberty to wonder, my lady. The decision to answer lies in my hand after all. I will say this though, it’s who rather than what.”

“My,” So she drawls in a tone that deliciously tickles your spine, and when she stops, you do too, watching as lips reveal teeth in a kittenish smile. “is that so?”

You have an inkling that to an extent, she knows of your fondness for her, evident in the way she humors you. Judging from her behaviors, she does not appear entirely opposed to it, and you might even go as far as saying that there is a good chance of her considering you should you confess.

Suddenly, a droplet touches your cheek. In the small interval of time that it takes for you to look up, your lady has expertly woven an umbrella out of thin air, all the while her one hand holds onto yours. By the time a drizzle escalates to a downpour, you are well under the protection of your lady’s masterful craft. However, your heart is going haywire, for the space between the two of you has considerably narrowed when your eyes meet. Leaning forward, a cool pad of a thumb presses a delicate kiss onto your cheek, caressing the wetness away from your face which inadvertently leaves a pink tinge in its wake. 

“Let’s call it a day, shall we?”

At your nod of approval, she adjusts her hold on you, slipping her fingers just so that your hands are intertwined together. The tips of her robotic digits easily reach your wrist, and when the cool pad of her thumb gingerly traces the hummingbird flutter of your pulse, the little creature coos inside your ribcage.

Roses are red.

The sky is blue.

And oh how you love Senjumaru. 

─────────────────  · · · · ✿

“Yoohoo Shutara, look who I found dilly-dallying around!” 

The guffaw of Hikifune jolts Senjumaru out of her bath induced reverie. Her head tilts, propped up by her fist, the dark waterfall of her hair swaying slightly as her eyes lazily search her friend.  

Think of the devil and the devil is here. 

A ghost of a smile graces her lips, for she finds you tucked under the arm of the ruler of grain. It has been a while after all since the two of you have spent time together. 

“Can you please unhand me?” More laughter ensues, louder this time, and your request is effectively nipped in the bud. Ruffling your hair, she tugs you closer to the point that you are smothered by her generous bosoms. 

“Lady Hikifune, you- you’re-”

Killing me with your breasts! You wanted to say, but instead, you are left a sputtering mess.

“My my, haven’t you bagged yourself a cutie, Shutara!”

Granted, Senjumaru would find the sweet strawberry shade on your cheeks ridiculously charming, that is, if it had been a product of her doing. Certainly not after you have just been called a cutie by a woman who has her breasts shoved into your face. 

And so, she rises with all the grace of a nymph, droplets on her body twinkling like little diamonds in the soft light. 

“Why Kirio, I thank you on behalf of my girl for escorting her to me,” Meanwhile, she has effortlessly drawn you into her arms, one of which is slithering across your waist. Alas, the little wasp has been caught in a spider’s web. “but if I do recall, you have matters to attend to, have you not? By all means, do not let us hinder you.” 

“Ugh now my mood is spoiled, thank you very much Shutara.” The divine general of the south’s voice drips with sarcasm, and that of the north replies just as sarcastically. “Of course.” 

“On another note, I smell ya later cutie!”

With a wink thrown towards your way, the cheery general is gone. 

“Wild woman.” Murmurs Senjumaru as two fingers pinch the bridge of her nose. 

You on the other hand, through the flimsy fabric of your robe, can feel her body pressing into your back; all the ridges and the valleys, every dip and dent, and lord is she so wonderfully soft. 

Suddenly, along with a ghost of a breath on the shell of your ear, her voice greets you. “Hello there, my girl.” Like a dollop of butter on a pile of warm, fluffy pancakes, you melt, all giddy and toasty inside. “Now that you’re here, could I trouble you to give my hair a wash?” 

“It’s no trouble at all. I’d be delighted to.” You do not dare turn lest your legs fail you, and in a desperate need of a moment of reprieve for your sorry little heart, you chance a glance at her. “Why don’t you go relax in the water, my lady. I’ll be right with you.”

There is a beat of silence before you feel hands on your hips and a delicate touch of lips on your nape.

“Do not keep me waiting for too long.”

The milkiness of her skin practically glows in the warm water while her luscious mane, like the finest of silks, effortlessly slips through your fingers. The urge to bury your nose in her silky smooth strands is strong, but not as strong as the urge to nuzzle your face in the exquisite beauty of a neck that is captivating you from beneath those onyx mane. Lost in a daydream, you do not realise that you have paused amidst your task until your lady turns towards you. Without so much as a warning, she pulls you into the pool. The sorry excuse of a cloth on your body gives way to water, and you mirror your lady in that you are now thoroughly soaked and bare. 

Her gaze roams, and you notice the exact moment that the warm mischievous glint in her eyes goes glacial. She has seen your body, or rather the marks peppered across your neck and chest in varying shades of red. Her face is unreadable, the very picture of aloofness, and although it stings, although it seems as if a chasm has suddenly appeared between the two of you, you try to bridge it, take a step, an olive branch of sorts. It is your darkest nightmare comes true however when she avoids the hand that reaches for her, a look of, dare you say, disgust etched onto her face, and without so much as a word, she takes leave.

What have you done wrong, you do not understand.

All you know is that you feel discarded as though you are but a stale meal.

─────────────────  · · · · ✿

To have been branded by this enchantress of a woman and afterwards carry the very traces of herself on your body, even with a good chance that she will no longer have any recollection of your little moment together, has filled you with bliss as much as having her mouth on your flesh did. 

Although her mien has betrayed nothing and she was the very picture of poise, you knew she was drunk as soon as endearments fell freely from her lips. “My darling sweetheart” so she has called you, and you have been too naive, too lovesick to believe that, albeit being under the influence of liquor, she has peppered you with kisses while thinking of you, while still being aware that it was on your body that she was leaving her traces. Alas, it has never crossed your mind that you would turn out to be a cheap substitute for the one she truly desires.

“Oi oi Lady Senjumaru has brought a girl to her palace.” 

