#Succulent Secrets

[viapu-com]

Dive into the world of flavors with Succulent Secrets! Discover the magic of our Beef Shank recipe! Unleash your inner chef! 🍖🔥🍽️ #Foodlove #BeefShankMagic

[bokulikescomics]

Tagged by @takemetodragonstone , thank you~~

Honourable mention to the secret room in my room which probs would sweep the ass out of the others lmao

I tag @daemoninfluff, @bluelightning42, @r1ngfinger, @omegabeast27, @reigen-apologist, @the-stars-we-call-home, @ai-dont-care, @q-kanbas

And anyone who wants to! Just tag me I like polls lmao

[secretsheepie]

Kawaii Cacti die-cut sticker

[blunderpuff]

idk what this plant is i got from Trader Joe's but every couple hours, its leaves are facing different directions from earlier

will update you if it starts asking for blood

[blkkizzat]

❛ IN YO PU$$Y TONGUE TWISTIN' LIKE ITS STIR FRY!❜

✰summary: don't ask toji to make you dinner if you aren't ready to be dinner ✰tw: nasty, filthy, insane pussy eating like its groceries. literal groceries cause there's lots of food/cooking sex references lmfao. ✰wc: <1k [no taglist under 1k]

Toji who you sass, telling him to be useful for once and "make you dinner." Unfortunately for you, Toji takes it quite literally as he makes you HIS dinner.

Without any warning you are manhandled down to the couch. Your brand new pink frilly panties utterly trashed, ripped off of you and discarded like a flimsy plastic wrap. Toji kneads open your doughy thighs, ordering you to hold your knees so that you are spread wide for him.

Succumbing to his more debased urges, your coochie would be his 'kitchen' for the next 2 hours. It was obvious from the perverse way his lips smacked together, sucking his teeth at the sight of your succulent cunt—he couldn't wait to serve you up on a platter.

Digging in, Toji wastes no time with prep work. 

Unabashedly feasting in your savory folds as if he were a gourmet who had just been presented with a 10-course 3-star michelin meal. Toji's filthy mouth proves to be such a needy glutton for your pretty pussy—slurping, suckling and nibbling at your sensitive lil’ clit until you’re sobbing. You clench and twitch around his tongue which seems to be on a mission to completely sear your insides, reducing your to legs to gelatinous goo. 

All the heat Toji boils in your core spreads to your entire body and your hands grow slippery with sweat. You shake as you struggle to maintain hold of your knees. Yet the scalding look Toji gives you makes you think twice before you let go of them—lest chef Toji say the dish is ruined and he needs to start all over again. 

“Chef knows best” Toji tells you, along with his specialty cuisine style of "making it nasty", so of course he must braise your swollen throbbing clit in globs of his spit. His tongue bastes over your sopping folds as he scoops the marinated mixture—crafted of his saliva and the syrupy juices of your ripened cunt—back into your steamy quivering hole. 

At the very least you were grateful that despite the embarrassment flaming on your tear-stained cheeks, the amount of carnal pleasure coursing through your body sent your mind into euphoric delirium. Your eyes spared you from the sight of Toji's shameless display of ravenous hunger by becoming lodged into the back of your skull.

Nevertheless, you didn’t need to see to tell that Toji is a messy cook. Some of your rich milky sauce is sure to dribble down to the crack of your ass as his lecherous ministrations cause you to overflow. Not to worry though—when it comes to relishing your perfect pussy, Toji ultimately keeps a tidy kitchen and he is certainly not wasteful. 

Toji will dutifully clean up any mess, unlike your actual kitchen where he never washes a dish. Likewise, although when you try to get him to eat healthier and he refuses his greens—Toji will never hesitate to toss your salad. Stirring his tongue deep into your puckered hole he savors the taste while three of his thick fingers bully into your tight lil’ pussy, blending you up until you pureed all over his fingers.

The intensity of your lustful moans rival that of the vulgar sounds sloshing from your core and echoing throughout the living room. Both sounds Toji finds himself developing an insatiable hunger for and it spurs on his near relentless teasing of you. 

Duplicitous in his positively feral pussy drunk state, he reasons with you that "a chef never reveals his secrets".

Therefore you are never certain upon reaching the peak of your next mind-mincing orgasm if he will serve you utterly delectable release—the sweet nectar of your squirt garnishing his lips resulting in Toji to nearly busting in his own pants from rutting against the sofa—

—or if he will cruelly snatch it away from you again as you teeter right on the edge of rapture. When he does this there is certainly a twinkle in his eyes as he mocks you, "but you weren't quite done simmering just yet, mamas."

Absolutely overdone and oversensitive, if the torture of him stewing your insides becomes too much—If you really whine and tell him you've had enough—to his credit Toji would stop. Stop and hover mere centimeters away from your leaky lil’ peach that is. 

You would whimper, so sore from the abuse of his tongue as his own eyes would roll back at the sugary smell of your arousal wafting off your messed up lil cunny. Toji knows at this point you are too fucked out—too thoroughly made well-done on his tongue to escape from his gluttonous depravity. 

Sloppy and glazed in your cum, the scar on Toji's lip glistens as it pulls into a devious smirk. Huffing out, Toji would softly breeze air over your puffy clit until your lil nub throbbed with enough need to beg for another course. 

Toji would oblige you of course. 

Nonetheless, as punishment for disturbing the chef while he’s cooking, you would have to wait a bit more before you felt his mouth on you again. Only blowing over your sex, your desperate pleas are only met with cruel chuckles chiding you that he needed to "let his food cool properly" before he could eat the next serving.

