celisths

[celisths]

I honestly don’t know how some people don’t find Bella absolutely gorgeous.

[celisths]

the girl im talking to looks like ellie williams i win

[celisths]

she’s purrin

[celisths]

I don't EVER wanna hear you say they don't know how to act again.

[celisths]

guys… i fear choso has been replaced with ellie williams in my heart……

[celisths]

ellie williams lookalike contest tonight in my bedroom.

[celisths]

sukuna being the test subject of your lip products | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n suggestive (under the cut), estb. rl ؛ ଓ

you don’t ask anymore. you just do.

the moment a new PR package shows up—wrapped in glittery tissue, smelling like candy and capitalism—you’re already rolling up your sleeves and calling, “baby, come here. test dummy time.” sukuna groans from wherever he’s sulking in the apartment (usually the couch, half-asleep with one hand in a bag of chips and the other on his game controller). he pretends not to hear you, but he does. he always does.

“what now?” he drags his feet over. shirtless, pouting, voice gravelly with freshly summoned attitude. “if this is another ‘juicy lip plumper no. 3’ i’m gonna riot.”

you ignore him, your hand snaking around his wrist and pulls him down to your vanity stool like you pay him for this. in a way, you do — you kiss him after, and he’d commit federal crimes for that.

“this one’s called eternal cherry kiss,” you say as you uncap the applicator with a dramatic flourish. “supposed to last through eating and drinking. you’ll be the judge.”

“what the fuck is ‘eternal cherry’ supposed to taste like?”

“eternally cherry, obviously.” you lean in. “now pucker up.”

he rolls his eyes, exhales through his nose like this is such an inconvenience, but he leans in anyway. you swipe the gloss across his mouth in a single fluid motion — crimson and glossy, instantly turning his lips into a billboard ad for ‘kissing season.’

he smacks his lips. frowns.

“feels sticky.”

you pull out your phone and hit record. “and now, we let the wear test begin.”

by 2 p.m., he’s still wearing it. there’s a faint cherry sheen while he raids in world of warcraft, barking orders through his mic with his mouth shimmering like a debutante. his guild doesn’t say anything. they know better.

by 5 p.m., you’ve taken him out for errands, the cashier at the pharmacy doing a double take. sukuna glares at the display of cough drops like it wronged him personally, but he doesn’t wipe it off. not even once.

you hand him a mic for the “after” segment. he’s sitting on the kitchen counter, shirtless again, lips still kissed-stained and glowy.

“so, mr. sukuna,” you say with your best influencer voice. “tell us your final review.”

he glares at the camera as he crosses his arms. the gloss is half-faded, but still there, like a badge of honor.

“it’s obnoxious. it survived a shower. survived battle. survived me eating an entire plate of biryani. and her biting my bottom lip at lunch like a demon in heat.”

you make a peace sign from behind the phone.

“…ten outta ten,” he adds reluctantly. “would wear again. for science. or whatever.”

and in the comments, someone goes, “i want what they have.”

sukuna replies from your account—because of course he has the password—with: “die mad about it.”

but since testing lip products just on the lips is for cowards, you’ve upgraded.

this is science. clinical, methodical, incredibly serious influencer business. and sukuna? well, he’s your canvas. your unwilling, irritable, secretly-over-the-moon canvas. he walks into the room already shirtless—because at this point, he knows—arms crossed over his bare chest, all grumble and menace. “so what’s the experiment today, doc? you gonna write your damn @ on my forehead in pink gloss?”

“don’t tempt me,” you say sweetly, uncapping the new gloss. it’s called kissbomb ultra lacquer, and it smells like peaches. “this one claims to last twelve hours, transfer-proof, fade-resistant, and kink-safe.”

he blinks. “kink-safe?”

“don’t worry about it.” you grab his wrist and guide him to sit on the edge of the bed. “shirt off.”

“already is,” he mutters.

“pants too.”

he raises a brow. “...you testing or tryna get laid?”

“yes.”

you climb into his lap with the confidence of a scientist mid-breakthrough, gloss wand in one hand, determination in the other. you apply it slowly, precisely, like you’re prepping for war.

and then the kisses start.

soft little muahs on the corner of his jaw. one on the bridge of his nose. two on his neck, left and right, where his pulse ticks faster. one on each shoulder, then trailing down the hard curve of his bicep. his arms are crossed still, fists clenched, jaw tight—but his ears? red. his breathing? not as chill as he wants to seem.

you murmur, “don’t flex. you’ll smudge the print.”