When you have heard such murmurs amongst the guards, as selfish as it is, you were hoping it to be a falsehood.

Your little glimmer of a hope is crushed into smithereens once you are summoned to her chambers only to have your heart join the pile of dust on the ground. Nestled in your lady’s arms like a baby bird, a naked girl mewls and trembles whilst red lips leave messy kisses along her jaw and down the length of her neck.

The spider is making a show of devouring its prey, but instead of fear, you fall victim to pain, oh wretched, unforgiving pain. She is being deliberately cruel because ultimately, you are an audience to this play only due to her invitation.

“My darling little sweetheart.” And you watch, drenched in melancholy, as your lady savours the lips of someone who is not you.

Oh. 

“You.” Comes the voice, indifferent unlike the loving coo that was just uttered to the girl cradled close to her chest. “I want you to tidy up my place while I take my darling home.”

Oh. 

A nod, or rather, a bow is all you can manage so as not to bare your features that is now marred with an endless cascade of tears.

─────────────────  · · · · ✿

Peeved would be a horrible understatement. It does not bode well with Senjumaru that while you were all she could think about, you had been cosying up to another, who, for all she knows, could have been one of her friends. Judging from the little display the other day, it could very well have been Kirio. How laughable she must have appeared, being all overly defensive for naught. 

She admits however that she was unnecessarily cruel with her reaction, and that her little act of revenge was childish at best. Essentially, she has only herself to blame, misinterpreting your innocent admiration for her to be something else, something sacred. And now, with that calloused display of hers, she might have even ruined the bond that the two of you have shared. 

No matter how she reasons with herself, it still perturbs her after all, and once again, something ugly rears its head when she finds more of those lingering hickeys on your body while she crosses paths with you in Kirinden. 

Good and evil play a tug of war, and evil emerges victorious.

“Back from another fun, I presume?”

“Why do you care?”

“My, what gives you the impression that I do? I’m merely curious which one of my comrades’ bed one of my guards is diligently warming every night.”

“Curiosity kills the cat, Lady Senjumaru.”

Rising out of the pool like a predator on a hunt, she corners her prey. Whereas her spindly arms manipulate you so that you are facing away from her and then, trap you against the wall, her two hands find home in the dip of your hips, pulling you until your back fits into the curve of her body.

“And oh does it pounce!” Growls the hunter as lips find your nape, teeth bestowing bruises and tongue soothing stings, all the while you shake like a leaf in her bodily confine.

Her hands wander over to your ribcage, holding you there, thumbing the soft underside of your breasts. It has your back curving into her body.

“Swift work is my biggest selling point, you understand. Do not underestimate the name of Senjumaru.” The sinking of her teeth directly into the throbbing vein on your neck triggers your fingers to dig into the flesh of her thigh. “Shu- ngh- Shutara.”

Senjumaru remembers a dream, an all too tantalising dream. In it, her charming little prey was deliciously caught in her web, and the great weaver has taken her sweet time savouring the delectable creature. What a divine little thing her prey was, squirming in her grasp and panting her name, ambrosia to her ears, while her mouth has mapped as many inches of skin as she could manage, committing everything to memory. It stays with her even when dawn breaks, except that, the dream she had was all but a dream, eluded Senjumaru. 

Amidst her arm twining round your chest, she hears it, a broken little sound that is but a tiny whisper. 

“Why are you doing this to me?”

The lady turns you in her arms. With gentle fingers, she tucks a few wayward strands behind your ears to reveal more of her colourful works, which she gingerly traces with a delicate digit. 

“These were my doing.” It is not a query, merely a statement.

“I understand that you have mistaken me for someone else.” You release a sigh, eyes slipping shut when a thumb presses onto a particularly sore spot. “So please, just let me be.”

“Is that what you want of me? To let you be?”

“What I want doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Your attempt to flee from her gaze is effectively put to an end by a hand cradling your jaw. Mindlessly, a thumb bestows soft caresses to the apple of your cheek. “Answer me.”

“It just doesn’t, alright? Because I’m not- I’m not what you want.” When you look into her eyes, she finds in yours the first dew of tears, and before they could escalate into a cloudburst, she pulls you into her six-armed embrace, your face safely tucked into the nook of her neck. Along with a soft lingering press of a kiss atop your temple, she breathes her words into your skin. “Though I have a penchant for darning, it seems I’m superb at tearing the one thing I want perfectly weaved.”

“I hate you, my lady.” By the way your hands are fisting into her flesh as though your life depends on it, she begs to differ, though she only indulges you, a ghost of a smile hanging loosely on her lips. “Do you now?”

“Very much so. I hate that I love you.”

“Oh, but my dearest, how I love that you love me.”

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[acupofqueercoffee]

Claire: What's nostalgia?

Y/N: It's when you miss something that's really old.

Miss Peregrine: I'm back.

Emma: Hey! We missed you, miss!

Claire, whispering to Y/N: Nostalgia.

[acupofqueercoffee]

try not to kiss ur screen challenge

[acupofqueercoffee]

"As Donna invokes her powers, the light retreats from her mansion and the shadows begin to coil like serpents ready to strike. In its last moment, dangling helplessly from the iron-clad grip of the dollmaker, the lycan can't help but realize that there are - after all - greater dangers lurking in this forest than their kind."

And that was the last time a lycan chomped one of Donna's maids. The End. 😬

As promised, a little Donna for you. Ugh, I still have so many ideas for our creepretty gothbean. 😳

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Messages for her, hidden in the flowers”

𝐋𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

▸ 𝐘𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬

▸ 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐬

▸ 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 : 𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐬, 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬

▸ 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬 : 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞

SMUT INCOMING!!! i’m sad to say this ain’t my greatest smut tho 😭

@theregoesyourlifeagain @winterfireblond @weemssapphic

On the morning of Sunday, a parcel arrives to the doorstep of your floral boutique; an elegant box, rosy in colour and rectangular in shape; beautifully wrapped with a long red ribbon that flourishes into a big bow atop the velveteen lid.

