#Cat with a cucumber thing

[grxysuit]

[] - Interestingly, this creature has an adverse reaction to cartoons and caricatures. Stuffed animals included. It is capable of cognitively recognising them for what they are but still finds them a 'cheap imitation and fake' .

[ghostbsuter]

Danny's relationship with time was a fickle thing.

Sure, the literal being of time is his grandpa, dad, sibling, son?

It was really fickle.

But one thing is clear, he could use it, twist it, and control it for a few chances. With Time's blessing, of course.

And he does so, with every villain, hero, mob boss, vigilante, assassin, and alien he comes across.

If only they'd stopped calling him a speedster. Does it really look like he needs to run to be better?

[chosqrd]

hello art master.... Could I request RJ MacReady from the Thing ('82) and Ripley from Alien hanging out just chillin. Spa day. I think they deserve it after the horrors.

[octodrawn]

meow meow meow..... inspired by this post

I guess they dyed their ear and tail fur to match their hair? Or maybe the catboy/girl universe has anime logic idk

bg texture by @jessource

[gomzdrawfr]

Your cat Gaz is nutritional, I wanna hold him under the armpits and see how long he is

He's about 4 cucumbers long

[pets-will-play]

btw a lot of the bullshit Noah pulls is directly inspired by the bullshit my actual irl cats pull.

[cheecae]

No, it's not Thanksgiving, thank you very much

@someone-news

God save my bestie ♡

Uh adhd and Mental Illness crewwww, yeahhh

[homunculus-argument]

Things cats were right about all along:

Fuck staying hydrated by drinking enough water - eat! more! wet! food! (watermelon, cucumbers, SOUP!)

Feels great to be really high up in your house where you can see the whole place (loft bed loft bed loft bed loft bed!)

Express yourself as clearly as possible when people are touching you and you don't want them to.

Optional, but you can also express yourself clearly when your people are not touching you and you want them to.

Sometimes it's important to just go "hmm. actually, I don't care" and wander off.

You don't have to be the strongest or toughest to defend yourself, it's enough to just be difficult enough to not be worth the trouble.

Ghosts will eventually leave if you stare at them for long enough.

[narrative-driven-off-a-cliff]

"In Case I Make It wasn't my getting better album-"

Then why did things get better

[echthr0s]

I think one of my favourite things that can happen in a work of art and its resultant fandom is a Luke/Leia situation and I'm so glad The Decameron has one of those

[bb-drayster]

Peliper Mail!

A cucumber

nyah. 👎

-🐉

[robbinghisdick]

I'm plagued by the thunderbolts, have some randomly assorted headcanons

Ava, Bob, and Yelena yell cucumber instead of "bless you". They especially like yelling it at John because he finds it dumb and annoying. Bucky and Alexei are confused.

Ava and Yelena end up getting really close. Neither of them have had friends since childhood, so it's nice to connect with one another. They bully John together 💕

John gets his kid for the weekend. While he was a distracted father, he still knows HOW to take care of a kid. None of the others besides Alexei do and he can't believe how incompetent they are. Alexei likes John's kid because toddlers are easy to impress lmao.

You know the "life changing field trip with Zuko" thing from ATLA? Life changing field trip with Bucky. One way or another, Bucky either comes to an understanding or gets closer to the others on the team. Bob was thoroughly startled to find out that Bucky wasn't scary, just socially awkward

No one but John and Bucky knows how to cook. They don't even cook WELL, just passable. How everyone else has made it this far on take out and frozen meals is beyond them. Ava and Yelena go "how hard can it be?" And now they're yelling at Alexei to follow the recipe as he insists that he knows better and this will taste WAY better. Bob is quietly ordering pizza.

If things turn into a genuine screaming match on the team, Bob going "can we please calm down?" Makes everyone very bitterly simmer down because they know this a bit triggering for Bob

In general, I think they start to learn one anothers triggers and start being more mindful of them. Barely even consciously, but they've all felt that void inside them and don't like being the reason someone else feels it again.

Everyday Bob is blown away by what's happening around him and what's happened to these people. Like, while Bob had a rough life, it was a "normal" kind of rough. No experimentation, no super powers, no government plots. Just a normal guy dealt a terrible deck in life. He's spent the vast majority of his life with no powers.

Ava, Yelena and Bob decide to hang out one day as normal people. They are very bad at this and they come home with torn clothes and a cat.

I'll stop yapping for now, I just love them

(Edit: I yapped more)

[ineffectualdemon]

You know we talk about Luo Binghe's devotion to Shen Qingqiu when he self destructed. Holding on to the corpse for 5 years hoping against hope he can resurrect his Shizun

But can we talk about Shang Qinghua's?

Because Shen Qingqiu assumes Shang Qinghua sold him out and Shang Qinghua is like "yeah I'd sell you out for a single corn chip"

But that's not what happened

First Shang Qinghua, at great risk to himself and probably with the destruction of his get out do jail free card, sped up the maturation of the plant bodies so Shen Qingqiu can escape torture

Then when he self destructs if he doesn't assume it failed he kept it secret in the face a more and more unstable Luo Binghe AND that that information could have bought him his way back into Cang Qiong

And he wasn't the one to reveal Shroom Qingqiu. That was his (SQQ's) own behaviour in dreams

If anything he just confirmed it when it was clear that the cat was out of the bag

But I can't believe he didn't hear about Peerless Cucumber from Sha Hualing bitching around Mobei, and he absolutely didn't go running to tell Binghe

If Binghe hadn't already guessed then I think Shang Qinghua would have kept his mouth shut. But even more crucially he knew Binghe didn't want to torture Shen Qingqiu

He knew Binghe was head over heels did Shen Qingqiu and that it was mutual

If it was Bingge I actually think Shang Qinghua would have died then give information. But he trusted Bingmei to not actually kill or maim Shen Qingqiu.

