#Sof says things

[tea-blankets-andstars]

*cough cough* ...hi i have another event

so umm i kinda just wanna say that im literally soosososoosooooo thankful for all of you guys because wtf 1,000!? thaks fucking crazy. but um yeah i kinda was really hesitant to do this event because i did one beofre and literally only one person sent in a request so im hoping some more of you will send something this time! But fr i am so fucking greatful and this is literally amazing so yayayyay!! 

So without further ado...

WELCOME TO SOF'S SWEETS SHOP

rulessss: you can send 2 asks total (idrc if they are in the same ask or not), you can send the same ask twice but with different characters/plot, moots can also send in asks under the followers catigory, if possibe make it a fandom thats in my intro post because thise are kinda the only ones i know tbh

🍬intro🍬

for followers:

🥧- send me a character/ship and i will give you a song that reminds me of them

🫖- send me a character/ship and ill give you a short list of hcs

for moots:

🍨- send me a character/ship and a trope and i'll write a microfic abt them (this one might take me a little while longer)

🍪- send me a character/ship and i will make a moodboard for them

For my special moots:

(idk what else to call you guys <3)

🍎- i'll asign you a song based on your vibes to meeee

listtttt

:) special moots:

@a-chance-of-raine @uhhlifeig @bemusedrodent @joanofsharks @purple-iris-flower @uhhlifeig

mootsssss:

(not all bc im tired srry)

@accio-atticus @the-stars-drowning @forensic-b1tch-aiden @morallyundefined @starcrossedmoony @moonyfr @ieatglowsticks @foxalade @writerthatarts @screamer-not-a-dreamer @xoxochb @resident-gay-bitch @nyx-taylors-version @the-real-agatha-harkness @allonsy-moony @they-call-me-whiskey @sage-way @a-dam-heartstopper-fan @pansyfilia @starkayezer @starkissed-mars @b00ks1ut @just-a-girl-who-loves-tmr

[vampyrluver]

New Jersey....., i will not miss u when i leave im sorry

[gorgugplushie]

having a normal one about dog boys i see .

HE GOT ON HIS BACK . HE SAID HED BEG . HE BARKED . HE GROWLED . HE SAID HE WAS A BETTER DOG THAN MAN . HE WANTED SCRITCHES .

[queenharumiura]

((When you're dreaming and it's your Haru muse basically going, 'See? I like this person, I think we have something going here. Work on that. If you mess this up for me, so help me i'll disown you.'

Yes, ma'am. I've never had Haru do that to me with an OC until now. Always something new with this one. ))

[tgwdlmreprised]

i had to like. pause the bacon and eggs spam because i was like ho lets check the paul tag :]

[xoxojisu]

CLINGY!

synopsis: in your relationship with rin, you've always been the affectionate one. the touchy one. the clingy one. so one day, you pull back from touching him so much, and it kills him.

notes: "jisu isnt this idea oddly similar to this katsuki fic you just wrote? BOY SYBAU MY BLOG I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.

you always touch first.

you’re the one who loops your arms around him from behind. the one who squishes his cheeks in your hands and calls him pretty. the one who laces your fingers with his while he’s mid-sentence like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

rin calls you clingy.

he says it with a sigh, with a roll of his eyes, with a “god, again?” when you kiss the tip of his nose.

he grumbles and looks to the side, but he never pulls away.

so you thought it was okay.

until you start wondering. what if he’s just tolerating it? what if he just doesn’t know how to tell you to stop?

you don’t bring it up. you just… stop. quietly.

no more casual touches. no more kisses on the cheek. no more spontaneous hand-holding or forehead pokes or clinging to his arm while he scrolls his phone or as you walk.

at first, rin doesn’t notice. not really. he thinks maybe you’re just tired. maybe you’re distracted.

but two days pass.

then three.

and then he realizes something’s wrong.

you still smile at him the same way. still talk to him, still text, still sit beside him on the couch.

but you keep your hands to yourself. you don’t lean on him when you laugh. you don’t reach for him. at all.

and it’s driving him crazy.

he’s sitting next to you now, knees barely brushing, and he’s sweating. his hands twitch in his lap. he glances at you from the corner of his eye and you’re looking down at your phone, legs tucked up under yourself, completely unaware of the war he’s waging inside.

he wants to touch you so bad he feels nauseous.

goddamnit, he feels so.. needy. but he can't even bring himself to care much.

he wants to feel you. in any way, shape, or form. just wants to feel your warmth against his.

but he’s never had to be the one to start it. he doesn’t know how. what if you pull away? what if you don’t want it anymore?

his throat’s dry. his heartbeat’s stupid.

he gives in.

“…are you mad at me?”

you blink up at him. “what?”

he looks away instantly. cheeks dusted pink. “you’re not… doing your usual.. stuff. it's weird. so i figured you were mad.”

you frown a little. “you mean the clingy stuff?”

his eyes flick to you, then away. “…yeah.”

you’re quiet for a second too long.

he panics.

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly. “i didn’t..! i-it's not annoying. i don’t want you to stop.” the words tumble out like he's been holding them in his whole life.

you look at him, surprised. “you don’t?”

he groans softly, dragging a hand over his face like he’s peeling it off. “i just say that because i've never really had it before. but i like it. i just don’t know how to ask for it. okay? i don’t know how to do that stuff. but you do, and i got used to it, and now you’re not doing it and it’s-” he cuts himself off, looking everywhere but at you. “…i miss it.”

you stare at him.

he looks miserable.

“…you miss me being clingy?” you say slowly.

he mutters, “don’t call it that,” but he’s blushing so hard now.

you try to hold back your smile. really, you do, but you can’t.

“so you like when i hang off you all the time.”

he groans again, turning his face into the couch cushion. “shut up.”

"aweeee, did my rinnie misssss me? he wants to be held?"

"shut up!" his face is on fire. he can't bring himself to look anywhere near your eyes.

you scoot closer. he tenses.

you lean in gently and press your forehead to his temple.

“i thought i was annoying you.”

he breathes in, shaky. “never.”

“so i can be clingy again?”

his answer is immediate.

“yes.”

but then, after a beat:

“but let me try, too.”

you blink. “try what?”

he reaches out with a hand that’s awkward, hesitant, and gently laces your pinkies together.

he won’t look at you. his ears are so red.

you smile so softly it hurts.

and you squeeze his hand back.

he sighs, relieved, and rests his head on your shoulder like he’s finally home.

(he is)

masterlist

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

thank you so much to @rybunnie @rybunbun for the info/inspo for this and so many other posts!!! i owe u so much🥹

you knew that nagi seishiro loved you.

he clung to you, he played video games with you, he binged watch anime with you, he slept most nights holding you close to his chest, and he looked at you as if you were the most precious, extravagant treasure, as if you were irreplaceable and that he could never love another nearly as much. even if he didn’t express it through his words, his actions told you all that you needed to know.

you also knew that nagi seishiro was the bane of your existence.

skipping dates because he was too lazy to go, thinking that not replying to your texts was okay because it was a hassle, skipping dates because of soccer practice (in which he just scores 50 goals and falls asleep), being completely unaware of anyone else who had romantic interests in him and trying to steal him away from you, often flat-out ignoring you in favor of playing video games, insensitive words that he thinks are alright to say.

you’re sitting on the chipped and white wooden bench at the park, four fingers drumming on your thigh impatiently before you finally sighed, pressing the bright green “call” button once more. and once more, a robotic female voice replied. “the number you have called is currently unavailable. please send a voicemail.”

finally, you got up, hands in your pockets and grumbling profanities under your breath. angrily, you began typing on your phone, nagi’s contact photo clear as day.

you: ik that u didn’t have soccer practice today because reo said so

you: where the fuck r u???

another date, skipped for video games. probably a date that was completely forgotten about again. you were tired of this; this was the what, third time already these past two weeks? and you guys never even went on dates that often either. you groaned, walking back to your crappy little school dorm that was a whole damn building away from nagi’s.

when you were at school the next day, you ignored nagi’s overwhelming presence in the classroom. you ignored him following you around like a lost puppy. you ignored him trying to talk to you. you ignored his nudging and poking. you ignored his constant quiet apologies.

after school ended, you immediately walked back to your dorm swiftly, not turning back to see nagi almost chasing after you through the crowded halls. your eyes widened a fraction when you realized how quickly nagi was walking; he would usually find walking too fast a hassle. but just before he could catch up to you, you reached your dorm and slammed the door, leaving him outside.