You could not believe it when your name has reached your ears in the voice of the delivery person. Even when they have asked for your signature, you were still in scepticism. It is only when a perfumed card greets you upon unravelling the ribbon are you convinced that yes, you are indeed the recipient of such sweet surprise.

[ 𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒻𝓁𝑜𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒,. 𝐼 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓈𝓊𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝒸𝓎. 𝐼’𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃,. 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼’𝓋𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓅𝒶𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊. ] — 𝐿.𝒲

Short as it is, the lovely note that has warmth blooming inside your chest has served as a little window into your partner for the night. Once again, you learn that Larissa Weems is an outrageous flirt, an enchantress, a woman who is capable of ruining you with the first strokes of her pen. She certainly is a woman of poise for even in her handwriting, her grace and sophistication can be easily perceived. Neat would be an understatement to describe the cursive. Fine, decidedly, but not quite the word you are looking for. The words that your eyes have been voraciously consuming are teeming with allure, spellbinding in the same way the wordsmith is.

The lettering is not entirely without flaws for there are dots where there should not be, although you suppose that is what gives it character. It is, after all, not just any note, but rather a note from her. You can just imagine those mesmerisingly long fingers pausing mid sentence to let her mind wander. You hope rather stupidly, selfishly that it is you whom her mind has wandered off to as you usually find yours behaving the same way towards her.

A tentalising trace of fragrance that delightfully teases your nose as the card moves with your hand is so unequivocally her, and the realisation that it does not come scented, but rather the perfume has been intentionally sprayed onto the paper, undoubtedly by the woman herself, sprinkles your cheeks with cherry redness. Accompanying the busy buzz of your pulse is a goofy smile that slithers across your lips, and a giggle that bubbles in your throat, all gleeful and childlike.

Your eyes then are drawn towards, as she has mysteriously put it, the little something she has prepared for you. Neatly tucked into the velveteen box is a dress in the mellowest hue of pearly pink. It shimmers in the light, and when you touch it, the satin is so soft that it easily slips through your fingers. The dress, once it has been donned, is equally smooth against your skin, not too tight yet not too loose, caressing your body in all the right places.

Resting atop the folded dress as it has been, the faint scent of her perfume lingers on the smooth satin. With the charming aroma comes a tingling rush of memories: a bold hand on your hip, a sticky press of her painted lips as she gives you a chaste farewell kiss on the cheek. Such is how the two of you have parted after your little impromptu brunch not-quite-a-date.

Moreover, when you have expressed your cluelessness to the location of the Nevermore Academy, gracious Madam Principal has happily offered to come collect you. You, of course, have had no reasons to turn down her proposal. Getting to spend even more time with her on top of passing the night on her arms is like being able to have your cake and be eating it too.

And now, you stand, all dolled up and jolly, before the woman who puts renaissance sculptures to shame. Her sapphire gaze is searing as she eyes you interestingly, not even bothering an attempt to hide her staring. Unable to tame your wildly beating heart, you instead make a gesture at your attire.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to.” She gives you a smile, all warm and knee-weakening. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, I love it.” And then, more sheepishly, you confess. “I’m only afraid that I’m not doing it any justice.”

“Nonsense!” Her response is immediate, adamant, arrestingly long legs moving methodically, and before you know it, she is standing so close to you. “You look positively ravishing.”

Her eyes then descend upon the bouquet between the two of your bodies. The flowers for today are red carnations and white clovers. As you realise that your attraction towards her is not something that will simply go away with time, you are getting bolder with your secret messages.

“Flowers for you.”

“Oh darling, you continue to warm my little anthophile heart. Thank you.”

To say you are brimming with warmth as she takes the bouquet into her arms with a hearty smile would be an understatement.

“Well, shall we?”

All too gladly, you take her hand when she offers it. As usual, her fingers are protected by a glove, and the leather is as luxuriously soft as you remember.

The better part of the ride is spent in comfortable silence, with you appreciating the woody scenery as music from the radio plays softly in the background. Every now and then, you can hear her humming along to the songs that she recognises. It makes you smile.

“I’m curious, how do you know my size?”

“Well darling,…” Her response begins with a mirthful lilt. “…let’s just say I do have a keen eye for detail.”

The implication that she must have taken a good look at your body to notice such finer details makes you melt, a feeling equal parts pleasure and excitement consuming you as the apple of your cheeks turns a vibrant red.

I’m starving, darling. Let me put my lips to something…

Suddenly comes the low timbre of Hozier, and along with a sudden dryness in your mouth, pure unholy thoughts run amok around your mind. Fire meets gasoline once you peek a look at the woman beside you, and catch sight of a pink tip of a tongue caressing the full arch of her lips. Needless to say, the rest of the ride, too, is spent in silence, but with you doing your damnedest not to let your mind in the gutter.

The Nevermore Academy truly is one of breathtaking beauty. As soon as the vehicle enters the school grounds, you are awestruck by its gothic architecture. Once parked, your partner does not lead you straight to where the festivities are, but rather, she takes you to her office that you quickly discover is as magnificent as the rest of the Academy, otherworldly and grandiose as befits the majesty of the headmistress.

After she has invited you into her dwelling, you cannot help but take a moment to marvel at the beauty and uniqueness of the fireplace. In the silence of the room save for the soft crackling of fire eating wood, a hand soon finds you on your shoulder, and when you turn, it lingers, ghosting along the length of your arm to eventually, gently take your hand in hers. The touch of smooth leather on the little hummingbird flutter of your pulse is rather electrifying as lithe fingers go to lace a ribbon across your wrist.

It is a little bouquet in the form of a bracelet.

“Not as remarkable as your lovely gifts, but-”

“Nonsense.” You shush her with a hand on her wrist, holding her gentle gaze. “Whatever you give me, I’ll treasure it.”