“’m not flexing,” he says through gritted teeth. “this is just how i exist.”

you keep going. lips marking his collarbones, his ribs, his stomach. lower. every kiss leaving a little stain in a perfect pink imprint like someone went stamp! stamp! stamp! on your big scary man and turned him into a valentine’s day clearance bin.

“you know,” you say thoughtfully, inspecting your work, “you kinda look like the lesbian flag right now.”

he glares at you. “say that again and i’ll throw you out the window.”

you grin, not even fazed. “oh no. my hot queer ally boyfriend’s covered in lip prints. whatever will i do.”

the whole day, he walks around the apartment looking like a sexy battlefield. every mirror he passes, he pauses—just for a second—checking if they’re still there. (they are. of course they are. you chose a good gloss.)

he’s got one kiss mark on the dip of his spine. two on the inside of his thighs. one perfectly placed behind his ear that makes him twitch every time he catches the scent of peach.

“stop looking at me like that,” he growls at you from across the room, sprawled out on the couch later, sipping water and trying to act normal. “you look like a cat who just knocked over a vase.”

you climb on top of him again. inspect a few faded spots. reapply.

“just touching up my art,” you murmur. “quality control.”

he leans his head back and sighs, but his hands are already settling on your hips. there’s a glint in his eyes that says he’s so pretending to hate this. he’s so full of shit.

and when you post a blurry photo of your masterpiece—captioned “new gloss. 12 hour wear. boyfriend approved 💋”—you wake up the next morning to 4,700 comments and one furious growl from sukuna.

“who the fuck is asking if they can be next?”

you hum, flipping over in bed to kiss him right on the chest. “don’t worry, baby. the gloss may be long-lasting, but you’re the exclusive trial subject.” he grumbles, eyes half-lidded, smug despite himself.

“…damn right i am.”

kiss divider by @uzmacchiato

[celisths]

Turning around on your other side facing Satoru, you poke his muscular back with your index finger. Making his back arch a bit, as he turns his head around to look at you with a confused sleepy face.

“what was that for?” he rasps, sleep still lacing in his voice.

“can you lay on top of me..? like on my back..?” you whisper, your eyes peering up at his tired blue ones.

“…”

“…”

“…you want me to do what?” he asks sitting up more to get a better look at you. His face now outright confused.

“..I want you to lay on top of me!! like crush me with your body!” You whine, your hand now laced around his muscular bicep, gently shaking him from side to side.

Satoru sighs a small smirk on his lips. “fine, fine.. lay down on your stomach.” He says softly. You smile up at him before flipping onto your stomach, your face going into your soft pillow. laying in a pencil like position.

He turns over more lifting the covers up as he goes to his knees, before laying ontop of you. Laying his entire weight on your back, he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck.

You sigh softly with content, feeling his entire weight on you. Turning your face slightly to the side having a lazily smile on your lips. “mm now i’m comfortable..” you mumble sleepily, all Satoru can do is chuckle lightly into the crook of your neck.

“why am I crushing you again?” He murmurs into your soft skin.

“becauseeee you’re like my personal heating pad for my period cramps,” you mumble out. As your eyes droop shut. Satoru sighs smiling, shaking his head lightly.

“weirdo..” he mumbles before drifting off back to sleep. with his body quite literally covering yours completely, your period cramps dissolving as his warmth and the pressure of his body soothing the pain entirely.

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[celisths]

this blog hates donald trump

Look how many people hate him. I’m pretty damn happy about that 😁😁😁😁😁😁

[celisths]

heyyyyyy celis! missed youuuuu!

how ya doin?

(i have a proposal for you, message me 😉)

hey uuuuu missed u too boo

i’m great hru:)

[celisths]

It is CANON Gojo is 27 and 6’7

It is CANON megumi is 18 and 6’4

It is CANON Nanami is 26 and 6’5

It is CANON geto is 27 and is 6’5

o..kay…?

did…. i unknowingly deny this…?

[celisths]

all is good we’re back in business

me when c.ai is down

[celisths]

the americans came back on tiktok faster than my ex came back

[celisths]

oh okay mhm yeah

you ask suguru jokingly one day, “sugu, are you seeing other girls?”

he raises an eyebrow in confusion, cuz why the hell did you spring this on him out of nowhere when he's just in bed, with an old hoodie, scrolling down his socials and his hair's just a mess.

then his eyes light up, and he grins like a lil' demon.

“yeah,” he says, and quickly smacks your cunny over your clothes, rubbing his whole palm there to soothe the sting. “with this one. my favorite girl”.

[celisths]

me when c.ai is down

[celisths]

LET HIM GOOOOO GRANNY PLEASEEEEEEE

[celisths]

i thought… AI was supposed to be… y’know, smart? artificial intelligence and all…?

he immediately recognition you!!