“‘m sorry.” nagi muttered. “please let me in. it’s gonna rain soon, and i miss you.”

“go back to your own dorm. or go to reo’s bigass company-house-penthouse-apartment thing.” you replied hastily. “go away. you’re annoying.”

you could almost feel nagi’s pout through the door, and for a moment, you almost felt tempted to let him in. but he didn’t show up to your date last night and left you freezing on the park bench, so this is well deserved.

a few minutes later, a rainstorm thudded through the city, the clouds gray and dull. as you stared outside, you wondered if nagi had made it to his dorm safely. no, he probably had. he played soccer after all; he was fast. but your thoughts came to a halt when a loud knock came on the door.

“can you let me in? it’s really wet out here.”

you nearly sprinted to open the door, and there stood nagi, his hair and clothes wet, holding an all too familiar plastic bag. inside, you could vaguely see your favorite snacks and foods from the nearby convenience store. “sei? what the hell are you doing out here?” he stepped in, dropping the plastic bag on your counter.

“missed you, and i felt bad.” his puppy dog eyes made your own soften, and you even felt a little bad yourself. “i’ll try not to do it again. i told reo to text me whenever i have a date with you now, and i’ll try to remember more often now.”

your eyes softened, and despite how soaked his clothes were, you embraced him. “at least you’re trying.” nagi lazily draped his arms around you.

“i thought you thought that i was annoying.” nagi mumbled.

“i did. but then again, i remembered that your my boyfriend and i love you, and that my love for you cancels out my annoyance at your stupidity.”

nagi laughed before he looked down at you, and despite the rain and clouds outside, his eyes turned into glittering gems underneath the sunlight when he looked at the love of his life.

a/n: did you catch the kim possible reference???

[sofstiltskin]

Astrology observations pt 8 (Tea on men edition) ✨

From my personal observation on men I am surrounded with Imma spoil you their behaviour and how to interpret it.. or avoid it.

♞ A xy with Neptune on Ascendant/Pisces rising or Neptune in any aspect with Ascendant -> they ADORE to project their fantasies and imagination onto you, making you believe in all their words. They don't know how to be their true selves (unless other placements in their chart says otherwise). ♞ You walk the men with whom you have a Sun-Moon aspect in synastry (you as Sun and them as Moon is the stronger effect). Why? Because your personality chains their emotions making them feel dependent on your attention. ♞ You are a dream girl to men with whom you have Venus in 1st house/Venus making aspect with their Asc in a synastryy. 👀 ♞ Imma hold your hand when I say this; Moon in Pisces ahh poets,musicians anything related to art and romantic things they are experts in that, stay away from them if you want something serious and long lasting (until they turn 50 years). ♞ Lets hop onto our next mutable Moon sign : Gemini ,one time this guy devastated and could not stand me, and few weeks later he suddenly adored me lool. They can't decide on what emotion to act consistently. ♞ Venus in 3rd house (especially if it conjucts other planets) makes a man a huuge yapper and charmer with words (heavy on them, low on actions ). ♞ Do not try to argue with a Fire sign Mercury it is like explaining a brick why it is so hard while it hold onto "i am not" ♞ Salute to the men with a Saturn-Moon aspect, can know and want to be accountable for their emotions and behaviour towards other people. A big humanitarians, since Saturn rules Aquarius. ♞ Venus in Pisces men are actually quite nice and will spoil you with alots of affection, you will be their muse believe me. That’s it for today !! x

-Sof

[tea-blankets-andstars]

Hold on I’m having thoughts: ok ok listen up

Stranger things marauders au

El: Pandora

Will: Evan

Mike: Barty

Dustin: Regulus

Lucas: Dorcas

Max: Marlene

Erica: Mary

Steve: James

Jonathon: Peter

Nancy: Lily

Robin: Sybil

Eddie: Sirius

[hencheri]

▸ 18+ mdni.

| pairing. producer!johnny x fem!reader

| warnings. heavy noncon, loss of virginity, manipulation, age gap implied.

johnny has never kept a girl around him that long before—well, a girl he's planning on taking the virginity of.

it wasn't hard to convince you to come to his apartment after work. it seemed like you thought it'd be a good way to end the evening, eating dinner and then going back home.

it’s indeed a good way to end the evening for johnny, too. there's a thing he loves doing after a good meal and a glass of wine; having sex. it may not be the case for you, you're a virgin after all—he's certain of it now by how many times you keep repeating it over and over again as he tugs down on your panties—but you don't really have a say in it, do you?

his hands are so cold, so big, so imposing and manly, it makes you feel all types of things that aren't particularly pleasing. you close your legs tightly when your underwear is off, now in the hold of johnny. he takes a second to sniff them, inhaling the scent of your pussy while still looking you in the eye.

your eyes widen at his action, having never thought someone would do that to your worn panties, but johnny is doing everything you thought he would never dare to do.

"say 'ah', sweetheart," he instructs, a grin spreading on his face.

your lips are sealed shut, looking at him with watery eyes as your chest heaves up and down. you think about it, hesitating, but you eventually open your mouth, only to regret it after when he stuffs it with your underwear.

you shake your head from side to side, but he makes you stop by grabbing your jaw. "stop complaining. it'll happen whether you want it or not," he scolds you severely, using a harsh tone you've never heard him use on you before.

a cry comes out of your mouth, chest heavy in complete desperation.

he gives your cheek a few encouraging taps and turns you around with ease so you lay on your stomach. you're shivering as he runs a palm over your spine.

you perch yourself on your elbows, looking over your shoulder, shaking like a leaf. your tears finally fall from your eyes and you catch the sight of johnny unbuckling his belt, the clanking sound of metal filling up the room.

"relax," he says as he lays his hands on your hips, feeling the tip of his cock nudging your bare pussy. "gonna be way more painful if you're all tensed up like that, baby."

and so you listen because what else can you do.

he passes the head of his cock through your folds, letting out an appreciative hum when he sees some wetness sticking to his tip, mixing with his pre-cum.

you scrunch your eyes shut when he sinks in, literally feeling him stretching you out to his size. you let out another sob, sounding even more painful and pathetic to johnny's satisfaction.

"fuck," is all he says when he bottoms out, your cunt so incredibly tight around him.

you stay there, crying and sobbing, enduring johnny's long and languid thrusts, elongating your pain till it's unbearable. his lips are parted to let out shallow breaths and you can hear him panting, getting you rid of your pureness in the most atrocious way possible.

how could you have ever doubted he'd do something like that to you...

your panties are soaked in your spit and having it in your mouth is so uncomfortable, your lips all sore, chin covered in your saliva. you have the impression that your muffled cries turn him on, encourage him to keep going, and you hate it.

you grip the white bedsheets in front of you, sinking your nails into the soft covers. johnny slips his fingers through your hair, leaning his chest over your back and closing his grip around your messy locks.

he lifts your body off the mattress, his hips still snapping against your butt, your arousal all smeared over his hard cock. he carefully removes the wet piece of cloth from your mouth, strings of spit following it, throwing your panties somewhere else on the bed.

he stares down at your swollen lips, also parted to let out your soft and pitiful cries. you say nothing and let johnny penetrate your mouth with two of his fingers, pressing down on your pink muscle.

your eyes are red and puffy from your non-stop crying, tears rolling down your cheeks beautifully, reminding him of a waterfall.