And here's the thing I think the reverse would be true. If Shang Qinghua used the mushrooms to grow a new body and escape Shen Qingqiu would face torture and death before giving him to someone who wanted to kill him

He'd bitch about it the whole time but he'd do it

They are so weird about each other in the best way

[ssa-dado]

30 Seconds

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUT, pre-relationship mutual pining and just a touch of ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: You text the hot swim dad for legal help. He shows up in khakis. You try to behave. You fail. He's accidentally jealous of your date, you accidentally grind on his lap, he finishes in his pants, and somehow it’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to you. Warnings: SMUT MDNI (heavy makeout, dry humping and *sighs* Aaron creams his pants for just that... the title is descriptive enough), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, objectification of the Hotchner body Word Count: 4.9k (damn gurl) Dado's Corner: Based on this request! And... um... full disclosure... I added the glasses part solely because of the cat pic sent by @hotchology, who said this ginger furball is how they imagine Hotch in glasses (LOOK HOW CUUUTE)

masterlist(s)

Everything showers.

A sacred rite of modern womanhood.

Takes minimum two geological eras to complete, consumes half the planet’s fresh water, and must be repeated often to remain an eligible mating partner.

Because that’s the whole point of being a woman, isn’t it? To be clean, hairless, glowing, and vaguely vanilla-scented - just fuckable enough for men who think 3-in-1 shampoo counts as skincare.

The concept of an everything shower is… layered. Part hygiene. Part penance. Part psychological rebirth. A full-body cleanse for the sins you haven’t committed yet.

You’ve done them before first dates. Before almost-dates. Before parties, dick appointments, emotional breakdowns, and that one Tuesday when you just needed to check in on her-

(Her. Down there.)

Once, you even did one before visiting your mother. (Unclear whether that was for survival or atonement. Maybe both.)

But never - not even in your darkest, most masochistic imagination - did you think you’d be doing one because of an eviction notice.

Not until today.

Because Aaron Hotchner - a man who should be both physically and emotionally unavailable due to his very, very, veeeery important job saving the world - is apparently not unavailable.

Not when it matters.

Not when it’s least convenient for your nervous system.

…The irony.

All it took was one stupid text. A momentary lapse in dignity. Something he’d probably refer to as “compromised judgment.”

do you happen to know a very cheap lawyer asking for a friend

And instead of his usual three-to-five-business-days reply time, he hits you with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): Are you at home now? – A.H.

And now you’re just a bit overthinking… because how does he know that?

Did the FBI install a secret camera in your pothos plant? Does he have access to some satellite heat map of your apartment? Has he been watching your window? A camera in the air vent?

(Has he seen you trying out that new clear dildo in front of the mirror for “science”?)

(The one time you tried doing yoga and got stuck in child's pose for 40 minutes?)

You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

All you do know is that you are currently fully naked, shaving for a man who:

Has no idea he’s being shaved for, while you’re on speakerphone with him, as he gets closer and closer to your building block because he invited himself into your private space and-

Would absolutely turn around and disappear if he ever caught even a hint of cucumber-scented shaving cream (you borrowed from your roommate) and realized you'd… prepared for him.

Because your “just in case” implies premeditation. And premeditation implies intention. And intention? Intention is basically foreplay.

And foreplay is strictly prohibited outside the sanctity of marriage, a psychological clearance form, and at least three signed affidavits from HR.

He would enter WITSEC on the spot. Change his name. Grow a beard.

(Hot.)

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

He concernedly asks over the phone - totally unaware (definitely unaware) that every time he checks in on you, he’s poking your very well-buried, very latent daddy issues with a stick.

(Or maybe he keeps asking because he’s the one with daddy issues. Very obvious ones. That classic parented-child energy. Raised himself on black coffee, moral obligation and emotional regret.)

What a match, really. You get off on being cared for, and he gets off on taking care of people he’ll never emotionally open up to.

Soulmates.

Anyway-

“So… my landlord is an asshole and I really hope he gets some very painful hemor-”

Mr. FBI has the audacity to call you by your full legal name before cutting you off with, “This call is being recorded. I’d appreciate it if you refrained from making…” he even pauses, searching for the most delicate phrasing. Because God forbid he doesn’t sound like a morally burdened Disney princess. “explicit threats.”

Oh, you’d appreciate a few things too. Like having his actual number and not the one issued by the United States Government - so you wouldn’t have to worry about scandalizing some poor technical analyst who’ll be forced to transcribe this call word-for-word the second they find his body in a ditch and trace it back to you.

(“Exhibit B: She said, quote, ‘I hope he gets some very painful hemor.���”)

…But you’re not as childish as him to complain about that.

“My bad.”

“It’s alright.” (Can he please stop talking like this?)

“Yeah… I-” Your voice trips. Your face is hot. Your entire body is hotter. “The thing is-”

“I’m listening.” Oh, fuck him. (Please.)

“In short: the building’s falling apart. We’ve been emailing the guy for weeks, complaining, begging, threatening – nicely - and either he forgets to reply or says he’ll fix it and then doesn’t. It’s been an eternity and he still hasn’t done a single fuc-”

Recorded line. Recorded line. God forbid the man has a seizure because of you. “-thing.”

You hear a chuckle on the other end.

You hate phone calls.

You’d choke him if he weren’t safely boxed inside a moving vehicle.

“I said threats. You can curse. I’m not ten.” Oh, he’s smiling. You can hear it. The smug bastard.

“Oh, that I noticed.”

You love phone calls.

If he were here, he would've already hit you with one of those signature stares - intended to intimidate, but really just making you want to lick the corner of his mouth out of pure spite.

But look at you. Free. Untouchable. Doing amazing.

“The thing is, I didn’t pay rent this month. Because they’re still ignoring the repairs. And now they’re threatening to evict me if I don’t pay.”

“That’s retaliatory. It’s illegal.”

“Wait… you’re telling me I’m not screwed?”

“No, they are. You withheld payment due to unaddressed health and safety violations. That’s protected under landlord-tenant statutes,” he says, suddenly shifting into full legalese, something-something code 572, subsection blah-blah, tenant rights, lease clauses-

You don’t hear any of it. Actually, the very second he started speaking fluent Law Daddy, , your brain slammed the emergency brake to focus on the real crisis:

What the fuck are you going to wear.