In the end, Toji's hard efforts in your kitchen are rewarded as he thoroughly consumes every last morsel you have to offer, cleaning up every lingering string of your arousal. With his wanton thirst for your creamy caramelized cunt finally quenched he brings himself up to admire your cute slutted out pout. 

You gasp as Toji’s lips meet yours in a fiery kiss. His tongue is just chaotic, dominating your mouth as if he were still craving the taste of your core.

You're dizzy for air when Toji finally pulls away. Still coming down from your blissed out state you fail to notice Toji had switched your positions. You are now on the floor between his legs while he sits on the couch.

His beefy thighs manspread wide as his girthy length springs from his dark sweats. The angry red tip of his cockhead sways back to hit his abs thickly coated in what must be his own fluids from at some point cumming in his pants just from eating you out.

Reaching out to grab your chin his thumb rubs over your lips in a gentle caress before bullying them open. You were going to roast his cock in that warm n’ tight throaty lil oven of yours.

It was your turn to make him dinner.

✰ ©blkkizzat 2024. do not steal works or gfx, do not translate.

✰a/n: y'all idk im hungry, on my period and i clearly got demons. that's all the defense i got so y'all can lock me away for this now. *runs away* p.s.plug!choso lovers this is not a fic, its a drabble i promise i literally wrote this in tumblr drafts don't kill me LOL

✰reblog & comments are my life's blood. ty!

[icelynodette]

424 Dollars Victoria's Secret Perfume Succulent Mood

[iuchamjohta]

Leave these woman alone ft Yuna

1400 words

Notes: Hi anon thanks for your request, since it’s sent through the request box 😊 here’s a story dedicated for you. Also I will do Yuna justice with a better fic eventually don’t worry! (Yes this is a mix of shade and partial smut i guess) Did'nt proof read this thing cause it aint worth my time. For those who wants to read for the smut you can ignore the first two and last two paragraphs they arent for u but specially for my dear requester XD

First person POV of anon:

My name is Anon. I work a standard 9-5 job and have been doing so for 30 years. I’m a single and have never dated. Everyday I get scolded by my boss but I turn a deaf ear to it , just going through the motion of my routine life. Things however get exciting once I get home. I can induldge in my deepst darkest fantasies.

You see while on the surface, I'm a white knight in shiny armor, beneath that, I'm a self-righteous hypocritical man, living a double life. I've got an entire collection dedicated to Yuna, my ultimate bias, stashed away in a folder on my laptop, hidden deep within a secret folder, safely encrypted with a password only I know. It's my little haven, my sanctuary—a place where I can indulge in my wildest fantasies, free from judgment. I mean, who doesn't have their celebrity crushes, right? But for me, it's more than just a crush. Yuna is my fantasy. She's the one who makes me question my self-control.

The room is dimly lit, perfect for what I have in mind. I pull up a recent fancam from her solo performance.. There she is, in a low-rise jeans that showcased her hourglass figure, strutting across the stage with sheer confidence. The camera zeroes in on her for a solo performance, the lucky bastards in the audience probably have no idea how fucking lucky they are. Her eyes glint with confidence, as if seducing me and sending a wave of anticipation through my body. I bite my lip, feeling my dick twitch in anticipation. It's one of those days when I crave a release, a day dedicated to worshipping her perfect body.

Yuna is everything I want and more. Her magnetic aura draws me closer to the screen as she seductively sways to the music. Every curve of her body is sculpted by the gods themselves. I zoom in, wanting to explore every inch of her, starting from her face. Her huge eyes, her full lips that always look succulent, begging for me to take them. Her skin, pale in complextion that glows under the stage lights. I'd kill to know what she smells like, if she tastes as sweet as she looks. Her long legs they begged to be worshipped.

Her hair, cascading in soft waves, frames her face, occasionally whipping her forehead as she moves, making my fingers itch to run through it, to feel its silkiness between my fingertips. Her crop top reveals just the right amount of skin and her incredibly sexy midriff. They hug her chest tightly. I imagine pinching those rosy nipples, already knowing from countless fantasies that they'd harden instantly. The thought sends a jolt of lust straight to my cock.

The camera follows her every move, and she's teasing the fans mercilessly. She bends down, the low-rise jean - hugging every inch of her toned thighs and plump ass, highlighting the perfect hour glass figure. God, her ass! It's a work of art, rounded and firm, a sight that has me gripping my cock, stroking slowly as I imagine sinking my face into that soft flesh. The way she reveals her cleavage, The way her muscles flex under those jeans makes my mouth go dry. She knows what she's doing, the little tease. Each flick of her hips is a silent invitation to something forbidden.

As the song progresses, so does my hand on my shaft. I can't stop picturing her riding me, those long, toned legs wrapped around my waist. Her abs clench and relax with each provocative move, the sight alone nearly pushing me over the edge. The sweat glistening on her skin, the way it would feel slick under my palms as I hold her hips, grinding into me, fuck, it consumes me. I want to be the reason for her sweat, for her moans.

The performance builds up, and so does my pace. My breathing quickens, mirroring her heavy pants as if we're in sync. I can imagine the lust matching my own as she moves her hair behind her back, giving me a perfect view of her slender neck and the pulse point that makes my mouth water. A collarbone looks so defined and my hands would look so fucking perfect there, pushing her down unto my cock. My cock twitches, the thought of owning this goddess in the bedroom flooding my mind. I want to see her—no, I need to see her submissive side, her begging for more, on her knees, her pretty eyes pleading for me to take control.