"pretty girl," he coos, watching your features twist in pain—or perhaps in pleasure, he’d like to believe. you're all fucked up, messy from your saliva and tears. "how does it feel, hm?"

you only whine because you can't really say anything with your mouth stuffed with his big fingers. you involuntarily clench around johnny, making him moan deeply in return.

he slips his digits out of your mouth, wiping your spit off him over your bottom lip and chin. "don't you love it, sweetheart? the feeling of a cock fucking your virgin little pussy... it's all so new, isn't it? too many sensations for your poor little brain to process."

when he reaches his end, he doesn't even bother to pull out, releasing himself in your pussy, splattering your walls in his warm cum. truthfully, he doesn't really care if you get your orgasm or not, so he withdraws himself, watching his thick white cum dribbling out of your abused hole.

you fall forward, the feeling of him still there, and he will be for the next few days, reminding you how the man you trusted so much who took your virginity without your consent.

[artstennisracket]

dilf!Art with a lil belly after he retires…he gets a new lil gf and UGH just the way he fucks is so gentle and goooood. He spends so much time trying to please you, and when you want to please him he gets soooo into it, moaning and whimpering, PRAISING YOU

dilf!art with a lil belly will always have a place in my heart🙂‍↕️ he’s so cute just enjoying being retired but also dicking you down so good hehe. wasn’t sure if this was meant to be a request so im just gonna cover all the bases and make jt a request lololol i hope you like it :)

why tf am I always adding unnecessary context wtf just get to the smut mel🙄

dilf art x fem reader

cw: nsfw (18+)

You still couldn’t really believe you were dating Art Donaldson. Sure you had just graduated college so you were an adult but he was still so much older so you thought he’d never go for someone your age.

It was all thanks to that fateful night at the very fancy cocktail bar you went to with your friends to celebrate your graduation. He had sent you a drink, another one of whatever you were already drinking. When you ask the waiter who sent it, he points to a blonde man sitting on the opposite side of the bar.

You vaguely recognize him but can’t quite put your finger on it. But your friends convince you to go talk to him so you do. The conversation goes something along the lines of

“you’re very beautiful, celebrating something tonight?” Art asks.

To which you respond “my college graduation.”

Art lets out a huff saying “jesus fucking christ,” under his breath.

“what?” You giggle.

“you’re— you’re too young for me.” He says definitively, but the half smile of his face is betraying the words he just said.

One thing leads to another and now you’ve been dating for 3 months.

Art is very different from any other guy you’ve ever dated. At first you think maybe it’s just because he’s older, but the more you get to know each other the more realize it’s just who Art is.

He’s very gentle and kind. He’s so attentive, remembers all the little things about you. Makes sure that every time you go out to eat, the restaurant knows your food allergies before you get there. Anytime you mention any little thing that you’re remotely interested in or want to buy for yourself he always remembers.

You mentioned once how you’d love to get more into the fashion space so you can develop your career in fashion marketing, and next time new york fashion week rolls around you have front row seats to all your favorite brands.

You mentioned once how the lululemon jacket you wanted had been sold out in your size for months. Two days later it shows up at the front door of your apartment.

There were also subtle displays of dominance that weren’t even meant to be sexy but were just such a turn on for you. He paid for everything. It was never a question or an awkward “do you wanna split it?” type of conversation. Most times he didn’t even let the bill come to the table. He would say he has to use the bathroom and meet the server so he could pay the bill discreetly. This way you never saw the bill, and you never felt rushed by a server bringing a bill unprompted.

Everytime you guys travel anywhere he makes sure to be the one carrying your bag, or rolling your suitcase alongside his own.

He took care of you in ways you’ve never been taken care of before, the intimacy was just the cherry on top.

There were times where he was more dominant, taking control, manhandling you into different positions without asking. Really fucking into you, with bruising, punishing, strokes. Whispering things into your ear like “this pussy is mine” and “don’t try to run away now, isn’t this what you wanted?”

But other times he would be in a really soft and sappy mood which led him more to “making love”. Like today. He was a feeling a little insecure recently due to the weight he’s been gaining post retirement.

You were sitting up against the headboard while Art laid next to you. You scrolled on your phone with hand, the other hand softly running through Art’s hair.

You could tell he was feeling off so you ask, “hey, feeling okay?”

He nods with a sigh, “yeah I just- does my stomach look like, bigger?”

You direct your gaze to his naked torso. He likes to sleep in his briefs only. His abs weren’t as prominent as when you met him and he did have a little bit of a tummy but you thought it was cute. You move your hair from his hair to rub his tummy.

“your tummy looks perfect,” You say smiling towards him.

He groans shaking his head no. He moves so that his head is on your lap and his arms are around your waist. “you’re just saying that, but I guess we all can’t be supermodels like you,” He says before he blows a raspberry on your stomach where your pajama shirt had ridden up.

You giggle moving a hand to his hair quickly to pull him away. You were incredibly ticklish. “im serious,” you say a little out of breath, “i think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

He looks up at you with a small smile on his face. He starts slowly kissing down your abdomen and continues kissing over your panties as he makes his way down.

Eventually he laying on his stomach situated between your legs. He licks over your folds through your panties which elicits a small gasp from you, “ah-Art.”

He smirks before moving your panties to the side and really diving in. He kitten licks at your clit, keeping eye contact.

You keep a hand in his hair, pulling occasionally when it feels really good. He sucks on your clit lightly before he starts going to town. Licking your folds, lapping at your clit, not forgetting to fuck his tongue into your wet hole lapping up all your juices. You keep your grip on his hair as moans continue to fall out of your mouth.

He sticks two fingers in. Pumping in and out while simultaneously licking and sucking at your clit. It doesn’t take much longer until you finish with a “oh fuck Art, i’m gonna— gonna cum fuck fuck,” pulling on his hair harder.

He cleans you up using his tongue, making sure not to miss a single drop. He sits up smiling and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. You pull him in for a kiss, your tongues roaming each other’s mouths.

You bite his bottom lip pulling away smirking, “now it’s your turn.”

You push him down on the bed so he’s lying on his back. You pull down his boxers with haste and he’s already hard from eating you out.

“no baby you don’t have to do that, just like making you feel goo—holy fuck,” Art groans as you swallow him down.

He holds your hair out of your face, always so considerate. You can tell he’s trying really hard to hold back to you pull off to say, “don’t hold back, wanna hear you,” then you go back down to lick up his shaft before sucking on his tip.

He groans bucking up into your mouth,

“feels so good baby, oh my fuck. please—please keep going shit.”

You choke a little trying not to gag, sucking hard while moving up and down his length.

“you’re doing so good for me, look so pretty with my dick in your mouth fuck,” Art whines.

He continues looking down at his cock going in and out of your mouth, your plush lips wrapped around his cock, “baby i’m so fucking close— don’t stop, fuck, please-“

But you pull off instantly, you don’t want him to cum just yet. You sit up looking at him with a slight pout on your face, “but I want you to fuck me.”