“Document everything-“

Lace? Bold choice, but post-shave? Masochism. Granny cotton briefs? He’ll never look at you again.

“Photos.”

Tight top, no bra? Risky.

What if he hugs you and feels how obnoxiously hard your nipples are?

(He’s not a hugger. He doesn’t seem like a hugger. Right?)

(Right??)

(But what if he is today?)

(What if he walks in, sees you - top clinging, no heating - and suddenly decides: You know what? Now’s the time. Now’s the moment I become a hugger. Just for her. Just this once. Just to pull her in close, pretend it’s chaste, press his palm between her shoulder blades and - oh fuck - realize it’s not.)

(What if he hugs you and feels it?)

(What if he hugs you and keeps hugging you?)

(What if he grips tighter, his hand slides just a little lower, and his voice does too, right by your ear - “You’re not wearing a bra.”)

(“Neither are you, sir.”)

(And what if that hug turns into a grind, into his thigh between your legs, into lift me onto the kitchen counter and show me what else you know about tenancy law.)

“Emails.”

Loose top, skimpy bottoms? Slutty. Strategic. Respectable slutty. He’d stare at your legs all night.

(He wouldn’t. But you’d know. Which is worse.)

You should lather in coconut oil, just in case.

You should lather in coconut oil anyway – hydration is important to avoid ingrowns (and yes, to smell edible too.)

“Timestamps.”

Tight top, no bra, skimpy bottoms? Too much? Too “I can’t pay the plumber, but maybe I can offer something else...”

(Not that you’ve watched those. Obviously. You’re just… aware of the trope.)

(Not because you spent 30 minutes the other night trying to find the perfect one. And then another 10 skipping the plot because it was too unrealistic, there’s no way the plumber just happens to have lube.)

(Not that you wouldn’t do it for him. But you’re also not going to lower yourself to being a badly lit, lazily scripted fantasy for the male gaze.)

“…If you haven’t already, I’d recommend drafting a written complaint.”

“…Aaron, I don’t even know where to start,” you mutter. “That’s why I asked if you knew a very cheap lawyer.”

“I’m the very cheap lawyer.” For some reason he chuckles, probably it’s because of his own joke, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it together, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He is not there in fifteen.

He’s “there” after fourty-eight minutes - flustered, apologizing, muttering something about I-395 and a jackknifed delivery truck, which is just adorable, really, coming from a man who’s clearly never taken the bus in heels while bleeding through his jeans, juggling three leaking Trader Joe’s bags, and re-evaluating every life decision since birth.

He’s grumbling about “infrastructure,” all furrowed brows and moral outrage. How sweet.

You, meanwhile, are Frenching the entire Department of Transportation.

You are giving gridlock the kind of wet, eye-contact blowjob that wins awards - because, for once in your adult life, the universe delayed a man just long enough for you to become a person.

Thirty-eight glorious minutes to shave, moisturize, hide the evidence of your emotional instability, light a candle, panic about the candle (too much?), blow it out, light it again (fuck it), rearrange your throw pillows, Febreze your loveseat, and clean your floors so well you briefly consider serving dinner off them - or yourself.

(Also enough time to change outfits four times, reject each one violently, and land on something that screams “Oh, this? Just threw it on,” while whispering: “I shaved everything.”)

You’ve never been more grateful for civic failure.

You look good. Your apartment looks good. You know it smells amazing in here. You know it. You can feel the Pine-Sol particles sparkling off the hardwood.

Any second now, he’s going to say something about it.

He’s going to inhale – deeply - and ask what detergent you use. Compliment your lavender baseboards.

You can feel it coming. You’re ready. You smile. You bask.

Aaron sets down his bag. Unclips it. Opens it. Looks up.

“I printed out the tenancy statutes,” he says, already pulling out an aggressively highlighted stack of documents from the briefcase.

And this would be impressive - should be impressive - if he weren’t wearing a plain black T-shirt that is doing things to his arms. And the khakis. Fucking khakis.

The most indecently decent pants in the entire male wardrobe.

They whisper "suburban dad," but scream "accidental bulge in soft daylight."

Speaking of which, unfortunately, your apartment lighting has never worked harder - midday golden-hour haze bouncing off every freshly scrubbed surface, casting soft shadows and sensual gleam until finally it settles on The Situation.

…Shit.

(Do not look at it.)

(Do not acknowledge it.)

(Do not mentally calculate whether that’s just the way his pants fold or if that’s his dick pressed against the zipper like it also has a clause to deliver.)

(Do notice, however, that he still hasn’t said a single word about how nice your apartment looks. Rude.)

“I flagged the key violations and I added notes on a recent amendment that strengthens your case - you can reference it in your response letter.” His eyes scan the room clearing it for hostiles - except all he really sees is your loveseat. Small. Soft. Close.

And you, in a tank top.

He clears his throat. Adjusts the folder. His gaze flicks back to you – quick, sharp, and immediately redirected to something safer, like the floor.

“Where… should we get set up?” he asks, like he hasn’t already mentally measured the loveseat twice, logged its exact dimensions in his brain, and is currently laser-eyeing the very cushion he’s dying – dreading - to sit on.

“Oh, I don’t know… wherever you’re comfortable.”

He nods - just a touch too seriously - then hesitates. Again. Checks one more time, with those painfully polite eyes: Can I...? Is it alright if...?

(…As if you might suddenly revoke loveseat privileges.)

Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the cushion. Perches. Occupies the absolute minimum amount of space humanly possible.

If he still had the joint mobility of his youth, you’re convinced he’d just origami himself into a respectful little one-inch cube and tuck into the far corner.

You glance at his shoulders - very broad, deliciously broad, yes - tense, but more at how hard he’s trying not to brush them against yours. What a funny man.

Especially funny because while he's typing up your official letter - like a good little lawyer - he's also letting the conversation drift into a completely unrelated side street.

Unrelated except for the fact that it's all about you.

Like how he “casually” mentions he hasn’t seen you at the pool lately.