I can't resist the urge anymore. I pause the video at the part where she's bending forward offering an eyeful of her cleavage and a hint of her flat stomach. The image fills the screen,  letting me examine every detail. From her perfect breast that I imagine running my tongue all over, to her navel, a shallow indent, a tempting destination for my tongue. I'd work my way downward, hearing her whimpers as I trace patterns on her sensitive skin, marking her with love bites along the way until I reach her wet core. With my other hand, I reach for the lube, needing more sensation. I coat my fingers and continue imagining my tongue's path, heading south past her navel to the place she craves attention. I'd tease her, running my fingers through her wetness, finding her clit, driving her wild. And when she's close, I'd sink two fingers into her, feeling her heat, her tightness, while I suck on that perfect neck, leaving my mark. Her moans would fill the room, echoing off the walls, telling me she's mine.

But, Yuna she's a master at denying satisfaction. The clip cuts just as I can see her biting her lip, probably holding back a moan. That's when my stroking gets wilder. I jerk off fiercely, imagining her on all fours, that ass in the air, begging for my cock. In my mind, I'd stand behind her, taking in the view before delivering hard thrusts, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. She loves rough, I know that much. I want to spank that ass, watch it jiggle with each impact, watch her pussy squeeze my dick, milking me.

"Fuck, Yuna," I groan, my vision blurring as pleasure spikes. I see her looking over her shoulder, those eyes half-lidded, knowing she's craving it harder. In my fantasy, I'd tug her hair, making her submit, taking her like an animal. I increase the pace, my balls tightening, then I would reach my peak, exploding with sensation. I come violently, coating my hand and the screen, wishing it was her that I coated instead.

Panting, I lean back, my heart hammering in my chest as I relish the aftermath. The image of her winking at the camera as she says her farewells plays in my head, and I know I'll be back for more—she's my addiction. Cleaning up, a satisfied smile on my face, I wonder if she has any idea the effect she has on me, if she knows she just gave me the best fucking handjob ever. Little does she know, this 'nobody' behind the screen is more than willing to show her how good it could be in reality.

Maybe one day, she won't just be a fantasy, but until then, I'll keep worshipping her on my screen.

Then with this guilty pleasure, I find the need to claim her as mine and "protect" her. Going unto forums, I tell myself I have to put back on my knight in shiny armour image! Telling everyone else to leave all these woman alone especially Yuna.

To me pornography is okay, I have fapped to many of it, nor do I see the need to email all these pornographic companies on what they are doing though more damaging is wrong. Other sexual fantasies are okay, but when it comes to others fantasising about my idols, I have to be defensive since they are my life even though I would never reach them. This is me, a double standard hypocritical white knight, a nameless nobody in my life. Nonetheless, this secret is safe with me, and as long as I live, I shall continue to remain self-righteous on the outside while indulging in my secret fantasies.

Thanks for your request once again! Yes me being an internet troll, anyways not the best smut I have written I apologise. Okay fuck now I actually need to do justice by releasing a proper Yuna fic . Please send ideas for req on Yuna guys a one time offer that the best idea gets it’s fic written on her.

[viapu-com]

Get ready to up your dinner game with Succulent Secrets' top-notch Beef Shank recipe! Unleash your inner chef and dive into juicy, aromatic flavors like never before. Stay tuned! 🥩🔥🍴

[pascals-doll]

B.A.S

⋆ ˚ . * ·analysis— In which you were bound to a man you don’t desire or love by your parents. An entire relationship built on resentment and treaty-like. Abby Anderson, you’re neighbor whom lived happily with her girlfriend next door. Unruly cravings and wreckful thoughts take over between the both of you, assuring a succulent dalliance. Guess you Both Aint Shit.

abby anderson x reader

₊˚ପ MEGANS NEW ALBUM GOT ME ON MY TOESS 💋

˚ପ i cant believe ive had this lil plot thought out written somewhat since march and i never had time to finish it and im happy i finally did!

₊˚ପ description: MODERN AU! READER IS FEMININE PRESENTING (only desc of reader), MUTUAL CHEATING!, reader is kinda in the closet because of prejudice parents, mentions of heavy religious parents, reader is in arranged marriage with a man!, mutal jealousy, homewrecking, SMUT NAAASTYSMUT, dom!abby, sub!reader, oral sex (r receiving), reader is unexpirenced!, brief size kink, praise kink, heavy making out, fingering (r receiving), lots of pussyeating, no use of y/n,( ___) is blank for partners names, use of pet names (doll, beautiful, baby)

A lavish life was the experience of finding love on your own, letting it grow on you, and completing whelm your entire being. It was the process of getting to know each other to first kiss, to the ask out, to the relationship, and if your lucky; you build life together.

The stage of growth and love; where you plan as you’re just overfilled with emotion. That trigger to jump with joy at the fact that you’re building a whole life path with your special someone.

Years spent learning about each other, sharing parts of yourselves, and taking that time to progress hand in hand; harmoniously. Something, everyone should have the unlawful pleasure of doing.

It something you’ve always dreamed off, feeling it so close as you watch through your curtains. A secret craven in peeking into the silhouettes of the house next door.

You had seen them together for the past year since they moved in. Their happiness almost tangible as they enjoyed each other's company in the pool or on the patio, sipping cocktails and laughing.

You were hardly ever envious in the years you’ve been on earth—but it’s almost taunting like, the way they have so much to give. Truly in paradise with their passion for each other. Although, something didn’t always seem quite right.

Your life never stopped being stifling. You were bound to a man you could never love. An unfair business arrangement orchestrated by your parents alongside constant trips-pointless trips; taken by your close to nonexistent husband.