And suddenly, the beauty of the moment is disrupted by the loud ringing of a telephone. Apparently, there is an emergence of something that requires the presence of the principal.

Together, the both of you exit her office, and together, you walk abreast along the corridors of the enchanting academy. It is only when you have reached the ballroom that she leaves you alone with a tentalisingly sultry “I won’t be long, darling.”

You spend the entirety of the time wishing for Larissa to be here, but once she is, you wish she has not seen you. Having been requested a dance from someone, you have agreed when you think time will past by more quickly if you occupy yourself with something. You have been none the wiser to the look on their face; if you have, you would have noticed that it is the same look you have donned when the white-haired goddess has graced your little shop with her holy presence for the very first time. However, by the time lips touch your cheek and steal from you a kiss, you are more chilled by the familiar presence than bothered by the gesture itself.

Then, your eyes meet icy blue and your world crumbles.

You do your best to untangle yourself from whosever arms you are currently trapped in to follow after the woman of your dreams. She is fast on her legs, and there is urgency in your steps as you try to reach her. When you do, she is already in her room. Anxious and desperate, you forgo your manners, and without bothering to knock, you follow her in.

“What you saw. I- It wasn’t-”

“I don’t blame you. I’ve been but a terrible partner. You deserve to have fun.”

“It’s not fair. I didn’t want to be with them. I wanted- I want to be with you.”

It is the truth. It has always been the truth. All you have desperately wanted as you were locked in a waltz with another has been for the hand holding your waist to be Larissa’s and the breath caressing your face to be Larissa’s.

Tears begin to pool in your eyes. You hate that about yourself. You hate that you tend to cry once frustration strikes. It has always rendered you unable to prove your point in the midst of a case.

“I know, darling. I know.” Her voice when it caresses your ear is understanding, placating. She has carried herself to where you are standing, catching a stray tear when it trickles down your cheek. “Tulips, camellias. Now, carnations and clovers. I’ve gained myself quite the romantic, it seems.”

Your cheek is cradled in her palms, still not gloveless you realise. Gingerly, she tilts your head to initiate the collision of your gazes. “I think of you, oh how I think of you. You burn so bright in my heart that bone, flesh and marrow, oh, my entire being is but fuel for my longing for you.” There is fire in her icy blue eyes, and it burns, oh how it burns, reducing you to a mushy mess.

And then,

And then you kiss her, or rather, you try. Too high on the tree has the cherry ripened that you are unable to reach it. So, you stand on tiptoe to capture the delightfully succulent fruit into your mouth. A kiss on those beautifully ripened lips, and oh, they taste all the more delectable than you have imagined they would as you sigh dreamily into her mouth. It is the need to breathe that forces you apart, yet your faces remain only a whisker away.

Your wish to have her hands on your waist is fulfilled when they fit perfectly into the curve of your hips. She laughs, lovely and throaty, as a short little gasp spills forth your lips. The woman has picked you up effortlessly with all the grace of a warlord who has conquered the world. It is on her desk that she sits you down, hands remaining unmoving, thumb lazily tracing the bones of your hip.

“Hence the camellias and salvias?”

“As it turns out,” She puts on a tempting show of biting the gloves off her hands, and when a naked palm cups your cheek, electricity sparks. “I’m quite the flower aficionado myself. Your messages were not lost on me.”

She steals the breath out of your lungs with the kiss that she bestows upon you. It is as beautiful as it is erotic, as gentle as it is ravenous. Teeth nibbling lips and tongues locked in an embrace, she devours you with an intensity so mighty that her mouth on your lips alone has liquid lava pooling in your stomach.

Your legs press together and your back arches, a whimper dripping down your lips when blossoms of kisses branch off to your neck. Mouth messy with lipstick stains, and lips kiss-swollen, your neck likewise is being peppered with markings in the shape of her lips in the shade of a delirious red. And then, she sucks, right on the spot where your little pulse is throbbing ferociously, tonguing your flesh until it is all rosy and raw.

“I like you in the dress dearest, but I think I’d fancy it more when it’s off your body.” The movement of her lips against your skin is silky smooth as a surreptitious crawl of fingers on the back of your body gently tease the zip.

“Can I?” She asks with a kiss to the tip of your nose, and you are but a scoop on a cone, melting under the heat of her stare, murmuring, “Please. It’s no secret anymore that I long for you desperately.”

She unravels you as though you are a present to be cherished. Lusciously full lips savour every inch of skin that is bared to those blazing blue eyes. The attention with which she showers your breasts once you are bare is dizzying, the apex of your thighs dripping wet in a frenzy of desire, lips falling open in a breathless gasp in the face of those bone-melting, toe-curling deeds. There is a featherlight sensation of fingers climbing up the length of your thigh, the feeling becoming a little more tangible by the time they disappear into the waistband of your underwear.

“Nghh!” A mewl dissolves on your tongue when fingers wander into your coarse little curls. No sooner has the throbbing little bundle of nerves been unearthed than it is taken between two digits to be gently pinched and rolled.

Meanwhile, the parting of her mouth from the swell of your breast is accompanied by a web of saliva that glistens in the dim light, along with a send-off by a constellation of artworks that riddles your skin in varying shades of red. A hand then finds home on your thigh to open your legs that little bit more, her gaze on yours arrestingly blue, admiring the frenzied little up and down of your chest as air leaves your lips in quick huffs and puffs.

She is a woman of majestic size in every aspect of her body, rendering you delirious even in your state of dewiness by the time a finger sinks into the tight heat of your core. Immediately, there blooms a little bruised feeling that brings tears to your eyes. Although the appearance of your hand on her forearm, and the clenching of fingers into the front of her blouse are more a mean of reassurance than resistance, movement seizes inside you. You can feel the finger amidst the pulsating of your folds, barely a knuckle deep.

Simultaneously, the little furrow in your brow is chased away by lips that thereupon press a kiss onto your lips. “Am I being too demanding?”