The one where he trains and you sit in a cracked plastic cafeteria chair pretending to wait for your friend’s aquatic therapy - when really, you’re mourning every second you’re not legally tethered to the hot dad at swim practice. The hot dad who doesn’t even know he’s the hot dad. (Him. Obviously.)

You go for your friend. Technically.

Spoiler: she’s got two weeks left.

Which means once her sessions are over, you and Aaron will have absolutely no logical reason to ever speak again. No built-in excuse. No default setting.

And now there’s a looming, mutual thing neither of you are acknowledging.

You’re sure there’s a term for this. Something about large mammals afraid of mice and metaphor.

“Yeah, I was in the lane next to your friend’s the other day…” he starts.

“Really?” You pretend you didn’t get fourteen missed calls from said friend, who - when you finally called her back - didn’t even say hi. Just launched straight into: “Burgundy swim cap guy looked up at your seat three times. Three. He looked so sad you weren’t there I had to explain where you were so he wouldn’t drown in longing.”

“Yes… we talked for a bit. She seems very nice…”

Ah.

Interesting choice of words, considering she told you – verbatim - “I can’t believe someone built like a brick shithouse could be that pathetic.”

(She has yet to understand that that is the whole appeal. Him. And that exact contradiction. Him and that-)

“So… how did… your date go?” he asks, pretending to be casual. He’s polishing his glasses against the hem of his shirt, even though they’re already spotless. (You weren’t even aware he needed glasses. Probably neither is the rest of the planet.)

He keeps at it. Rubs one lens. Then the other. Then back again.

You wonder if he’s trying to distract himself. From the question. From the answer.

Your date.

The one that made you miss your friend's call. The one you actually went on. The one that-

“It went well, actually.” It did. Way too well. And that’s the problem.

Because you keep chasing Aaron.

Despite the very obvious fact that nothing will ever happen between you. Because he’s… well, him. And you’re…

A little too young. A little too broke. A little too you.

(And technically if you do the math, you’re closer to his son’s age than his. Just by a few years, sure, but still. Still enough to justify it to yourself out loud, then say it again. And again. Until it starts sounding like a fact.)

It’s just a harmless crush. A stupid little thing. A flicker. A fantasy. A hobby, really.

You have so many of those - men. Smart, emotionally unavailable, vaguely haunted. You collect them like parking tickets: Useless. Repetitive. Always showing up when you least need them. But you keep them. Stack them in a drawer somewhere in your head.

Just in case.

Still, there’s something about this one.

About him.

Aaron.

Aaron in wireframe glasses, almost making you believe in the higher powers he believes in too. (Hopefully not the United States government.)

Aaron with that voice, that jaw, that posture.

Aaron, who says things like “landlord-tenant statute” and somehow makes it sound better than the poetry in those overpriced, niche little books you only buy for the cover, the ones where the author hits enter every four words so it tricks you into thinking they mean something.

And maybe – deep, deep down – it’s because you want to be proven wrong. That someone like him could find goodness in parts of you you’ve already declared a lost cause. That he could look at all the rot and still see something worth saving. Or maybe it’s just easier. Easier to chase something you’ll never catch than turn around and face the things already standing still, arms open, waiting to love you back.

“I’m glad to hear that,” says Deliciously Four-Eyed Aaron, just a little too tight. Tighter than his khakis, which shift and pull every time he readjusts to keep from getting a flat ass on your loveseat.

(What’s wrong, Agent Hotchner? Not expecting it to actually go well? God, you hope that’s why his jaw looks like it’s about to file for divorce from the rest of his face.)

“I don’t know him well,” he adds, clinically. “But… he seems like a nice guy. He’s good at his job.”

Right. Which is rich, coming from the man who literally handed you the guy’s number. And now he’s playing coy?

So what was that, then? A random act of kindness? A stroke of pity? Was it projection? Was it a fever dream?

Did he just reach into the FBI rolodex and go: “Hmm. You’re not under disciplinary review, you own slacks, and your blood pressure is normal. Here, date this emotionally volatile woman I know and I think you might like - she has opinions and abandonment issues, enjoy!

Because Aaron doesn’t do spontaneous. Aaron does strategic. Aaron does 48-hour surveillance and triple-signed documents.

He’s not the guy who improvises. He’s the guy who rehearses his improvisation.

So forgive you if you’re just a little confused by Mr. Times New Roman over here, trying to mentally trace the logic that gets you from “I barely know him” to “you should definitely let him finger you. Only after marriage, though.”

It’s weird. And yet, somehow, that’s not even the most annoying part.

“Good at his job?” you echo, with a laugh that sounds way too close to a cry for help. (Of course. Of course that’s Special Supervising Whatever-the-Fuck Hotchner’s metric for male compatibility. Not empathy. Not emotional availability. Not even basic social literacy. No, job performance. What a catch.) “What are you going to say next, that he’s a good person because he clocks in early and doesn’t steal breakroom coffee?”

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses that did not need adjusting, “I can’t vouch for the coffee. But I do see him arrive on time. From my office. If that’s what’s concerning you.”

…Oh. So that’s what this is. We’re flexing now.

Mr. I Have A Window. Mr. I Oversee The Peasants. Mr. Private Office While Everyone Else Plays Hot-Desk Musical Chairs. Mr. Title, Tenure, and a Chair That Supports Both His Spine and His Reluctance to Feel. Mr. I Deserve This Square Footage Because I Ruined My Marriage for the Federal Government.

(You could go on. And on. And on. You won’t. But you could.)

And it’s not even clear who he’s trying to one-up here. The guy he set you up with? Or… you? Both?

Like, “Yes, he’s punctual. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s good at his job. But I define what good is. I’m his boss. Be impressed by me instead. Please. I beg you.”

Okay. Breathe. Relax.

No one invited him to a pissing contest and yet here he is, unzipping his intellectual fly right in the middle of your living room. (Not the fly you wanted unzipped, unfortunately.)

You squint at him. “So what, you show up before everyone else just to watch your little ducklings waddle in behind you? Mother Goose clocking in before sunrise to lead by example and assert dominance?”

He turns toward you. Tilts his head. Makes that face. The one you’ve been craving since the second he walked in.

Eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open - just enough to spot that one crooked tooth, bless it - an expression that says concerned, confused, and disappointed in your tone, all in one.

“It’s none of that,” he’s dead serious, even if he’s visibly smiling… marvelous. “It’s just respectful to be on time.”

Sure, Agent Hotchner. Tell yourself that while polishing your Employee of the Decade plaque.

“I barely even see my boss at the café. Twice a week, tops. And only after we open.”

Aaron lifts his eyebrows. Shrugs. “I’m not an asshole.”

Then he goes back to typing, pretending he’s not biting the inside of his cheek like the whole thing didn’t get to him.

Like he’s completely unbothered by the idea of some man buying you coffee and making you laugh for two full hours.

Like his knuckles aren’t just a little too tight around that trackpad.

“You know, for someone who just said he’s not an asshole, you sure spend a lot of time trying to prove how much better you are than other men.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he says, softly. Too softly. Like he knows volume would give him away.

And fuck, those eyes.

You can’t look at them too long. You bounce between his face and anything else - your coffee table, the printout, his lap (unfortunately) - because those glasses are giving him four eyes now, and all of them are aimed at your skull, dissecting every micro-expression.

He's a bit suffocating.

“I think what really bothers you,” he says, measured, "is that you’re used to being misread."

You scoff. “Excuse me?” (Bitch.)

"You act like you want to be chased, but only if it feels reluctant. If it's earned. You push people to see if they’ll push back. You turn it into a game because it’s safer that way. If it’s a game, you can pretend you were never serious when they walk away."

Well. Okay. First of all: Rude.

Second of all: Accurate. Horribly accurate.

But also: How dare he.

"And if they don't... if they try to meet you where you are... you push them away first. Just to prove you were right to be afraid" he says - and the bastard even smiles. (Fuck his dimples. Really. Pretentious as hell.) "You punish them for it… and you punish the ones who don’t play, too. Because deep down, you still don’t know which would hurt more."

"Wow," you never thought you'd actually be speechless, and yet - here you are, scrambling for a comeback. Great. "Good thing you said you weren’t trying to prove anything. Otherwise I might’ve gotten confused and assumed you were just showing off." (Good enough. You’ll take it.)

Smarty-pants chuckles under his breath then leans back against your very professional, very structurally unsound loveseat. His knee brushes yours.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends he doesn’t notice you noticing.

"Not showing off, just telling you what you already know."

"Oh, right, because you’re such an expert on me."

"I’m just observant."

"And arrogant." And a fucking hypocrite too.

"And you still looked at my mouth twice." What a who-

Somewhere between your brain screaming full bitch slap, full bitch slap and your hand almost twitching to deliver it… you miscalculate.

You lean in. And instead of bruising his cheekbone, you crash your mouth against his.

Pride - and the stack of feminist books judging you from the bookshelf - insist it’s you who moves first. You believe them. You have to.

Even though his hands are already there - rough and steady, drowning your face in their grip - before you even finish breathing in your half-ounce of courage. Before you really even choose anything at all.

(But sure. Go ahead. Call it empowerment. You’re totally running the show. Girlboss shit.)

You want to bite him. Sink your teeth into that smug, diagnosing mouth. Split his lip. Make him bleed all over the living room he still hasn’t bothered to compliment the smell of. (You’re not petty about it… it’s just an observation.)

But it’s slower instead.

You taste his nerve first, his fear right after.

He’s already halfway to pulling back even as he keeps kissing you - trying to have it both ways - and for a second, you do break apart.

Both pretending you could still undo this. (And also undo all the bullshit he said earlier, profiling you so hard he didn’t even realize he was accidentally outing himself too.)

It doesn’t last.

You crash back into him, sloppier, mouths dragging, missing, gasping, half-kissing, half-clawing at each other as you’re both a little too desperate to land properly.

For a split second, the kiss turns... almost sweet. Tender. Romantic, even.

You could say he’s a good kisser.

You could say he’s a great kisser.

You could say he’s the only man alive who could kiss you stupid and still find a way to remind you to breathe through your nose.

(Like when he notices you getting lightheaded and somehow fixes it without even pulling away... which, not gonna lie, is a little humbling.)

But there’s no time for critical analysis. You’re already shoving him flat onto the loveseat, pinning him down, while he blinks up at you - wide-eyed, flushed, so beautiful it makes your chest hurt.

(And he looks so... concerned. As if he’s realizing just now that there’s absolutely no dignified way to get out of this alive.)

(Good. He shouldn’t.)

There’s tongue.

There’s teeth.

There’s his hands – everywhere - gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, squeezing the backs of your thighs, pushing your leg higher over him until you can feel - Oh. Oh, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard.

There’s a muffled noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like please and you are not thinking about that right now.

And it’s-

God.

It’s filthy. It’s great.

You grind down hard, whimpering shamelessly into his mouth, and he bucks up into you, meeting you halfway with both hands locked around your ass, squeezing so rough you’ll be wearing fingerprints by tomorrow.

(You hope so.)

(You really fucking hope so.)

He helps you move –

Up.

Down.

Slower.

Harder.

Guiding your hips with just enough pressure to make it feel like it’s your idea, finding the rhythm you didn’t know you needed until he gives it to you, forcing you to ride the thick, hard shape straining against his pants-

Just the right angle. Just the right friction.

So perfect it catches your clit every single time, knocks a gasp right out of your throat, straight into his mouth.

You’re soaking through your panties. You’re shaking with it. And it clearly gets to him - God, it wrecks him.

You can feel it - the way he tenses under you, the way his hands clutch harder at your ass, the way his cock throbs against you through the fabric like he’s just barely holding on.

He bites down on your bottom lip, rougher than you expect. Too rough for a man who apologizes when he says fuck.

He holds it between his teeth, sucks it – hard - humming low and filthy against your mouth, so obscene it makes your hips stutter.

Drop.

Just enough to let your soaked cunt drag across the swollen head of his cock.

And when you grind back, slower, tracing right along the thick ridge straining against his zipper, he chokes on a breath.