Abby's girlfriend was also often away on business, and you suspected that she was lonely. Going throughout your day and then coming home to see her in all alone, all day, in that big house.

The entire marriage was a sham, a rule-set of convenience. You couldn’t help yourself any longer once Abby moved in.

Often finding your eyes drifting to her, imagining what it would be like to kiss her peached lips, engulfed within those muscular arms. Such thoughts made you blush, and ignite a feeling in your stomach.

You couldn’t do anything except push your own crawling agenda away, only to have them return with greater intensity.

Abby Anderson was a phenomenal women. She was lead cordinator at a business with the pleasure to provide and work from home. She deserves someone who can take care of all that hard work.

Her girlfriend clearly couldn’t.

‘If you live a life you don’t love, make best of what you want.’

You had never been with a women before. Only close you’ve ever gotten to exploring was dabbling in lesbian porn when your husband wasn’t around. It didn’t take long to dawn on you—that you had never orgasmed, especially not in the way these women in adult videos do and definitely not with your husband.

It was pitiful, really. The fact you couldn’t enjoy such a liberty. Your own sexuality.

A faraway dream of self-discovery and not the norms fed to you by religious beliefs that you couldn’t claim as yours. Dragged on by your parents whom taught you, it was ‘all in good faith’ and ‘Lord knows whats best’.

The only explaination for your abomination of life. Merely neglectful to your candied desires. Wrong, yet right in every way. You were loosing sleep as nights pass, tossing, and turning restless.

Rolling out of your silk sheets groggily. You stepped into your house slippers before walking down your stairs to your living room where your pack of cigarettes are. You grabbed the pack of your dining table, heading out to your front porch.

It was midnight, blurred gray clouds into the black-violet sky as you lit your cigarette and dazing away. You could feel the stagnant air surround your exposed skin, your lacy satin nightgown—a slip of fabric only covering you.

Unbothered and insomatic, taking drags from your malboro as you sat next to your ashtray that displayed on your side table. If you were to turn your head; facing towards and into all your temptations.

From just the corner of your eye, you could see the lights were still on at such an hour. Impulsively giving into your curiosity, turning your chair; peering into her window across the street.

Puffing till your ash thins into the orange-tip. Your attention drowned out until you heard rustling coming from the bushes at the corner of the street and your home. You whip your head around, blunting your cigarette out onto your ashtray and walking towards the barricade of your porch.

Abby was taking out the trash. She dressed in a loose tank top and shorts. She looked relaxed, her long golden hair falling casually around her face. Eventually catching you, offering a friendly wave and came closer to the fence of your porch.

"Hey there!" Abby greets, cool-toned and intrigued. "Can't sleep either, huh?"

Your heart hammered in your chest. "Sure is, just came out for a smoke…uh-hm! How have you been?" You stammered your question, unsure of what to say.

Abby couldn’t help her gaze drop to your nightgown, her eyes glinting under the streetlights. "Just been cooped up alone, taking care of Bear and ____ is away on another business trip.” She exudes, smiling at the mention of her precious furry friend.

You listened intently, a small smile tugged on your lips “____ been gone since the week before. Preoccupying myself by enjoying my magazines alongside my tea,” You let out a small giggle which was returned.

Abby’s presence tensed you, goosebumping your skin as if you were cold all of a sudden.

A small moment of silence was a momentum of chance.

“Would you like to come in for a glass of wine or water? I’d be a horrible neighbor if i left you hangin’” You offer, stepping aside with a soft smile.

She took you in once more, head to toe and an adrenaline pumped throughout her body before spreaking, “It’d be my pleasure”.

4 words 1 sentence. A saying so simple is all it took, to have you clawing at your sanity.

Two cups of Wine turned into more and lighthearted conversations transformed sentimentally with each cup.

You bonded over the fact your partners often left for work, leaving you both lonely in such a big house. Eventually divulging your marital fraud, your desolation worn on your sleeve like an accessory.

“That’s truly not necessary—” you were cut off.

“Accept nothing but the truth, he doesn’t recognize how lucky he’s got it.” You picked up on how her voice turned stern, straightening up as she reassured you. You just stood there frozen.

You gulped, wrapping your arms around yourself as you suddenly felt exposed. You scrambled to think of something to say, your delusions wanting to take this in every way it wasn’t.

Abby suddenly closes the gap between the both of you, leaning onto your counter and into you. You could smell her perfume, the scent of fresh orcid and essential oils tickling your nostrils.

Maybe It was.

“Do you love him?” A very solidifying question.

“I dont know what love is and I definitely don’t love him, more like my parents did.” You grimaced, sarcastic and plainly disinterested in such a discussion. You truly have nothing to compare your marriage too.

“I hate fucking him too. Don’t feel a thing.”

Abby’s eyes widened, her hand reaching over to grasp yours. “Have you—do you like women?” She quirked, a soft giggle falling from her lips.

“Again. Wouldn’t know, sweetheart.” The nickname seemed so naturally. Like, you had been calling her that forever. Your eyes met with Abby’s; face to face with only so much space.

Then suddenly, she settles her strong hands upon both of your arms “And If i showed you?” She was so gentle with your demeanor, treading lightly.

She wanted it just as bad, just like you.

Her breath fanning your lips causing you to hitch. A trembling hand reached out, your hand brushing Abby's cheek, her hands pulling you from your waist. A passionate kiss spun.