Art bites his lip, letting a deep breath out through his nose, “whatever you want sweetheart, gonna give you the world.”

He lays you down gently, lining up in between your legs, before pressing himself into you slowly. His presses kisses along the length of your neck and gently nibbles on your ear. He whispers, “you are so fucking tight jesus christ, squeezing the fuck out of my cock.”

He continues with his moderate pace, making sure to take his time with his longer more sensual strokes, “fuck baby,” he whines.

You let out a long whine initially and then a moan everytime he bottoms out, “feels so good, fucking me so good.”

“ah- ah just wanna make you feel good baby,” He moans out.

You can tell by how much he’s moaning and whimpering above you that he’s already close. He starts rambling, “please fuck baby please can I cum inside you? feel so good, fuck, just wanna make you feel good, your pussy is so fucking tight baby, so good, please baby i just— “

You cut him off using one hand to hold the side of his face making sure to keep eye contact, “of course you can, cum inside me, wanna feel you fill me up.”

He groans closing his eyes and moving his forehead to rest on your shoulder before he speeds up his last couple of thrusts, coming deep inside you.

His fucks you through his orgasm before pulling out slowly. He usually loves watching his cum drip out of you but this time you say, “i think you’re gonna have to clean up the mess you made.”

And Art is never one to say no to eating you out, no matter how many times a day it is.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Miracle III

Aitana Bonmatí x Baby!Reader

Summary: An early morning with Mama

The sunlight filtering into the room has Aitana blinking awake, squinting as the soft rays of sun glow directly in her eyes.

She yawns, glancing away from the gap in the curtains to look directly at the baby monitor on her bedside table.

The image shows you clearly, wide awake and standing. One hand grips your pegasus plushie while the other stretches up to play with one of the hanging stars on your mobile.

You're probably getting too big for it now, developing quickly from baby to that weird baby-toddler in between that Aitana can remember happened to Skatt and before Skatt, Conejita.

She wishes that she'd studied them more carefully so she'd be prepared for this.

You seem to realise she's watching you though with the same weird sixth sense you have when you're playmates are ready to climb in the playpen with you at training.

You babble a bit, interspersing nonsense with real words as you blow spit bubbles.

"Mama Ta-Ta! Ta-Ta!"

Aitana finds a fond smile appearing on her face as she rolls over in bed, slipping her feet into a pair of fluffy slippers and pulling on a bathrobe to keep the early morning chill out.

You make a little noise of happiness when your bedroom door opens and Aitana plucks you into her arms without anymore nagging.

"Good morning, estrella," She coos, dropping a soft kiss to the end of your nose which makes you go cross-eyed.

"Mor'ing Mama Ta-Ta."

You reach out a hand to grab at Aitana's face, scraping weak little fingers against her cheek before finally getting a grip on her ear.

She laughs, gently pulling your grabby little hand away as she checks the funny little cuckoo clock Mapi had gotten you as a joke.

It's still early.

Too early to be up on a day off.

"Let's go to my bed."

You seem fascinated with the soft blanket covers as Aitana lays you in the middle of her bed as she strips back down to just her pjs, running your fingers over the patterns again and again as you gnaw on pegasus' wing.

Aitana drags you towards her in just the way you like, pulling out your fuzzy onesie legs until you're right next to her.

You kick out happily as she gently manoeuvres you into a sitting position.

There's no hope in getting you to sleep again, not when you're wide awake like this but that doesn't mean the two of you can't stay in bed for a little while longer.

Aitana is easily amused by the funny little sounds you make and the way that you try to sound out words you've heard her say before.

You're startlingly intelligent for your age, far advanced than what Aitana can remember baby Skatt and baby Conejita to be like. She isn't quite sure whether it's a genetic thing or just how much time she dedicates to your education, young as you are.

Tv time is spent only watching educational kid's shows or some documentaries. Time is set aside to watch a bit of football together of course but even then, Aitana waffles on about tactics and formations and everything else under the sun she can think of.

She's read all the baby books about raising children bilingual and how to foster a love for reading in them. She'd taken you to her parents once and returned to find her mother reading a university grade textbook to you before bedtime.

She doesn't know if it's just a Bonmatí thing or if it's how she's raising you.

Either way, she's glad because even now you're working your brain and you've barely gotten up.

"Mer-ry," You say and Aitana smiles.

"Mercury," She corrects.

"Mer-cry."

"Mer-cury."

"Mercury!"

"Good job, estrella!"

You giggle as Aitana tickles your tummy, hand coming out to imitate her movements but Aitana captures it easily, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.

The rest of the early morning goes the same way, with you struggling to say all the planet names until Aitana helps to correct you.

At some point, you migrate to her lap, head tilted all the way back on her shoulder so you can see her clearly.

Something about the way you look at her, your soft baby features, the smile on your face, the sparkle in your eyes, has Aitana's chest bursting with warmth.

"I..." She says, feeling slightly choked up as your hands gently explore her fingers," I love you, estrella."

"Lub you," You say back," Lub Mama."

The warmth turns to ice instantly, like a lance cracking her chest open and finding a home in her heart.

"No," Aitana says gently," No Mama. Mama Ta-Ta, remember? You've already got a Mama."

You shake your head. "Mama."

"I...Estrella...Estrella, no. I'm not Mama. I'm Mama Ta-Ta."

It feels disrespectful to take that role.

This was never the life Aitana was meant to have. You were hers biologically. That had been the plan.

She was meant to donate her egg, the least she could do for her two best friends who desperately wanted a child but couldn't have any of their own. She was meant to be Tia Aitana, Tia Ta-Ta who would swoop you up occasionally and show you the joys of life. The one that you could come to when you were a moody teenager and in that stage where you 'hated' your parents.

Maybe if you had called her 'Mami' it would be different but Mama was the name that Aitana's friend referred to herself as. She was meant to be your Mama, not Aitana.

Not Aitana who is already pushing invisible boundaries by allowing herself to be called Mama Ta-Ta.

You shake your head stubbornly. "Mama!"

It seems you've inherited the Bonmatí stubbornness too as your smiling face sets into a little frown just like Aitana's.

She doesn't know how to explain it to you, doesn't know how to explain that she can't be your Mama. No matter how much she wants to.

"Mama..." You whine, frown morphing into a chin wobble and a chin wobble morphing into big fat tears rolling down your face.

"No, no, estrella! It's okay! Don't cry! I'm sorry!"

Aitana desperately tries to bounce you, to soothe your tears but you're inconsolable until you're tucked into her chest, hand reaching up to tug at the collar of her sleep shirt.

"Mama," You babble through your tears, trying to shuffle even closer," Mama, please."

Aitana's own bottom lip wobbles as tears prick in her eyes.

She rests her cheek on the top of your head, breathing in the soft baby smell that never quite left, lingering on the edges of her senses like it had the first time she'd met you.

It feels disrespectful to take her friend's name but at the same time, it feels right.

To be your Mama.

To take the name that you've so happily bestowed upon her.

The name you've chosen for her.

No longer Ta-Ta or Mama Ta-Ta.

Just Mama.

You whimper a little, wiping your runny nose all over the front of her shirt. "Mama?"

"Yes, estrella," Aitana says," I'm your Mama."