“God, fuck-”

It tears out of him, raw, as if he’s almost embarrassed by how much pleasure is tangled in it, by how stupidly sincere it comes out of his mouth.

(Also, thank God he didn’t reverse it. If he’d said “fuck, God,” instead, you’re pretty sure he would’ve stopped everything, dropped to his knees, and asked you to drive him to a confessional. Not even a metaphor - actual church. Actual guilt. Actual “forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”)

He tilts his head back, groaning, neck arching against the pillow - exposed, gorgeous - and you completely lose it.

Your tongue drags over his throat, chasing the pulse hammering under his skin, tracing your way back up to his mouth.

He’s so hot. He’s so good. He’s-

…terrified.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes, suddenly sitting up on his elbows. “I-” 

He fumbles. He panics. He stands. Backs away from the couch. From you. Visibly blushing. Visibly mortified.

“I didn’t mean-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence...

…Because he finished in his pants instead.

Poor thing.

You should be a little cruel about it - he was an asshole earlier, after all - but you’re not quite mean enough to kick a wounded 6’2” puppy when he’s already limping. (No pun intended… or maybe-)

"Hey," you murmur, reaching out, curling your fingers around his wrist so he can’t backpedal any further. He flinches. (Not much. Just enough to make you want to kiss him again. Harder this time. Until he flinches worse.)

"It’s okay. It’s-" You almost say sweet - catch yourself just in time, because you’re not trying to get murdered tonight.

"It’s normal," you settle on instead. "It’s flattering. Honestly.” (Also kind of hot. But you’ll take that particular confession to your grave.) “You didn’t... ruin anything."

He still doesn’t look convinced. At all. In fact, he looks like he might apologize again, maybe even draft a formal statement and notarize it.

You scramble. “It’s not a big deal, seriously. Who cares if it was-” (You hesitate for half a second, fatal mistake.) "-like, 30 seconds? Could've been 29, right?!”

…Right.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

(I might've missed someone this time, pls tell me in the comments if your name got lost AAAA sorry in advance)

Little reminder that the requests for fleabag!reader are open!! Ok.. I'll go now. Bye.

[pseudowho]

Link to Furry Little Problem (where you, Nanami Kento's wife, are turned into a cat for a week) here!

And, a link to @yuutaguro's exquisite art for Part One

It had been almost a week since you had turned back into a human, and Kento had seen most traces of the four-paws-and-sharp-claws Cat You, bleed away.

Most, at least; what concerned Kento, was that you weren't completely normal. He could overlook the way you would turn, and turn, and turn on the spot before settling onto the sofa. He could forgive the way you would spin on a pinhead, phantom ears pricked and still as the grave, at every little noise past the front door.

Kento drew the line, however, when you shot up from the dining table mid dinner conversation, to run headfirst into the patio doors with a thud. The sparrow that had landed just outside twittered, and flew away, as you sat, dazed. Kento buried his face in his hands.

"I'm sure it's not that bad, Nanami," Shoko had tutted, inviting you both into her office. "I'm sure it will just...just take, uh..."

You had been forced to pause at the door, to bat and chew at the loping leaves of her little pot plant. As Kento, ever patient and gentle, guided you with whispered reassurances away from the pot plant, and to the sofa, Shoko's clipboard drooped.

You dug your nails into the couch for a few seconds, pricking it all over, before sitting down in your seat with a satisfied little wiggle, and a smile.

Shoko's eyes flicked from you, to Kento, to you, and began, awkward.

"Let's...get a baseline, shall we? See how much of the cat still remains." Shoko reached behind her, rustling in a bag, before placing something long and green on the table before you. "I have a cucumb--"

You shot into the air like you were on springs, landing with a crash behind Shoko's sofa. The room was silent. Shoko's cigarette idly smoked in her ashtray. Kento buried his fingers into his hair, his elbows on his knees.

"Tell me...uh...tell me some of your experiences from the Cat Week, please, Nyanyami--"

Kento glared at Shoko.

The top of your head rose slowly up from behind the sofa, staring at the cucumber with an unhealthy amount of suspicion.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Stop that," Kento snapped at you, pausing the movie. You, toe-beaned and glossy and sweet, tilted your furry little head sideways. Kento could almost see the question mark over your head as you stared at him, unblinking and eerie.

The room was dark, save for the little lamp in the corner. The movie sat, inanimate. Kento felt a prickle up his spine; the shadows were thrown long and the room felt many-eyed and still. Kento stared you down. You stared Kento down. Kento narrowed his eyes. You tilted your head to the other side. A clock ticked.

"Meow," you said.

"I mean it," rumbled Kento, stern, "stop it."

You blinked, and chirped, and turned back to the movie. Kento breathed out a shaky sigh, and restarted it.

Five minutes later, Kento dropped the remote with a clatter, cursing.

"Stop staring behind me-- there's nothing behind me-- that's it, we're going to bed--"

Your unwavering gaze into the gloom behind Kento, was interrupted by him picking you up and slinging you over his shoulder. You chirped in protest.

"Mew-- meooooow--"

"I warned you, stop being creepy. It's bedtime for you, madam."

"Meow."

"Yes, I'll rub your tummy, just stop doing the thing--"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"I'm recommending Ino for the initiative. I think it would be good experience for him, in his plan to progress to--to...darling, please--"

Kento's face on the computer screen was obscured first by furry little face, then a body that dragged hair across his chest, and finally a jaunty little tail, raised and flicking. The other Zoom call participants were silent as Kento lowered you to the floor, where you fizzled up at him in tiny irritation.

"I apologise," Kento sighed to awkward silence, "just my wife--"

Clatter-- clatter-- clack.

The screen flickered. The Zoom call expanded, and shrunk, and expanded, and shrunk, and finally ended. Kento leaned back in his chair, watching you settle on his keyboard. You batted at the mouse, until it landed with a sad little clatter onto the office floor.

You looked at Kento, all pink nose and innocence. Kento's eyes narrowed. He looked into your eyes, looking past the cat to the you within.