Fingers tightening around her forearm in order to keep her fingers where they are, you offer her a shake of your head. “No. No, I can take it.”

“Good girl.” Another press of lips on the apple of your cheek, a syrupy peck. “My sweet angel.”

Your body, bare and riddled with love-bites and lipstick stains, is all but hidden by the imposing frame that is looming over you. Currently, she is not one but three knuckles deep inside you, hitting that deliriously delicious spot that makes you arch like a cat. You are but an offering to your beloved goddess as she takes and takes and takes from you in whichever way she sees fit.

And then, there is a knock on the door, and the culprit of the noise is inviting themselves in without being given permission to do so.

“Uhm Principal Weems?”

Straightening back into her full glorious height, she makes sure that you are entirely invisible to the second pair of eyes.

“What is it?”

“Has anyone ever come knocking on your doors?”

Her fingers, all the while, remain buried in the dewy depths of your core, memorising every curve, dip, and dimples of your perfectly swollen folds. With a mischievous tilt to her lips, she does a wicked little nudge that sends your eyes heavenward. A strangled little whisper is barely contained at the cost of your lips being taken hostage by your teeth.

“I’m afraid you’re the only one.”

“Strange. I thought I saw them going this way.”

Uncaring of their blather, she continues to bombard your cunt with sweet, scrumptious assaults. With a hand on your hip, she shifts your body a certain way, and oh as her finger plunges into the lowest of the lows, you reach a height that has never been reached before, fireworks exploding in your vision, back bending into a delicious arch, toes curling and fingers clenching into her attire as you are thoroughly claimed by your goddess.

Once your muscles have relaxed around her finger, her hand leaves from between your thighs in accompany with a warm rush of liquid that oozes out of your cunt. There are translucent strings of juices, your juices, spiderwebbing between her fingers, and lord are they delectably wet, implanting in you a need to suck them into your mouth.

There is a hitch to her breath when you wrap your fingers around her wrist to bring a hand to your mouth, doing an experimental lick along the thick girth of her finger before closing your lips around two of them, tracing every ridge of bone with the velveteen tip of your tongue, tasting yourself while you clean your woman with great reverence. In the midst of it all, you have your doe-eyed gaze, that starts blurring with tears once her fingertips brush against the back of your throat, on the irresistible blue of her eyes.

“If that’ll be all, you’re excused.”

“Ah, right.”

As soon as a click signifies the departure of the intruder, she is all over you, plucking your chin between forefinger and a thumb to make a descent onto your lips, nails, coral pink and neatly-trimmed, digging into the swell of your cheek as she licks into your mouth with an untamed hunger. She savours your taste on your tongue, and the moan that she breathes out elicits a moan of your own.

“This should suffice, for now. Next time, it’ll be from the source that I sample you, little florist of mine.”

Next time, she says. There will be a next time.

A delicate kiss is planted onto the arch of your nose while a finger traces a miscellany of vibrant blooms making a delicious mess of your chest. A look of pride and admiration can be seen plain as day on the valleys and planes of her face.

The curve of her cheek, with its baby-pink tinge and velveteen looking peach-fuzz calls out to you, and you happily give in to your urge, reaching out a hand to feel it gently beneath your fingertip. Like a uniquely made bracelet, her fingers are snug around your wrist, holding you as you delicately thumb the bone of her cheek. Only when you are satisfied does she escort your hand to her lips, dropping a sweet blossom of a kiss atop every one of your knuckles.

Wings sprout from your heart, sending the jolly little thing soaring into the sky. The glee of which only increases tenfold when your eyes catch the little flowery bracelet on your wrist; red camellias can be translated into you’re a flame in my heart whereas blue salvias says i think of you.

What a delightful answer to your bouquet of red carnations and white clovers.

And thus, your night is spent in absolute contentment, dying a little death at the hands of your white-haired goddess, with the delightful knowledge that your longing for her is very much reciprocated.

[acupofqueercoffee]

COFFEEEEE HIII!!!

-🐸

howdy froggy 🤠

[acupofqueercoffee]

NO CHEATING!

Character you last wrote a fanfiction about = your love interest

Second Character in your writing drafts = your enemy

Last song you listened to = your movie title

Last food you ate = your animal sidekick/pet's name

If you were born in January/February/March = you and your love interest die together happily in each others arms during a fire that broke out in your complex apartment

If you were born in April/May/June = you killed your enemy but they killed your love interest before you had the chance to tell about how you feel so you ended up murdering yourself afterwards

If you were born in July/August/September = your love interest turned against you in the end and teamed up with your enemy but you end up killing them both regardless and decide to not get into relationships

If you were born in October/November/December = your enemy poisoned you, killing you in the process but your love interest avenges your death and kills your enemy

tag others to join my challenge!

:)

my love interest = Larissa Weems

my enemy = there’s too many but the second in my drafts would, once again, be Larissa Weems 🥹

movie title = into you (by Ariana Grande)

my animal sidekick/pet’s name = i ate something akin to an onigiri 🍙 , so onigiri?

my birth month is January, so Larissa and I die together happily in each other’s arms during a fire that broke out in our apartment complex. sorrow, sorrow, prayers 🥲

thank you for the tag buddy 🫶🏻 for a moment, i was scared lol when i saw “NO CHEATING!”. i thought i wrote something controversial and someone was coming to kick my ass 😭

the only writer friend that i know well enough to tag would be @sakura-chan-25 🥰 so helloooo there 👀

[acupofqueercoffee]

Hey there love? How are you doing? I am just sending this to check on you since we haven't spoken in some time, I hope you are doing good. I sm sorry sbout not playing with you in the post where you tagged me (I still plan on doing it, I promise) but I am kinda in a bad mental place right now since I have a lot of works to do and my mind seems to be kind of shutting down because of it (my teachers have been heavy on the works and my insomnia keeps me from resting), I am working to get better and I am slowly getting there, missed you! Please rest and stsy safe okay? I am glad you are taking time to yourself, please do whenever you feel like it yeah?