[wstviewvidal]

breakfast- wanda maximoff x r

pairing: fwb!wanda x r

summary: after another night together, it’s hard to tell if wanda sees something past this agreement with you.

a/n: this is the first thing i’ve written in the longest time so im actually super nervous to even put this out. but y oh well?. if u guys don’t like it literally don’t tell me because i’m sensitive and will cry.

edit: pt 2

minors do not interact

“have you thought about what you want to do yet?” wanda asks, rolling to the other side of the bed to retrieve her phone from her night stand, the blanket slipping enough to show her bare back.

a small groan of frustration escapes your throat as you throw a pillow at her face from right next to her, “can you shut up about a plan? i really don’t see a point in doing anything for my birthday. i mean, the last time we went out, aggie almost sold us out”

wanda has always been a step ahead of you, in every way, shape, and form. when you have girls’ nights with your friend group, she knows exactly what you’ll order, the fact that you drink water right after a soda, how long it’ll take for you to get cold and steal her jacket (that she was never going to use and only brought for you)

maybe that’s the reason you fell for her, maybe that’s the reason you’ve been stuck in this endless cycle of being friends with benefits with her.

wanda scoffs and rolls her eyes, “why not? we used to always have count downs for your birthday when we were younger”

that’s true. when you two were still in college, the month leading up to your birthday would be filled with the two of you texting each other ‘two weeks!’ ‘four days!’ ‘tomorrow!’

with a sigh, you get up from the bed and redress yourself with wanda’s black button down and a pair of her pajama shorts.

wanda watches as you dress, playing with a loose thread on her comforter, admiring how you look in her clothes with a glint in her eyes that you can’t quite place.

or maybe you’re just too scared to think it means more than that.

“i don’t know,” you say with a small defeated sigh as you put your hair in a ponytail, “i think the whole ‘birthday joy and excitement’ wore off over time.”

wanda lets out a soft chuckle, propping herself up on an elbow while looking at you with a small smirk.

“jesus, you sound like an adult. when did that happen?”

letting out a small exhale of a laugh, “is that what we are?”

wanda smiles softly at you as you notice her chest is littered with small marks and a bite mark on her left collar bone, reminders of last night. the sunlight peeking through the shut curtains illuminates her face and shows off her green irises, the ends of her hair lighter than they were a few months ago.

she gets out of bed and throws on baggy black sweats and an old t-shirt she’s had since she was seventeen.

a small giggle leaves your lips as you see the shirt, the same deftones shirt you’d gifted to her that same birthday.

picking at her ‘just rolled out of bed’ appearance, “looking hot, wands”

wanda looks over at you, smirking as she passes by you to get to the kitchen and giving you two small but firm taps on your left cheek, “it’s what got you into my bed last night, isn’t it?”

a small blush covers your cheeks, your face now feeling hot after wanda’s flirty tease. taking a deep breath and trying to cover it up before you walk out into her apartments kitchen, you murmur to yourself, “jesus christ”

wanda moves skillfully around her kitchen as she cooks a simple breakfast, which she usually hates making since she’s not a breakfast person, but knowing you’ll have a busy day is the only reason she’s putting herself through the hassle.

“you know,” she begins with her back facing you as she plates the food, “celebrating you is probably one of the easiest things i’ve ever done”

your heart stops for a second. wanda’s not one to say romantic things like this. is this meant to be romantic? or is this wishful thinking?

“please let us celebrate?” almost in a pleading tone, almost.

sighing softly with a small pout adorning her lips, “if you don’t want a party, at least let me take you out.. just us two”

the memory of the two of you at a party when you two were freshly engaged in this new agreement slowly creeps into your mind.

“you ready, bub?” wanda whispers into the crown of your head, giving you a soft forehead kiss as she cradles the side of your face.

the party’s atmosphere has slowly become one of your worst nightmares: sweaty bodies, terrible mixed drinks, and oddly placed furniture.

“please,” you say softly as you lean into her hold, “i wanna go home, i don’t like it here”

a soft chuckle escapes her lips, she knew you wouldn’t make it two hours at this party, but you needed to go out after being cramped inside during midterm season.

“whatever you want,” she replies with a smile. grabbing your hand softly, she leads you through the crowd towards the front door.

“where are you two lovebirds going?” a familiar voice asks as you make it two feet from the door, agatha.

lovebirds. is that what you two looked like? sure, the topic of putting a label on it hasn’t come up.. but then again, you two never go on dates.

unless you count the weekly rendezvous in wanda’s apartment dates.

“i’m taking her home,” wanda replies, moving you behind her slowly and away from agatha.

agatha smirks, placing her hand on her hip in an almost teasing way, “taking her home, huh?”

wanda gives a pleading look to agatha, silently begging her to keep her silence.

agatha straightens up after rolling her eyes, but not before saying a quick quip about their not-so-secret friends with benefits dynamic.

“you’re no fun,” she mumbles under her breath and walks off.

wanda lets out a sigh of relief and guides you with a hand behind your back to her car.

with a small groan, you sit down and begin eating, avoiding her sentence.

you’re almost afraid of people seeing you like that again— clinging to someone who doesn’t see a future with you, just using you as a layover on the way to their real destination.

“please?”

with a roll of your eyes and a small smile, you reluctantly agree.

wanda’s eyes light up and a huge grin appears on her face, “thank you, bub. i’ll plan a party here for you with just our closest friends and then i’ll take you out the night after.”

bub. she hardly ever calls you that anymore, it’s almost like a blast from the past when it slips her lips.

it feels like your heart is physically aching at the sound of it, a reminder of how much simpler time used to be— before your feelings for her got too complicated.

as you two got older and life happened, it seemed as though the two of you stopped being so flirtatious and just saw each other as what you two had agreed on: friends with benefits.

that wasn’t at all what you wanted. in all honesty, the idea of wanda being romantic with another girl that wasn’t you made you sick to your core, it made your heart clench.

but part of you always had the lingering thought and feeling that wanda wanted something else, someone else.

after all, just because the two of you always found each other in bed often didn’t mean she didn’t date other people and have flings.

“you’re such a sweetheart,” you say softly as you continue with your eyes on your plate.

what you didn’t see was wanda trying to hide a smile and blush behind a fork full of food.

[hamilton-here]

Hi, I read your last fic, I it was great like all of them are and I had an idea. Could I request a fic about Reader and Lewis having an age gap of like 15 years or so. And both are struggling with it because of what people might say, but they still love each other. So they have a talk about it, and it‘s quite angsty but ends happily?

Thank you!

𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑒 𝑀𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒾𝓉

Authors Note: Hi all! Here is a one-shot someone requested. Hopefully it’s okay, I tried to make it detailed and a good length. Lots of love xx

Summary: A deeply emotional night lays bare Lewis’s fear that he’s holding you back because of your age difference. But though unwavering love, you both choose each other anyway.

Warnings: angst, 15-year age-gap

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You remember that night like it lives under your skin.

The early days were nothing like the relationships you’d had before.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t play games. He texted when he said he would. He showed up when he promised. He sent you flowers after your first date real ones, not just a story-post. He remembered things: your favourite pasta place, the song that made you cry in traffic, your little habit of talking to the dog in the park like it could answer.

But what surprised you most wasn’t the romance it was the patience.

You were still figuring things out - your career, your place in the world, your voice.

There were nights you came home exhausted, unsure of yourself, questioning if you were doing enough. He never tried to solve you. He just sat beside you, handed you tea and told you, “You’re allowed to not have it all figured out. You have time.”

And he meant it.

You remember the first time he saw you cry. It wasn’t pretty. You were overwhelmed from a late-night anxiety spiral after an argument with your parents, an assignment you thought you’d failed, a thousand little things crashing down all at once.

You hadn’t meant to cry in front of him. You tried to hide in the bathroom, wiping your face like that would erase the evidence.

But he came in anyway, sat on the floor with you.

Didn’t speak for a while. Just handed you tissues.

Then he said softly, “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

It broke you more than anything else could have.