"...you know exactly what you're doing, don't you, you absolute terror--"

"Meow," you replied, rolling onto your back to keyboard clatter, and showing him your belly.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Meow--"

"--no, you listen to me-- you did that on purpose--"

"Mew--meow, mrrrrow--"

"--don't give me that, you always hated that tie-- awfully convenient--"

"Mew, mew, meow--"

The neighbour watched, slack-jawed and confused, as his neighbour argued with a cat over a brandished, shredded red tie.

What was stranger, was when the cat seemed to argue back. The neighbour's little pot plant overflowed, the watering can slack in his hand.

"--we shall have words when I'm home," Nanami clipped, handing the tie back to you with a glare. You took it in your teeth, imperious as you turned your furry little back to him.

And so began the rumour amongst the neighbours, that Nanami Kento had gone mad.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Meow."

You bopped your head against Kento's shin. Gojo watched the vein throb in his temple.

"Meow."

You bopped your head onto Kento again, brushing up against his legs, and brushing, and brushing, and bopping your head. Kento ignored you, utterly steadfast. Gojo gulped.

"Ah, Nanami, I...I think she's hungry--"

"--she is not hungry, she's only just eaten breakfast--"

"Meow," you said. You dragged a plate to your usual spot at the dinner table with your teeth. You nosed a knife and fork into place next to it. You sat by it, staring at Kento. A few seconds passed. You pressed your paw to the middle of the plate, more insistent now, ticked off. "Meow."

Gojo felt a bead of sweat drop down his soul.

Kento spoke, uncharacteristically mild.

"You know, this is one part of her that's really not all that different to when she's human."

"Meow--"

"--yes, I'll get you a snack, give me a minute--"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Yo, Nanamin! A package arrived for you."

"Ahh, Yuuji. Good. Bring it to the staffroom, please."

A rip. A rustle. You, circling round Kento as he rummaged in a box. Your tail twitched, and flicked, excited, excited, excited--

Boff.

A big, glass fishbowl was placed onto the staffroom table. Thrilled, you sprung up, and promptly poured yourself into the bowl, your form melting to fill the space perfectly. Your head peeped out of the top of the bowl. You purred.

Kento looked delighted. Yuuji tried not to laugh.

"How, er...how much was that fishbowl, Nanamin?"

"It doesn't matter how much it cost. She likes it, don't you? Yes, you do. Yes you do."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Ex-excuse me, uhm...would you mind not hanging around outside the womens' bathrooms? We're starting to feel, uhm...uncomfortable."

Kento raised his eyebrows. He pushed his glasses up his nose. He bowed.

"I apologise. I assure you, I'm waiting for my wife--"

A toilet flushed behind closed doors. A scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch at the handle. The door edged open.

"Ah, there she is-- my apologies-- good afternoon--"

A cat ran out with toilet paper stuck to its back foot. Kento followed.

A small crowd of women turned to watch them leave, utterly perplexed.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Kento arrived home with a sigh. The day had been long. His shoulders ached, heavy with the burden of work and worry, missing his wife, and he walked through the corridor, calling for you and--

"My lov-- Jesus Christ!"

You leapt out from the staircase, all four paws out in a clawed jazz-hands of death, and yowled at Kento, before skittering away.

Kento leant back against the wall, holding his chest, his glasses askew. He sounded so desperately weary, when he spoke.

"...please stop jumping out at me, you are ageing me--"

From somewhere deep inside the house, "Meow."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Kento couldn't remember the last time he ran around his garden like this. But he did, running, panting, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie abandoned in the flowerbeds and a quirked little half-smile on his face.

He hid behind a forget-me-not blue Hydrangea, trying to silence his breaths, listening, and listening, and--

"Meow!"

Kento laughed, deep and husky, as you shot through the bushes, finding him in seconds. He burst out, running across the garden, and feeling you catch up fast, and jump onto his back, and--

Kento grabbed you, his hands huge and warm and gentle. He fell onto his back on the grass, holding you aloft, where you gazed down at him with as much love as a cat could gaze at a human. Except you weren't a cat, were you?

The sun shone your fur into effervescence. Kento sighed, suspending you in one hand and stroking your cheeks and whiskers with the other.

"This is...nice," he whispered. "Fun. We should...we should do this again. When you're back."

You dropped down onto his chest. You nuzzled your nose against his, over, and over, and over, your two front paws clutching his cheeks with joy.

Kento accepted your feline kisses with a faint sting of tears in his nose.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Perhaps there's something about her that always connected on a spiritual level with cats?"

Kento glared at Shoko. "Are you suggesting my wife is more feline than human?"

Shoko smirked. She looked over to you, curled up on the sofa, fast asleep, with Kento's tan suit jacket covering your body.

"She'll come back. Maybe she'll get her comeuppance one day, for all the trouble she caused you. But in the meantime...she's kind of cute."

Kento scoffed, stroking your hair behind your ear. He could have sworn he heard you purr.

"Nonsense. She was always cute."

[scribbles-here]

𝙷𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛

You made it.

All those hardships thrusted upon you ever since you appeared in Twisted Wonderland. All those overblots you fought, all those nights where you sat alone in the dark, wondering to whatever god was willing to listen to you, a magicless human with nothing to her name. Barely above a whisper, you asked the stars above you; Is there even a happily ever after for me?

Oh, what a silly human you are, they laughed, not like you heard them. There’s always a happily ever after. And their words spoke true you realized, staring at the large doors you were supposed to enter from, wedding dress clenched in your shaking hands, you smiled.

You made it.

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts (Here), Leona Kingscholar, Azul Ashengrotto, Kalim Al Asim, Vil Schoenheit, Idia Shroud, Malleus Draconia

a/n: went wedding dress shopping with my aunt a few days ago cuz she wanted to renew her vows with my uncle in june and seeing so many wedding dresses made me feel inspired! also apologizies if anyone is ooc, i tried my best !!

Your heart was pounding with excitement and nervousness. You were just a few minutes away from marrying the love of your life. The man who's been stuck to you like glue the moment you saved him from his overblot and helped him change for the better.