It was electric, your lips molding together, tongues dancing in a frantic exploration. Abby moaned into your mouth, your hands roaming loosely down to grip your neighbor's slender hips. You responded by pressing yourself against Abby, feeling the firmness of her breasts through both your clothes.

Kissing desperately, hungrily, as if starved for each other's touch. Breaking the kiss, Abby nibbled on your ear, a weak whisper falls from your lips, “I need you….” Muttering in between kisses.

“Bedroom’s upstairs.” You finish. Abby taps on the cheek of your ass, signaling you to jump into her embrace.

Stumbles and giggles to make your way upstairs and down the hall to your master bedroom. Abby pulled away from you, looking around the room, seeing the mixture of objects from your husband and your own.

In some way, the infidelity. It made it rapturous.

"Lie down," she ordered you, her voice suddenly husky and full of authority.

you obliged to her command happily, body thrumming with excitement. You watch her climb onto the bed, hovering above you and eyes pouring into your own; a mixture of lust and tenderness.

"You're so beautiful," Abby’s voice was low as her eyes ran up and down, running her hands down your body. Each streak feathered on from her fingers tickled your skin, squirming as you legs lock together.

You felt a fluttering in you stomach at the compliment. "So are you," You meeked shyly, a pink hue on your flustered in face. You were breathless as Abby began to kiss at your neck, nibbling and sucking on the sensitive skin.

Abby continued her slow exploration, trailing kisses down your body, pausing to nuzzle your breasts through your top. "I want to see all of you," she whispered, her hot breath fanning over your tempered skin.

Heart was pounding in your chest as you nodded. The feeling of her gentle but eager hands as she threw off your clothes, baring you inch by delicious inch.

She paused to appreciate each reveal. The swell of your perked breasts, the curves that dipped your body, and to the drag of your soaked panty down your legs.

Completely naked and to her taking, Abby took a moment to admire you. Her eyes ran down over every inch of your exposed-self, salivating at your glistening arousal. "Better than my dreams," she murmured, voice full of wonder.

Insatiably on the same side of a coin. You reached for Abby's top, eager to return the favor. You peeled the fabric away, revealing her lush breasts, nipples eager with the cool breeze with excitement. She metled into your touch as she kicked off her shorts.

It was your turn to admire everything you’ve awaited. Her body glistened under the dim lighting of your room. The way eyes smoldered with desire tranced you as she positioned herself between your thighs. Your needy slick center coarsed Abby’s head; hovering above and planting pecks on your thighs.

Abby leaned into you. The feeling of her mouth searing kisses on your delicate pussy and her thumb teasing the taut peak of your tits. Your back arched arched into her touch, moaning softly as you reveled in the sensation of finally being touched by another woman. By her.

You notice the way she took her time with you. She was observant with each twig and jolt that came from your body, savoring you. She sweetly elicited a series of delighted gasps and whimpers from you as she continued her descent, twirling her tongue around your clit and teasing you down to your folds.

You choked out a cry of shock, “Fuck-ah!" you seethed, your hands gripping your bed sheets. You could feel Abby chuckle softly as she relishing sucked on your puffy clit. You felt like you were on a cloud, feeling completely elevated.

“Gaah! Ab—Abby!” Your thighs tremble in her grasp, feet kicking into her back slightly at the new found pleasure. The jolt that coursed through you felt ferious with the feeling of her moist tongue. She made her way inside your folds, teasing your whet entrance.

Suddenly, you feel the tip of her tongue plunge inside you, “Abby! fuckk Abby!” You let out a throat-curling shriek. Each lick inside you was a push of boundaries.

Legs trembling, mouth fully-agape, back arched, tits begging to be touched, nails clawing into your sheets, and grinding into her face completely high off ecstasy. Everything was new to you. The sex, passion, and connection. A seventh heaven.

Just as quick as the erotic came; it left. She pulled away from your eager pussy and anticipated body causing your back to drop and pant breathlessly.

"Patience," she murmured, her breath tickling your sensitive folds.

She continued her slow exploration, indulging her tongue as her fingers dance along the skin of your blimped thighs. Your breath hitched as you were dying of anticipation for her touch, her tongue.

Finally, fucking two fingers into you as she paid attention to your clit. Your deplore was sensuous, another train of cries and whines falling from your drooled lips.

Everything Abby did made you feel absolutely desired. Another thing, your husband could never do.

"You're so wet," Abby praises through her slurps and swallows of your leaking lithe. Abby’s fingers thrust forward, pushing in every inch of herself.

Her eyes darken as they watch themselves get squeezed in by your soppy fuzzed beneath. "So beautiful," she marvels, not getting enough of you.

"Don’t stop! please!”

Her thick fingers curl upward, she stroked your walls with her tips. She enjoys every moment of your writhing. Abby could live in this moment forever.

She smiled as your hips bucked up, chasing after every sensation. "So responsive," she purred, before adding a third thick finger inside you. she stretched you out completely, feeling every bit as your hands tugged onto her blonde hair.

She pulled her fingers out alight from so deep, dragging her tongue down once more your slick folds and lapping up your essence.

"Oh god!" Your moan gutteral and body thrashing against her and your bed. The tip of her fingers swirled inside softly, pressing onto your soft sex-gush.

An electrifying chilled jostled down to cramped hips as your stomach twisted blissfully. "Cum for me," she praises, working through your overwhelming orgasm.

Lewd spewls and ravenous chill flowed out and through you. Completely mind-fucked as you cream all over the tip of her fingers and tongue. Your body tightened like a coil, coating her with your sticky release with a final cry, "Oh, Abby!" As she cupped your leaking cum around her three fingers.