And maybe that’s when you truly fell in love not the rooftop, not the dates but right there, on the cold bathroom tile, with your face blotchy and red and him beside you like it was the most natural place in the world. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The soft hum of the television fills the room, barely louder than the rain painting streaks across the windows. Outside, the city glows under a wash of slick pavement and amber streetlights, but inside, the world feels paused as though even time itself is holding its breath.

The movie plays on. Some slow, aching romance, full of longing glances and people who don’t say what they mean until it’s nearly too late. You’ve stopped following it.

Your eyes are open, but unfocused somewhere in between watching and waiting. A half-full glass of wine sits on the coffee table, untouched, the condensation slipping down the stem in slow, uneven trails. Your legs are stretched across Lewis’s lap, your ankles tucked loosely together, and his arm rests behind you along the back of the couch.

Still. Too still.

If you were anyone else, you might not notice. But you know him too well or at least, you used to.

His fingers haven’t moved in ten minutes. No absentminded brushes against your leg, no subtle tug of the blanket you’re sharing. Nothing but breath and distance. His body is next to yours, but his mind it’s not here. It’s not with you.

And maybe your heart aches at the thought that maybe it hasn’t been for a while.

You study him through your lashes. The sharp line of his jaw locked tight. The muscle ticking in his temple like a metronome. The soft bounce of his foot, subtle and repetitive - the kind of restless twitch he only gets when something’s gnawing at him and he’s trying not to let it show.

You lean in slightly, nudging him with your elbow, voice quiet. “Lew. You good?”

He blinks once, then again, slower like he’s surfacing from deep water.

When his eyes land on yours, there’s something about the look that makes your stomach dip. It isn’t surprise. It’s something worse. Like for a second, he’d forgotten you were there. And the fact that he did that hurts more than it should.

“Yeah,” he says too quickly, his voice tight. “Just tired.”

A lie. Not cruel. Not even deliberate. It’s the kind of lie people tell when they’re trying to shield you from the storm gathering behind their own ribs. The kind meant to protect. The kind that builds walls instead of bridges.

You don’t push not yet.

Instead, you shift, curling closer, resting your head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t lean in or away. He just stays where he is warm, familiar, unmoving. He smells like cedar-wood and expensive cologne, the kind he pretends not to care about but always wears for you anyway.

But even with your body pressed to his, there’s a canyon between you. Wide. Deep. Carved slowly, silently, over time by things neither of you said when you should have.

The movie ends. The credits roll with soft piano notes that only make the silence louder. Your chest tightens as you wait, sensing the shift about to come.

Lewis exhales. A sound that drags out of him like it hurts. Not just tired heavy. Like he’s been carrying something too long.

“I saw something today,” he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

You sit up instinctively, turning toward him. “Yeah?”

He rubs a hand across his jaw, the scrape of it soft but raw. “Someone posted a picture of us from the gala. The one last week.”

You nod slowly, already bracing.

His mouth twists into a bitter smile that never reaches his eyes. “The caption said, ‘She’s young enough to be his daughter.’”

It hits like a backhand cruel and calculated. Your stomach lurches, not just at the words but at the way he delivers them. Hollow. Detached. Like he’s already replayed them a hundred times in his head.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, even though it feels insufficient.

He shrugs or tries to. The gesture barely makes it halfway. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not like it’s new.”

But something about the way he says it - flat, final tells you this time, it’s not just noise. This time, it got in. Beneath the skin. Behind the armour.

“But lately…” He trails off, eyes fixed on something you can’t see. “Lately I’ve been wondering if maybe they’re right.”

The words land with a sickening thud, and your breath catches.

You stare at him. “Right about what?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just laces his fingers together so tightly his knuckles go white. Like he’s holding on to something that’s slipping anyway.

“That this isn’t fair to you,” he says, his voice rough. “That one day, you’ll wake up and wonder what the hell you were thinking. That you could’ve had something easier. Cleaner. Younger.”

You reach for him, but his body remains taut, still leaning back, still trying to protect you from something you didn’t ask to be shielded from.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t do that.”

“What happens when I can’t keep up?” he asks, eyes burning. “When my body gives out before yours does? When you want kids, and I’m not sure I have the stamina left to be the father you deserve? When I start to fade, and you’re still glowing like the fucking sun?”

His voice cracks on that last word. You flinch, not from the words but from the raw, unbearable honesty in them.

“You think I don’t think about it?” he continues, almost choking now. “You think I don’t lie awake wondering if loving you means I’m being selfish? That I’m stealing time from someone who hasn’t already burned half of theirs?”

“Lewis—” Your voice is thick, trembling. “You’re not stealing anything. You’re -”

He cuts you off, voice broken. “You deserve a beginning, not a man who’s already halfway to his end.”

And that’s what it is, you realise. Not just fear. It’s grief. Like he’s already mourning something that hasn’t even happened yet the version of your life he thinks you won’t get because of him.

Your heart shatters.

You rise to your knees and cradle his face in your hands, your thumbs sweeping over his jaw, soft and trembling. He resists looking at you until you speak.

“Look at me.”

His eyes find yours, slow and reluctant, and what you see in them makes your own vision blur devastation, shame, love. So much love.

“I didn’t fall in love with the years between us,” you say quietly. “I fell in love with you. All of you. The man who carries everything on his back and still shows up for the people he loves. The man who makes tea he doesn’t even drink because he knows it steadies my hands. The man who makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not too much.”

His breathing stutters. You press your forehead to his, your hands still cupping his face like he might disappear if you let go.

“You’re not holding me back,” you whisper. “You’re the reason I feel brave enough to move forward.”

He closes his eyes like the weight of your words is too much or maybe it’s the relief of finally hearing them. His hands find your waist, then your back, and he pulls you against him like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing tethering him to the surface.

“I don’t know how to stop being scared,” he says, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper into his hair. “Just don’t let the fear be louder than the love.”

For a long moment, you just hold each other not fixing, not promising, just being. Letting the silence carry the truth neither of you could say out loud before tonight:

That love, no matter how deep, doesn’t always silence doubt.

But it does mean choosing each other anyway.

Even when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

He kisses you then slow at first, like he's afraid he might shatter you or himself if he moves too quickly.

His lips tremble against yours, not from passion but from the weight of everything he’s been holding in every doubt, every sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if he’s good enough, young enough, enough. It’s not a kiss meant to ignite. It’s a plea. A confession. A desperate, unspoken question: Are you sure? Are you sure I’m still what you want?

And you kiss him back like you’re trying to answer all of it. Like you’re pouring every broken piece of your own into the spaces he thinks are unworthy, unlovable, too worn down to offer. You kiss him like you’re trying to glue him together with devotion shaky but unwavering.

When he pulls away, he doesn’t look at you right away. His breath is ragged, his eyes wet and his hands tremble ever so slightly where they’ve gripped your waist too tightly as if he’s terrified you might slip through his fingers if he lets go for even a second.

And maybe you would. Maybe that’s the fear rotting away inside him that no matter how tightly he clings, time will keep ticking, headlines will keep screaming and one day you’ll wake up and realise he’s no longer enough to make up for what the world says he lacks.

He doesn’t pull you into his lap so much as clings to you, burying his face into the hollow between your neck and shoulder like he’s ashamed of needing this so badly.

Like he doesn’t believe he deserves to want you this much. His arms wrap around you with a desperation that makes your heart ache not sweet or soft, but frantic. Like he’s bracing for the moment you vanish. Like if he holds you close enough, maybe the space growing between you will shrink. Maybe the doubt will quiet. Maybe the years will melt away, just for a little while.