Pacing back and forth, you don't notice the familiar cherisher grin appear next to you before the rest of his body appears. "Nya? Is the wife-to-be experiencing cold feet?"

Jumping, you turn to face the voice and find Che'nya, in all his cheeky glory. "Yo!" He struts over to the nearest loveseat and like a cat, sprawls his body across the plush cushions, hands behind his head, and his tail swaying against his thigh. Not a care in the world.

"Che'nya? What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be sitting with the rest of the guests?" You stopped your pacing to question your friend. "The weddings about to start and I don't think Riddle would appreciate you missing the ceremony-"

The beastman waves your questions with a few flicks of his hand. "Relax~ I'm just here to check on you by Trey's request and from his judgment, he was right." He sits up and scans your face. "Riddle's wife is experiencing cold feet!" Che'nya laughs, poking at your hot cheeks with his nail.

"It's not funny!" You whine, turning your face away from the prodding and walked over to the vanity. Che'nya follows after you, looking at you examine yourself, playing with your hair to fiddling with the vail you wore. "What if I mess up the vows or I trip walking down the aisle? Oh! I don't want to embarrass myself ESPECIALLY on my wedding day!" You shrieked, covering your face and curling in on yourself.

"What if Riddle regrets asking me to marry him..." You whimpered.

"Do you regret it?" The cat beastman asks, tilting his head.

"No! Never!"

Che'nya lets out a sigh, leaning his shoulder against yours as he once again pokes at your cheek. "Oh, then I doubt Riddle will ever regret asking you to be his wife, in fact you should've seen him planning out your proposol!" You look at the beastman with confusion.

Before you were able to ask more about it, Che'nya beats you to it.

"Man! Riddle was so worried about the smallest details, he would bark orders left and right and if one of the flowers in the bouquet were just off by a centimeter, he would get red in the face and redo the whole thing himself!" Che'nya cackles, clenching his stomach from laugh.

"An-and! When it was finally time for the proposol Riddle had the nerve to get cold feet! He was spouting nonsense like 'What if [Name] regrets saying yes?' PFT-"

Dropping back to sit on the loveseat, Che'nya laughs harder while you stared dumbfounded at the information.

Riddle getting cold feet?? But on the day he proposed he was as cool as a cucumber!

Though, you thought, heart thumping in your chest as heat spread across your cheeks. It does feel nice to know Riddle feels the same... maybe he's experiencing cold feet right now?

Standing up, you smacked your cheeks, pumping yourself up for the walk. "I got this!"

Wiping tears away from his eye, Che'nya giggles. "Got what?"

"The wedding, I'm sure Riddle is just as nervous as I am right now and I wanna show him that we're in this together!" Gathering the front of your dress in your hands so you won't trip, you stomped down out the room, bumping into Cater who had arrived to tell you that it was time.

・❥・

Standing in front of the large pearl white doors, you took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled.

"Nervous?" A voice asked.

You looked to your left and spotted your professor who you had grown to see as a father figure during your time in Night Raven College.

Smothering down your dress, you responded shyly. “A little.”

Then familiar notes of 'Here Comes the Bride' begans playing.

"Are you ready?" Your professor smiles at you and stretches out his elbow.

Linking your elbow with his, you nod straightening your shoulders. "I am."

Soon the doors were pushed wide open by magic and there stood Riddle across the room at the altar, waiting for you. Your heart speeds up once you both make eye contact.

Walking closer and closer, Riddle blinks away his tears rapidly, straightening his back one more once you stood in front of him, hands laced with each other. His breathes through his nose harshly after getting a good look at you closely.

You were just as beautiful as the day he met you.

He zones out whatever the officiant is saying but Riddle immediately locks in once he hears it was his turn to say his vows. With shaking hands, Riddle pulls out a folded paper from his breast pocket and with a loud, shaky voice, he spills the vows he spent countless hours on.

"[Name], you have been my rock since the day we met, you have seen me at my worst and stood by my side whenever I was blinded by rage." He pauses, eyes flickering to yours before swiftly back down at the paper again.

"You soothed me whenever I had doubts, and you stuck with me after my mother cut contact even after all the harsh words she had thrown at you. F-for you, I would break all the rules."

Slapping a hand to your mouth, you choked on the sob that threaten to escape. Tears bubbled at your water line, a few managed to escape and leave a burning trail down your cheek. "R-Riddle..."

The officiant smiles, glancing between the two of you. "Riddle Rosehearts, do you take [Name] as your lawfully wedded wife? In sickness and in good health, in good times and woe, for richer or poorer, til death do you part?"

"I do."

Smiling, the man turns to you and repeats the same phrase.

"And you, [Name] [Last Name], take Riddle Rosehearts as your lawfully wedded husband? In sickness and in good health, in good times and woe, for richer or poorer, til death do you part?"

Sniffling, you smiled. "I do."

The man smiles and turns to the bundle of fur on the side. "May we have the rings, please?"

Grim perks up and waddles over, presenting the rings. After placing the rings on each other, Riddle and you held your hands together, not once removing your gaze from each other.

The officiant then loudly proclaims. "I now pronounce you, husband and wife, you may now kiss the bride."

Riddle wastes no time and immediately cups your face in his hands and placed his quivering lips upon yours. The hall explodes in applause at the now married couple.

Whistles ring out once you wrap your arms around Riddle's neck to bring him closer to you, salty tears mixing with your kiss.

Pulling back to stare into each other's eyes, you give your now beloved husband a smile.

"I love you Ridde."

Riddle chuckles, tears finally rolling down his as he uses his thumb to wipe at your wet cheek.

"I love you too, Mrs. Rosehearts.

Who Was Invited?

Cater Diamond, Trey Clover, Duece Spade, Ace Trappola, Che'nya, Trey's parents, Malleus Draconia, Lilia Vanrouge, Silver Vanrouge, Sebek Zigvolt, and a few professors you had grown close to. Riddle's mother never showed up

While Riddle wanted a small wedding, he couldn't say no to you once you gave him those puppy eyes.

My tip jar! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

excuse any mistakes !!