She brought them up to her lips, sucking them clean, releasing with a pop, and groan in delight. “You’re so fucking heavenly, taste it too.” She coos, crawling her way to meet your glowed and fucked out-self.

“Don’t tap out now, doll, I’m only getting started.”

Both of your integrity’s thrown out the door.

“This isn’t….” A pointless mumble left your lips, somewhat dawning the fact; You just cheated on your husband.

“They aren’t even here, right baby?”

a/n: ugh my slut ass probably gonna make another part 🤞🏼🐇

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[secretsheepie]

Kawaii Cacti die-cut sticker

[sandwitchstories]

But When It Comes To You...

Time for some more Sukuna brain rot!

This story is not canon but takes places in the Heian Period of time, during Sukuna's human life.

Likes, shares and comments are always appreciated!

If you would prefer to read it on AO3, click here !

Summary : Sukuna kneels to no god, king, or man.

But when it comes to you, he would gladly fall to his knees and worship you like the goddess you are if you asked.

Sukuna reflects on who he is to the world vs who he is to you.

CW: MDNI, Smut, smut with feelings, Sukuna does introspection, Sukuna has feelings, AFAB terms used to describe reader and reader's body parts

Ryoumen Sukuna revels in power and strength. He is ruthless, cunning, strategic and patient. He watches his targets and observes their every move, quickly able to pinpoint weaknesses and openings. He enjoys pushing buttons and seeing how far he can push someone before they snap. 

And then… his favorite part is putting them in their place and proving that his title and his reputation are both well deserved. Yeah, he is confident in his own abilities. He knows exactly who he is and just what brutality he is capable of. 

Sukuna’s hands are not just covered in blood. All 4 arms, up to his elbows, drip with it from their constant submergence in it. He could bathe in it. Countless sorcerers, civilians, and curse users have fallen to him and paid with their lives.

He can tear a grown man apart with just his physical strength. His hands are large enough and strong enough to crush a skull in his grip. Violence is etched into every molecule of his being, carved into the very lines of his palms and fingers.

But when it comes to you… his hands are full of tenderness and care no one would think he was  capable of. Hell, to be honest, he hadn’t even known he was capable of it. Yet with you, it comes naturally. His large hands move over your body, mapping the soft, curving planes of his territory, committing every inch to memory, soaking in the warmth of your smooth skin beneath his calloused flesh.

Sukuna knows his teeth are sharp and it is no secret he has consumed many humans. Hell, it's the very reason he let Uraume stay with him at the start. They were a helluva cook.

But when it comes to you and your succulent flesh, he devours you in a totally different way. Be it with the mouth on his face, stomach or one he conjures somewhere else, they all pay homage to you with kisses and licks. Teeth will nip and prink into your flesh playfully, then be soothed with his tongue and gentle presses of his lips to your skin. He always leaves plenty of love marks in his wake. He is a territorial man and you belong to him. He tastes every inch of you every time, determined to savor your unique flavor as if you were his favorite four course meal. 

Sukuna has fucked his share of women. Many towns and villages have brought him their most beautiful women, an offering for his protection and not slaughtering them where they stood. He had indulged in them. Used them, fucked them, and tossed them aside, no regards to their pleasure or enjoyment. He’d get his, dump his load anywhere but inside of them, and then immediately discard them naked in the hallway for Uraume to send back to their homes. He truly couldn’t have cared less, but what was the point in letting offerings go to waste?

But when it comes to you, he cannot get enough. He has no need or want for other women. He keeps a tally of how many times he can get you off before he finally lets himself cum and lets you fall asleep in the safety of his arms. The second his cock is inside of you, he is in a state of constant nirvana. Nothing exists but the two of you. Your pleasure is what gives him true pleasure. Your moans, whimpers, and begs will forever echo in his mind. 

He loves watching your face as you writhe in pleasure. He loves watching the way your mouth hangs open as vulgar sounds escape, your eyes rolling back into your head. He loves the blush that starts at your cheeks, tips your ears, and spreads down your chest. It's even sexier when it glistens with sweat.

He loves feeling you cum on his cock. The way your slick walls grab onto his cock in such a tight vice, sucking him in, milking him for all he is worth. He loves feeling you pulse and throb around him. He loves watching your pussy take his cock, your pudgy lips spread around him, embracing his thick length like a glove. He loves seeing the milky ring forming around the base of his cock as you coat him with your pleasure. Loves that your cunt gets so messy it coats both of your groins and inner thighs, loves that he can do that to you. Loves that he can reduce you to a babbling, panting, blissed out state.

He loves that it is his name you are screaming. That it is his shoulders and back your nails are digging into and scratching. He loves that it is his cock you are begging for. Begging for more, for him to go harder, deeper. His cum that you are stuffed with. 

Sukuna has never once in his life felt wanted or needed. He, in turn, has never wanted or needed any one. Love is a foreign concept and he has always considered it a waste of time. The pursuit of and the belief in it were part of what made weak humans cling to life. 

He has always felt that there was no point in forming or maintaining relationships that did not serve a purpose, that did nothing to further his conquest for power. Human beings were pathetic, they fell apart at a touch and most of them lacked the resolve and discipline to do anything worthwhile with their lives. 

But when it comes to you, he cannot summon his normal sociopathic tendencies. He does not necessarily understand what he feels for you, only that he feels it deeply and cannot stand the thought of letting you go. 

Sukuna has no desire to be seen as a good man, or a good person. He is fine with his labels as the King of Curses, the Imaginary Demon and the Disgraced One. He enjoys others being uncomfortable in his presence. He enjoys festivals being held in his honor and most of the offerings made to him.