And you hold him back just as tightly, fingers threaded through his loose braids, your cheek pressed to the top of his head. You say nothing because there’s nothing that words can fix, not entirely but you stay.

You stay. In the fear, in the silence, in the aching stretch of a love that sometimes hurts more than it heals. You stay because he needs you to. Because love isn’t always loud or easy or fair, sometimes it’s this: two people clinging to each other in the dark, hoping the sun will rise before the doubt wins.

And in that fragile stillness, wrapped in each other like lifelines, you both dare to believe just for tonight that love, your love, might be enough to silence the noise.

Maybe not forever.

But for now…it is. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The next morning you wake to the muted trill of your phone on the nightstand. Groggy, you swipe to read the notification another “exclusive” splash:

Hamilton and Mystery Woman: Age Difference Raises Eyebrows at Appearance

Your heart thumps in your throat as you scroll. The top comments have already piled up:

“She’s just chasing clout.”

“He’s clearly in a midlife crisis.”

“Gross. He could be her dad.”

“15-year age gap? God he’s a perv”

There’s no sting of tears just a cold, hollow ache. It isn’t shame you feel but worry. You know how deeply Lewis carries these words, how much he protects you from them, and how much they still wound him.

Sliding out of bed, you pull on slippers and pad through to the kitchen, where the morning light slants through floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s standing at the stove, oats bubbling in a copper pot, the soft beat of lo-fi jazz drifting from the speakers. Steam curls in the cool air.

He glances over his shoulder as you enter, eyes sharp and alert. “Saw it?” he asks, voice low.

You offer a small nod, your words catching midway. “I’m sorry. I hate that they do this to you.”

He shakes his head, tucking a stray loc behind his ear. “Don’t be. They don’t know us. They don’t know you.” He turns back to the oats, spooning them into two bowls.

But the tension in his shoulders tells another story. His mouth presses into a straight line, and you watch his normally relaxed posture stiffen.

You clear your throat. “You still want to go tonight? To the fashion event?”

He pauses, spoon hovering over the pot. You hold your breath. You imagine him saying it’s too much, that he’d rather keep you free of this glare. Instead, his jaw eases as he meets your eyes.

“Yeah.” He scoops a final spoonful and sets the pot aside. “Let’s show them.”

You stand before the full-length mirror in his bedroom, the soft light tracing the curve of your collarbone.

The black gown he picked for you hangs just off the ottoman, the fabric whisper-smooth in your hands. It’s nearly floor-length, with a thigh-high slit modestly hidden by the way you step into it. You slip on the dress and adjust the V-neck, so it sits perfectly, then smooth your fingers over the satin.

He enters behind you in the doorway, giving you a slow once-around. You’ve seen him stare like this before appreciative, tender and a tiny bit awed.

His navy suit is sharp, the lapels tailored to perfection, and his braids are pulled back so the profile of his cheekbones and jaw are crystal clear. Even the way he stands body relaxed, one hand in his pocket - looks impossibly cool.

“You look…,” he breathes, voice husky, “unbelievable.”

Your cheeks warm. “You’re not too bad yourself.” You offer him a wink.

He helps you into delicate stiletto heels and fastens a simple silver bracelet on your wrist. You reach for your clutch a slim, black leather envelope and together you head downstairs.

The car is waiting sleek, black, windows tinted. As you slide into the backseat, the flashbulbs already begin, staccato bursts of light against the doorframe. You catch your breath.

He leans in beside you, brushing his fingers through yours. “Ready?”

You nod, pressing your hand into his. “Ready.”

Stepping onto the rooftop terrace, your senses flood - the murmur of VIP guests, the soft glow of Edison bulbs strung overhead, the faint clink of champagne flutes. A gentle breeze stirs your hair, carrying the distant hum of city traffic below.

But the real spectacle is at the staircase: a line of cameras, microphones, and eager faces. Paparazzi jostle, voices rising in a swell of shouted questions:

“Lewis! Who’s your date?”

“Is age just a number to you?”

“What do you say to the critics?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Hand in yours like a lifeline, he guides you forward. “Evening,” he greets, voice smooth and warm. He tilts his head toward you. “My partner and I are happy to be here.”

You smile, lifting your chin to the lights. His confidence steadies you reminds you that these flashes don’t define you.

A reporter steps forward with a mic. “Lewis, you’ve faced scrutiny before how does it feel to have headlines about your personal life tonight?”

He glances at you briefly, then back to the camera. “It’s part of the job. But I’m proud of who I’m with.” His hand squeezes yours, just enough for the lens to catch. “That’s what matters.”

Click. Flash. You feel the weight lift off your chest.

You press on, direction of the main terrace, where guests applaud politely as you walk by. He angles his body slightly, shielding you from the harsher lights and you lean into him, remembering that protection feels like this.

Twenty minutes later, you slip inside to find a quieter corner overlooking the skyline. He orders two glasses of champagne, and you clink flutes, the crystal ringing clear against the distant din.

“Look at that,” he says, lifting his glass. “We did it.”

You laugh softly, the tension finally pouring out. “We did.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re incredible. Thank you for standing by me.”

Your heart swells. “Thank you for choosing me.”

He holds your gaze steady, unwavering before leaning across the small table to kiss you, passionately and deliberate.

The world may still talk, but right here, right now, it feels like yours alone.

[writeriguess]

hi hi! i was hoping you could write a katsuki bakugo x autistic!reader who struggles with ARFID/sensory issues when it comes to food and eating? thank you very much!

Taste and Patience

You sit on the edge of the couch, fingers tangled in the hem of your sweatshirt, watching the microwave tick down the last fifteen seconds on a plate of plain white rice. That’s all you can stomach tonight. Again. Just rice.

It’s not even the warm, buttery kind that smells like something you’d imagine a comforting hug would taste like. No. It’s dry. No seasoning. No sauce. It smells like almost nothing. But at least it’s safe.

You hear the front door open, heavy boots clunking on the floor. Katsuki’s home.

“Oi,” he calls from the hallway, dropping his keys into the tray on the entry table like always. “You eat yet?”

You flinch. You don’t want to lie. But you’re not sure you can handle another conversation about this.

“Sort of,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“Sort of?” he appears in the doorway, frowning. His eyes flick to the microwave as it beeps, then to the bowl in your hands as you pull it out. “Rice again?”

“Yeah,” you say, focusing way too hard on the way the steam curls from the bowl.

Katsuki walks closer, scratching the back of his neck. His voice softens. “You eat anything else today?”

You shake your head. “I tried. I—I made some toast but it was… it got weird in my mouth. Too scratchy.”

He squats down in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. “Did you spit it out?”

You nod, shame crawling up the back of your neck like it always does when this happens. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to eat like a normal—”

“Hey.” His voice is firm. Not angry, but grounding. “Don’t talk like that.”

You blink at him. Your throat feels tight.

“I mean it,” he says, squeezing your knees a little. “There’s not a single damn thing wrong with you just ‘cause food feels like hell sometimes. You’re trying, right?”

You nod.

“That’s all I give a shit about. Okay?”

You look down at the bowl. “I hate that I’m like this. I wish I could just… eat whatever like everyone else does. Go out and not panic because the menu has too many things I don’t recognize. Not gag when something has the wrong texture.”

Bakugo doesn’t interrupt. He never does when you get like this—when the words come all messy and hard and your chest feels like it might collapse from how small you feel.

“I get so hungry,” you whisper, voice cracking. “But the thought of putting anything new in my mouth just makes me want to cry. Or puke. Sometimes both.”

He moves up onto the couch beside you, pulling you gently into his side. “You ever think I don’t get it?” he asks quietly.