ah there comes my sweet angel

(づ ๑˃̵　ᴗ　˂̵) づ ♡

well i’ve seen better days would be the most suitable response. i’m mentally in a good place but physically, since i started taking a diploma class, i’m not as free as i used to, and every evening i have to take a bus that is terribly crowded. i rarely get seats on my way home and i think it’s getting to me 🥲 as a result, my appetite is going through the roof lol even during class all i could think about is what to eat once i get back 🤣 ah don’t worry about it. there’s no pressure really but i hope you don’t mind if i keep tagging you in the future. you’re absolutely one of the sweetest people i’ve had the pleasure of meeting on this app and i really need you to know that 🩷 i hope i could cheer you up with the andy fic which by the way i’m not forgetting. it’s just that i’m just slowly getting back into writing but at the same time, i’m having a lot on my plate with the diploma class. on top of that i’m also gonna take a japanese class starting this month. ahahaha even more classes. how lovely (definitely not being sarcastic xD ) ik you’re ok with me taking the time but i feel like it’s well overdue and i really wanna write it for you 😭 ughhh you’re honestly so so sweet i wish i could make you feel the same way you make me feel. lastly i just want to say that you’re deeply appreciated 🩷

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Messages for her, hidden in the flowers”

𝐋𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

▸ 𝐘𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬

▸ 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐬 : 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮

wowie it’s been months :3 i feel bad for tagging after so long but since you guys asked @idontlikepexple @theregoesyourlifeagain

gif ©mybeautifulwickedness

Longing breeds gloominess.

Days have bled into a week, and a week into weeks since the first, and judging by no glimpses of hair the hue of sun-soaked clouds in the vicinity of your shop, seemingly last sighting of your angel inside your little floral haven. As hyperbolical as it sounds, you have been drenched in blues over the woman whose name you do not even know. A day after her appearance, you have told yourself that what the woman has evoked in you has been nothing more than an infatuation that will go away with time. However, when time only brings about the ripening of a pair of cherry red lips that come into your mind uninvited at the most random times, you are convinced of how hapless and hopeless you truly are.

Uneventful will be the most suitable word to describe your morning thus far. The absence of customer gives way to the tranquility of the shop, and that in its turn, leaves your thoughts whirling aloud. The availability of time on your hands is spent tending your flowers which for you is a means of catharsis. Faulty though it is, your endeavour to keep your mind from wandering off to a certain white haired goddess has been working impressively well, until it no longer does. While the redness of the roses conjures up a picture of sanguine lips, the yellow tulips that your eyes land upon next spill forth a waterfall of memories.

Her face has been so close to yours that you can count every little strand of peach fuzz on her cheeks. Her fingers, dressed in leather, has touched you with buttery smoothness, and the sensation lingers. Now, as it tingles pleasantly from where they have softly kissed your cheek, the pads of your fingers trace the echo of her touch with a tentative caress. You fear that too tangible of a touch will break the spell that she has seemingly casted upon you.

Just then, the sudden chime of a bell on the front door alerts you to a potential customer. In your haste to welcome them, you are rendered uncoordinated, subsequently causing the stool, that has been aiding you in reaching the topmost shelves, to wobble on its legs. Your attempt to stabilise the support is precarious at best, and unable to bring it back to steadiness, you poise to take the damage that is certain to come with the fall.

Broken bones, cracked head, sore limbs; out of all the terrible disasters that can befall you, you fall into the gentle arms of a gorgeous disaster that effortlessly takes your breath away.

“Careful now.”

The face of an angel who has sowed the seed of longing in you has seemingly manifested out of thin air, conveniently in your hour of need, and you have half a mind to believe that it is your eyes playing tricks on you. However, more than one evidence supports against such claim: the very palpable feeling of the tiniest flex of her fingers on your body, her warm breath like a delicate flap of a butterfly’s wing against your cheek, and the ambrosial aroma that transports you to the garden of Eden.

How she has managed to catch you in a heartbeat, you do not know. The perks of having long legs perhaps. What you do know though is that her arm is snug around your waist like a well-tailored belt while a palm on your abdomen keeps you steady.

“Are you alright?”

Her gloves, you realise, are obsidian dark as your eyes trail from the arrestingly blue depths of her eyes to her fingers that are holding on to your waist with unyielding resolve. They stay fixed on the lustrous leather for just a beat too long. Journeying back to the scenic planes and valleys of her face, and upon finding an emotion akin to concern, one part of you is a little bit perplexed while the other part of you is unabashedly pleased.

“Quite. Thank you.”

As soon as an affirmation has left your lips, a shadow of a smile touches her lips.

“My pleasure.”

“Here, let me.”

You slip your fingers into the offered palm of her hand which, partnered with a gentle palm on the small of your back, assists you in getting down from the stool.

“Hi.” Your sheepish murmur is received with a sultry drawl. “Hello there, darling.”

“Are you quite sure that you’re alright? You look positively flushed,-” You are too distracted by the miraculous manifestation of your angel to take notice of the peeling off of her gloves, but by the time a hand finds home on the curve of your cheek, you learn that it is very much naked. “-and oh my, feel that way too.”

“Mmhm.” You say dumbly. “Mmhm. Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Very fine. Just a bit hot is all.”

“That you are indeed.”

“Anyway, I was beginning to believe that our encounter was but a figment of my imagination.”

“My, do I appear unreal to you?”

The strawberry shade of your cheeks encourage one corner of her scarlet lips to curve slightly skyward.

“Well?”

Lips opening and closing with no words coming out, you must look every bit the picture of a fish out of water.

“I jest, although I have to say darling, red suits you spectacularly well.”

“I- uh- Thanks?”

“My, where are my manners. I come here to repay the debt.”

“Do you see anything that catches your eyes today?”

At that, she gazes you deeply in the eye with an intensity that almost has you collapsing in a heap.