But when it comes to you… You are an anomaly. In your eyes alone, he wants to be seen as something else. He wants to be seen as just a man in love with a beautiful woman. 

Sukuna kneels to no god, king, or man.

But when it comes to you, he would gladly fall to his knees and worship you like the goddess you are if you asked. To you alone he gives -  his time, his attention, his body, and what remains of his heart… If something were to happen to you… that would be the absolute end to any shred of humanity left in him. 

Ryoumen Sukuna is many things to many people. But when it comes to you, it is very simple. All he wants is for you to be his, and his to be yours.  

[syneilesis]

[fic] if only for a moment

if only for a moment

Love and Deepspace | Rafayel (Qi Yu) x Main-Character!Reader | T | 3.6k words | ao3 link (with correct formatting)

Rafayel waits. And waits. And waits.

A/N: Another LaD fic!! This time it's Rafayel. Several elements of this fic are inspired by and loosely based on his story anecdotes and bond story, plus that Deep Sea card line backdrop. So more spoilers in this one, I'm afraid. I think you need to be aware of them in order to follow the flow of the fic. But if not, here's what you need to know: basically Rafayel accepts a visiting professorship at the University of Linkon to reunite with the MC/you. And the prose poetry interspersed are loosely situated in the Deep Sea card lineup setting (you can search in YouTube for the scenes. This one is a brief glimpse of the scene). That princess/knight(??) dynamic is yum yum.

If possible, please read the version on AO3. I formatted the prose poems there as if they're really prose poetry, so I'd appreciate it if you check that out. (Though there isn't too much difference between the formatting here and there, I did make the effort of coding a little 🥺)

Anyhoo, hope you enjoy, and I am sO STOKED FOR THE OFFICIAL RELEASE. rip my wallet 💸😭

JUST LOOK AT THIS MAN AND BELIEVE

There’s a type of berry in a distant land that produces a rare shade of ink that matches the color of your eyes. It takes a hundred of them to create the right hue and volume for the art that he wants to make. It comes to him in a dream: endless desert, then fireworks of verdant sparks that coalesce into stem, leaf, and, finally, fruit. Rafayel remembers that land, so much different from the iridescent blue of ocean underwater, and the acrid gold of the barren desert. His mouth filled with the succulent sweetness of the dream, the lingering sandpaper roughness of the berries on his fingers. He already knows the name of the artwork even before he’s begun—Waiting, Missing. The ache in his bones gaining form, an intangible thing taking flesh.

+

Under the ocean surface, time is muted, a deafening thickness that surrounds you with its ambiguity. On land, however, it is linear, and fast, and in a matter of blinks, Rafayel’s visiting professorship nearly wraps up.

He’s only glimpsed you once or twice. Thrice at most. The university is big, but not big enough to warrant a dearth of fateful encounters. The first time he saw you it was at a coffee shop: walking along with your friends outside, your voice mellifluous and festive wafting through the trellis of the café entrance. You were talking about him—well, about Lemuria to be specific, but these days any talk of Lemuria inevitably draws in his name.

He’s committed your schedule to memory, and yet it just seems impossible to capture a moment with you. Even just a brush of shoulders, or of sleeves—an asymptote of contact. Just navigating around your orbit, but never truly meeting.

What would it be like—finally talking to you? You in front of him, face to face? Rafayel imagines the ache of waiting fading into the background until it’s completely gone. He yearns for that feeling, the release of it. A conclusion—or maybe even a beginning.

+

i. take my hand, he told you under the glow of the lustrous moon, the only source of light that contoured the secretive valleys of his face. i want to show your highness something. there was a country, he said, beyond the undulating monochrome of the desert, blanketed by lush trees and shrubberies and flowers that buildings were made in betwixt and around them—a nation of trailing and winding architecture, a marriage of the natural and the manmade. you wanted to ask why he’d planned on taking you there, and the only answer you got was a curt turn of his head and the profile of a masked man layered by shadows and distance. it would have been nice, you thought, if the moon poured light upon his hooded gaze.

+

Eventually he begins to frequent the café. Twice a week at first—he doesn’t want to come off strong right away, of course—and then making his way up until he’s hanging out there more than his own studio. He schedules his visits around your classes, always during the ones when the probability of you dropping by the café is high and he can ‘coincidentally’ be around the same area. It’s gotten to a point that Thomas calls him out on it, and nags at him to focus more on his painting. The next exhibit is immediately after his visiting professorship after all.

“From where I’m standing,” Thomas says, “you’re not painting at all.”

Rafayel ignores him.

Five minutes later, he says, “Not painting is part of the painting process.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, but he leaves him to it.

At the café, Rafayel attracts curious looks. A few attempt to approach him, but he pretends not to see them. They linger around the periphery, like moths to flame.

And then something happens: the entrance door chimes, and you swan into the coffee shop, earphones and denim overall skirt, the kind of rosy-cheeked image Rafayel finds on teen magazines, wide-eyed and earnest. You fall in line and order when it’s your turn, and your eyes sweep across the packed café searching for a vacant seat until they finally land on him.

Rafayel’s heart stumbles.

Up close, the baby fat on your cheeks still gives you the appearance of being younger than you actually look. You turn a polite smile his way, and his heart stutters again—but this time it is taken as a warning.