You blink at him. “I mean… you don’t, though. You eat literally everything.”

He chuckles, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. “Yeah, but I’ve got shit I deal with too. Not the same, but I know what it’s like for your body to fight you. Or your brain. Or both.”

You stare at the rice in your bowl. It’s already cooling. You kind of don’t want it anymore.

“Wanna heat it back up?” he asks, noticing.

You shrug.

“Wanna put it away and just hang with me for a bit?”

You nod.

He takes the bowl from your hands without a word and slides it into the fridge. Then he comes back, sits beside you again, and puts his arm around your shoulder. You melt into him like you always do. Like his warmth is the one kind you can handle without flinching.

“You ever want help trying something new,” he murmurs after a few minutes, “we can do it together. You pick what it is. We can go slow. No pressure. And if you spit it out or can’t eat it, who gives a shit?”

“But what if I waste food?” you ask, voice small.

“I’ll eat it,” he smirks. “You know I’m a bottomless pit.”

You laugh weakly. “You are. You’re basically a black hole.”

“Damn right.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It’s steady. It always is.

“Hey, remember that plain udon we tried last month?” he says. “You liked that, right?”

“Yeah… the noodles were soft. Not slimy. And the broth was okay. Just mild enough.”

“We could try that again. Or I can make it at home, make it blander if you want.”

“Would you really do that?”

Bakugo snorts. “You think I wouldn’t fight god himself to make sure you eat something that doesn’t make you wanna scream?”

You smile. It’s small, but it’s there. “You’re kinda dramatic.”

“Damn right I am. You love that about me.”

You poke his side, and he grabs your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“Thanks for not getting mad about it,” you say quietly.

“Why the hell would I get mad?”

“People do,” you mutter. “They think I’m being difficult. Or picky. Or manipulative.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” he says. “You’re not being anything but honest. And I’d rather you be honest than force yourself to eat something that makes you feel sick.”

You’re quiet for a while. Then—

“Maybe tomorrow we could try something. Just a little. One bite.”

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Maybe. If you make it.”

“Hell yeah, I’ll make it. I’ll make three versions so you can pick the one that feels right. I’ll even name ‘em something dumb like ‘Option A: Gentle as Hell’ or ‘Option C: You’re Gonna Hate It But I Made It Anyway.’”

You laugh again, genuinely this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I do.”

He holds you a little tighter. “And I love you. All of you. Even the parts that are picky, and sensitive, and terrified of toast.”

You snort. “I am terrified of toast.”

“And that’s valid.”

You rest there with him in silence for a while, the rice forgotten. The hunger still there, but not unbearable. Not when you feel this safe. Not when Katsuki’s beside you, promising that tomorrow—or next week, or next month—you can try again.

And you believe him. Because with him, you always feel brave enough to try.

[makeyoumine69]

hey! hope this isn't too weird lol but could you write headcanons for how patrick bateman would act if the woman he was dating was ovulating? like would he notice? get weirdly possessive or more obsessive? just curious how that would play out with his whole psycho control thing 👀 thanks!!

Patrick Bateman x Ovulating GF (Headcanons)

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, smut, Patrick is an animal.

𝐀/𝐍: Thank you so much for sending me this request! I enjoyed writing it and hope you enjoy reading it. Many thanks to my dear @moriohpsyker for proofreading!💕

🪓He would know because he tracks it.

Patrick is a very organized man, and tracking your menstrual cycle is part of his practical nature. He probably has a calendar or spreadsheet of your cycle, but he wouldn't tell you because you might think it's creepy or weird, even though it really is. So he keeps this information to himself. Once he notices the subtle changes in your mood, the way you talk, how flirty and sassy your tone becomes, how wide your smile is, and how you're absolutely radiating from the inside, he'll definitely check the calendar to see if he's right on time. He can practically taste your arousal in the air whenever you’re around, and it drives him insane.

"You're glowing, darling," he murmurs into your ear, burying his nose in your hair and pressing you tight against him.  "And this scent—so sweet. Lemme taste it.”

🪓His attraction would spike, but it would also piss him off.

Basically, I see him being much more aroused than usual because you’re glowing, your smile hits differently(it's more playful in his opinion), and you’re like a gift with a bow on it, walking around him, asking to be unwrapped. Patrick would be bothered by all of this, especially at work when it gives him a boner. He’s already upset that he has to lock himself up  in his office and jerk off to trashy porn magazines instead of eating you out; to settle inside your dripping pussy. The notion that he could impregnate you would rile him up and speed up his orgasm. He'd see it as an obvious con and another reason to complain—you having a special effect on him while you're just living your life. He could blame nature, but it's easier to blame you and fuck you harder as punishment.

"Shit, I couldn't stop thinking about fucking you all day long," he'd whisper into your parted mouth while doing you missionary style with your legs looped around his lower back. The curve of his cock would massage the front wall of your throbbing pussy so fuckin' perfectly. Patrick would groan, grabbing both your wrists with one hand and pinning them over your head. He'd slam deeper, his hips grinding against yours with the lewd sounds of flesh meeting flesh. "Hey, don't close your eyes, honey. I want you to see the things you’re doing to me.”

🪓The potential of breeding you? What if he has a breeding kink?

Okay, but what if the two of you were actually planning for a baby? That would change everything, since this man would take days off from work to have sex with you throughout your ovulation period. He'd be so genuine about it. He'd be dedicated as hell. Patrick would find ways to impress or shock you with his "absolutely normal" ideas.

One day, he'll suggest filming the conception process so he can rewatch it later. When he notices your face going blank, he'll raise his eyebrows and ask, "What's wrong with that, baby?"

Even if you say no, he’ll drill a goddamn hole in your brain with his whining and preaching about how he wants to memorize your perfect body when he manages to pump you full of his cum; and how he’d spread your legs wide open on camera to show it leaking down your thighs. No, there’s nothing depraved about it. Patrick will wait and let you simmer. He'll persistently feed you pieces of his twisted fantasy, like a demon sitting on your shoulder and buzzing in your ear, until you surrender.

And he eventually, of course, gets everything he wants. 

He'll dress you in pretty pastel lingerie because he wants you to look soft and innocent for the video, to make it look like something that was made in heaven. First, he’ll make you suck him off before delving between your legs. After he’s sure the camera is recording, he’ll feast on your succulent pussy as if it were his last meal. Of course, he'd do it with the wettest, filthiest, slurpiest sounds to gratify his own desires while also humiliating you further. For the sex position, he’d debate between mating press and the prone bone only to try them both.

Then, Patrick will break you in half, with your legs splayed open and pulled up at your knees. He'll drape them over his broad shoulders and squat down so intensely that his heavy balls will slap your ass. God, he'll definitely jerk off to your moans while watching this recording on the days when the doctor forbids you to have sex.

🪓The opposite side of his hyperfixation over your ovulation would be his jealousy.

Patrick would be extremely jealous and territorial on the days when you’re ovulating. He’d be on edge, and even just a small smile given to a waiter, passerby, or anyone else would instantly set him off. He would lose his mind, and he hates it, but he hates other men staring at what's his even more, so you better not provoke him. If you do, be ready for revenge.

"We're leaving," he would hiss, annoyed and spitting venom. "This place is so fucking overrated. The alcohol they're serving here is pure garbage.”

He definitely wasn't acting like that just because you thanked a random guy for helping you pick up a napkin you dropped.

What a tragedy.

Yeah, Patrick is unhealthily possessive, especially when you’re vulnerable and blossoming like this. He’ll see every man as a potential threat if they dare try to get too close to you.

Thank you for the reading!🖤 [MAIN M-LIST]🪓[KO-FI]