“I’m rather indecisive for they’re all quite lovely. Why don’t you choose something for me?”

“If you could give me a moment.”

“Please, go ahead.”

Immediately, you walk towards the aisle that house varying shades of Camellias. Despite having a wide variety to choose from, it has been easy for you to settle on a colour. Pink Camellias in particular signify longing, and longing for her is what makes up the better part of your mind since her appearance weeks ago.

As you fix the flowers into a charming bouquet, you can tangibly feel the blue-eyed gaze that is quietly observing you up until the final embellishment is made with a neat little red bow.

“A gift for you.”

When you offer said gift directly into the hands of this living sculpture of a woman, you cannot help but zero in on her delectably painted lips, and their tentalising plumpness riddles you with dizziness.

“Let me buy you a drink then. If you’re not too busy, perhaps something to eat?”

Suddenly, the woman of your dreams is offering to take you out on not-exactly-a-date. A too-good-to-be-true opportunity has offered itself to you on a diamond platter, and you would be the most foolish of fools not to pounce on the opportunity to spend more time with her.

“Ah- yeah I-” Your attempt to look down at your watch results in futility when you find your wrist watch-less.

“The clock has struck eleven. Too late for breakfast, yet too early for lunch.” Her smile is that of amusement as she regards you with a faint tilt to her lips. “Say darling, shall we have brunch together?”

“Sure, let’s.”

Once the pair of you have comfortably settled into your respective seats and ordered dishes of your respective choices, she initiates conversation.

“You never told me your name.”

“You never asked.”

“Well, I’m asking now, aren’t I?”

It is with a sheepish grin that you give her your name. When she tastes it on her tongue, she makes it sound sweet, sacred.

“It’s lovely.”

“And yours?”

“Larissa Weems.”

“Why do I feel like I’ve heard it before?”

“Principle Weems of Nevermore Academy. Rings any bells?”

“You’re.” Silence ensues during which you search for a suitable word that will not rouse offence. “Different.”

“Outcasts, so we’re called.”

“Does it bother you? Me being different.” She pronounces the word as though it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“No.” More firmly, with an adamant shake of your head, you repeat. “No, it does not bother me.”

There is a certain warmth in her voice as she murmurs. “Sweet girl.”

“We’re having a ball coming Sunday. I’m still in need of a partner. I’d like for you to be that person, but-” While, blue eyes are boring into you with a dizzying intensity, crimson lips close around the rim of a glass of water. “-would you?”

You gulp. Then, smile.

“Please, Miss Weems. It’d be my pleasure.”

“Larissa. Call me Larissa, please.”

Her hand engulfs yours on the table. The sweet gesture has your heart doing giddy somersaults.

“Alright, Larissa. I’d love to be your partner. Very much.”

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Dear stranger (Donna)”

Donna Beneviento x Reader (gif ©noxdivina)

cw :: smoking || mentions of self-h#rm || scars || unhealthy coping mechanisms’ more like it || height place phenomenon

howdy this gay is back in time for pride month (not really) just a little comfort fic i wrote for myself really. hugs from donna is not a want but a need rn 😭

─────────────────────

The cigarette smoke is bitter, leaving a pleasant burn on the back of your throat as you take a deep inhale. For a while, you hold your breath, allowing the chemicals to spread through your lungs before puffing it out of your lips eventually. Your neck, meanwhile, is bared to the sky, eyes lazily roaming over grey clouds of varying shades.

A mindless fingertip is tracing the silver lines along the length of your forearm. Another drag of the cigarette brings a chuckle to your lips, and the sound is dry and deprecating even to your own ears. Smoking is an awful habit, that you fully understand. But at the same time, it is undeniably cathartic. It was either that or a blade to the flesh. In no way do you wish to die, although you would not terribly mind dying. You cannot deny however that you do revel in the sensation of blood blooming on your skin, and in pain, you find euphoria.

With another hearty inhale, the cigarette bud slips through your fingers to be reunited with its fellow friends that have already met their untimely demise beneath your well-worn boots. You are tired, so so tired. Tired of the strangers that call themselves your family, tired of yourself for being so emotionally weak, for actively ruining yourself under the guise of release, tired for your mother’s stead for she has to listen to her brother and sister nitpicking about her daughter on top of handling incessant chores.

In this god-forsaken world, you have learnt that no one else can be as caring and tolerating as your parents, and you appreciate them for it. At least, your parents are endlessly loving which in itself is a luxury that not everyone can afford. You love them, oh how you love them, but you also hate yourself, for their only child ends up being a damaged goods.

At the moment, you do not have a clue where in the world you are, having wandered wherever your feet have been carrying you. A glance around reveals nothing much obscured as it is by thick fog. There is a rush of water somewhere below, and you conclude you must be standing atop a cliff with a waterfall. Sighing, you kick the cigarette buds off the edge, and it looks tempting, liberating: the way they plummet down the misty abyss. A sudden urge to throw yourself off the cliff comes with a vengeance, and it does not help that nicotine has you slightly tipsy, the world around you spinning as you wobble on your legs.

And then, before you know it, you are being pulled into a body, held close to a chest by an encirclement of arms around your back. A delightful aroma journeys up your nose as soon as your cheek collides with black fabric. It is soft to the touch, and smells faintly of tea that is quickly overshadowed by a soothing blend of jasmine and sandalwood. You cannot help but steal a generous inhale. The smoothness of jasmine certainly is a lovely complement to the spiciness of sandalwood.

“Don’t, please. I can’t let you.”

The soft spoken words are uttered by a voice that is charmingly deep, carried to you by a gentle breeze that tickles your exposed nape. A hint of desperation is discernible in her quiet murmur, and the gentleness of it wildly contracts with the cage of arms whose tightness around you becomes nearly unbearable. It is oddly calming, freeing despite the confinement, and the realisation is as much a relief as it is a surprise.

What you have been needing after all is to be embraced, to be comforted, to feel wanted, and how ironic it is that your salvation is found within the arms of a stranger. No questions are asked. You find no strangeness in her actions. Nor does your mind feel stable enough to deem it necessary to compose yourself. The dam breaks, and you fall apart. Burying your face in the chest of this black-cladded stranger while hugging her close to yourself, you cry, oh how you cry, loud, miserable sobs spilling forth your lips as you grab fistful of her dress.

When the body in your arms tenses in an uncomfortable way, you are too far gone to notice, and so too when the arms around your body suddenly lose their bravado. Regardless of the hesitation, you are met with no hands that are forcing you away from her. Only after a moment or two when your tears do not cease does a kind hand find the crown of your head.

Tentatively, placatingly, gentle fingers stroke your hair. You adjust in the hold of your salvation only to be met with even more dark fabric. Through a haze of tears, you regard the veiled woman with curiosity, occasional bouts of hiccuping sobs accompanying your otherwise silent scrutiny.

“You-”

A calloused pad of a thumb that gingerly follows a tear track elicits a sigh from you, and then, the same palm is cradling your cheek, the coolness of which is desirable against your feverish skin. Along with a flex of her fingers on your back, the veil goes aflutter right beneath where her nose is supposed to be when you decide to rest your chin between the junction of her collarbones. No sooner does the hand on your cheek go to cover your eyes than you go boneless in her arms. Your nose meanwhile is tickled by a saccharinely sweet scent that smells both floral and vaguely herbal.

And then, you blink.

And suddenly, the world goes dark.

─────────────────────

[acupofqueercoffee]

thanks for the tag, pal! took me a while but here it is xD the fact that a good chunk of them are all animated shows 🤣

as usual, tagging my best buddies @sakura-chan-25 @messsor @nightly-polaris

Was tagged by @holiday-house-of-m to post 8 TV shows to get to know me better. Thank u for the tag M! I love the tagging games😁

So here are mine:

No pressure tag: @marvelwoman-sugarbaby @honey-sweet-hiraeth @imdoingsortagay @riveramorylunar @nctxrejects @marveloussimp @wandamaximoffbae @didyoubringauntienat @mywitchy-assassin @fluffyprettykitty @canijustbeanonymous

Cheerio!

[acupofqueercoffee]

[acupofqueercoffee]

Furoufushi wants to congratulate Unohana-san too…

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Forevermore”

Unohana Retsu x Female Reader

21.04.2023 — happiest of birthdays to the mother of all mothers 🥳🎂 she’s turning 1200+ years old today 🥹🫶🏻

something short, simple and sweet. it would be an insult to my status as a hopeless unohana simp if i couldn’t even wish her a happy birthday with a written work of mine. it’s still about 23:40 here where i live, so thank the archon i’ve made it! though barely :3

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

“A little birdie told me it was your birthday today, so I brought you a little something.”

No welcoming comes your way as you are left to watch the unbothered back of the Captain while she leisurely sips her tea. Only after has she emptied the cup does she put it down and stand, measuredly making her way towards you.

She stops directly under your nose, so close to your body that you can feel the ghost of her breath on your neck.

“Well, what is it that you wanted to give me?”

“Me!” You squeak.

Fishing a silk ribbon in the colour of bright red out of your sleeve, you clumsily tie it around your waist over your uniform. By the time you speak again, a big bow is sitting precariously on your hipbone. “My gift for your birthday, Captain, is me.”

Cheeks ablaze and heart aflutter, you direct your gaze onto the beautiful face before you. A sly smile and mirthful eyes greet your eyes.

“My, how brazen of you.”

“But, whose idea was it, hm?” The curve of her lips is too deep to be deemed sincere. Saccharine but spine-tingling, kind but killing. It is after all the Captain’s infamous smile that can get her whatever she wants. “My meek little lamb isn’t one to come up with such salacious plan.”

“Matsu-” A playful finger descending onto the top of your chest leaves you at a loss for words. It slithers along the lapel of your uniform before resting an inch just shy of your navel. The silk tail of the ribbon is caught between two spindly fingers, and the remainder of the name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper. “-moto.”

“To take advice from Matsumoto of all people. Was it why you were rendezvousing with her lately instead of spending time with me?”

“I couldn’t rack my brain alone. I wanted my gift to be special and a surprise.”

“I was surprised alright.”

In parallel with her words, you, too, are taken by surprise when her hands climb your body, palms flat against your chest, simply resting.

“When the idea of getting myself robbed of my secret admirer rattled me more than I would have liked.”

Although you can hear her voice and know that she is muttering something, the context of her speech is entirely lost on you. You suspect that it is intentional. Still, you wonder aloud.

“Captain?”

“Your birthday present,…” Your growing anxiety is eased by the smile she spares you as her eyes find yours. “…for now, I can’t say that I love it, but I like it a lot. I promise to hold it dear.”

As obscure as her words are, the implication, having not lost on you, puts a grin on your face. The unbridled glee that you are bombarded with can also be heard in your voice.

“Happy Birthday, Captain Unohana!”

A kiss that is pressed onto the apple of your cheek is but a fleeting touch of a butterfly’s wings. Warm, tender, and unequivocally the reason behind the hummingbird flutter of your heart.

“I’m very happy. Thank you.”

When she murmurs it with a sparkle in that delightful blue of her eyes and a sweet blossom of a smile, you are helpless against your body that acts of its own accord. Gingerly, you take her hand from where it is resting on your chest, and all too softly, your lips caress her knuckles. Nuzzling your cheek into her palm like a spoiled kitten, one final kiss of the night finds home on the inside of her wrist. Beneath your lips, you feel the fluttering of her pulse as you mouth a silent oath.

I will love you, Captain Unohana. Forevermore.

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[acupofqueercoffee]

It’s your day, birthday girl 🥳🎉💜

[acupofqueercoffee]

hbd captain unohana, look who finally mustered up the courage to dress cute pt.1