“Hi,” you say, tentative. Any hint of recognition absent. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

+

ii. you're counting the steps of your inevitable parting. you're at the edge of the desert, far away from your home and its familiar scents, oriented towards a direction that promised a future sad memory, the gentle warmth of his hand, the downward denial of his gaze. this longing that grew out of your bones, aching during cold, aching during heat, aching when he looked at you with such tenderness he had to hide it through the sharp tug of your joined hands, the long strides that opened up a lonely distance. intimacy was dangerous, knowing was dangerous, the bowels of his heart like a solitary flower on a high peak. what would you do to such loneliness?

+

Memory isn't always an infallible thing. The human brain cannot hang on to every moment of your life, though Rafayel wishes it were so. But still—to think that you would forget him, and it hasn’t even been a century. You were like a phantom thief stealing his heart in the night—no recourse, no resolution.

To wait is to be in agony, the burn of yearning locked within the heart. Rafayel has been waiting for a long time, and the only memory scorched in his heart is fire, the blaze and its blinding, all-consuming want.

What would you do to such want?

+

You have a blurry childhood, Rafayel discovers. After the first Wanderer descended on Earth, the incident strummed your memories like a stringed instrument that tired of the same chord, over and over. It had bothered you at first—not being in control of your own memories—but eventually you had learned to live with it.

“Grandma and Caleb—my childhood friend—helped me through the process,” you tell him, stirring your iced mocha with its straw. “I owe them a lot.”

Eyes cast down, but still the melancholy shadows remain in your expression. Rafayel folds his arms on the table, and leans closer.

Around them only a few people occupy the coffee shop at this time. How fortunate for Rafayel to catch you during your break while every other student is trapped in class lectures.

“There’s no use in dwelling upon what's already happened. Even sharks have to give up when their prey escapes. When you remember, it will be all the more joyous, no?”

The smile you give him is crooked, disbelieving.

“If I remember.”

“You’ll remember.” Because there’s no other choice, for you and for him. Rafayel cannot bear being shelved in the history of your smile and happiness. Waiting can only be endurable if there’s an endpoint.

+

In his studio, Rafayel begins his next painting.

+

iii. the berries tasted sweet, with an edge of sourness that clung to the bottom of the tongue. it had the exact shade of your eyes, a detail that rafayel brought up the moment he plucked it from the shrub. raising it to align with your eyes, comparing them with his artist's meticulous gaze. maybe when this is all over, i'll go back here again to extract ink from these berries, and paint a portrait of your highness using these to color your eyes. he never showed you any of his paintings, merely mentioned them in passing, and you constructed a dream of him from the throwaway words that left his covered lips. i'm not used to sitting for so long, you reminded him, and he glanced at you, then at the berry between his fingers. my memory is enough, then handed you the fruit.

+

In the few weeks of meeting with you Rafayel forgets that his visiting professorship is ending soon and he has to give out his last lecture. Thomas had asked him what his topic would be. At that point Rafayel had no answer. But now he has.

“I’ve been hearing you talk about Lemuria every now and then with your friends.” He props his cheek on his hand, tilting his head slightly and giving you a charming smile. “Interested?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I’ve seen you a couple of times here, and I happened to hear your friends chat about my lecture. Your points were almost accurate, I’m in awe.”

“The visiting professor—that’s you?!”

Rafayel pauses, the slosh of his drink nearly spilling on his frozen hand.

“You didn’t know?”

Sheepish, you say, “Honestly, I didn’t make the connection. Is that why plenty of people have been glaring at me as of late?”

He releases a frustrated sigh, eyes rolling heavenward.

“In any case, my final lecture is on Friday next week. It’s titled “Memory and Meaning in Lemurian Art”. Why don’t you drop by and listen, and you can tell me what you think afterwards.”

You retrieve your bullet journal to check your schedule. It’s colorful, filled with stickers and doodles that Rafayel finds endearing. Then the excited moue on your face drops into a frown, and Rafayel can foresee the next words that will come out of your downturned lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say guiltily, “but I have a major test that day, and I need to get a high score in order to pass the course.”

Rafayel exhales, long and weary, but ultimately shrugs off the apology. “What a shame, but I forgive you. Just don’t fail your exam or else my magnanimity would be all for nothing.”

+

He calls Thomas that night.

“I’ll disappear for a while once the professorship is over.”

“Hey, wait, what do you me—”

“You’ll be happy to know that this is for my next painting.”

A beat. “Okay … but for how long?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Then he hangs up.

+

He’s trying, he really does. The lecture ends to a resounding applause, and it’s mechanical how he answers the questions posed by the audience. But he’s trying, he’s trying. There’s no specter of you in the sea of faces in the auditorium. You’re at the other end of the university compound, sweating your way through your exam. He genuinely hopes you’d pass, for your sake.

Thomas had booked his flight to another country, where he’ll traverse to a land that he’d visited many times in his dreams and had woken up with a filmy, sweet-sour tang at the roof of his mouth. He’ll leave the morning after the closing dinner party the faculty has prepared for him. There isn’t time to pack much, and no time to tell you goodbye.

Rafayel guesses that it’s only fair: how would you feel waiting for him at that café, the chair across you empty, only the sunlight pooling from the window as your companion?

+

iv. parting, somebody once said, is such a sweet sorrow. much like those berries in that ever-green nation, a lingering sourness remained underneath, the sting of it reminding you every now and then. he was already mourned for even before he left. tell me what it's like—the ocean. he was elusive, untouchable in his grief. you'd heard through whispers, the story of his migration, the drowning before the drying, the unwanted journey. grief brought him to you and grief would steal him away from you, you knew, down to the cells of your body and the hopelessness in your blood. —and yet. and yet you wanted to have a taste of it, anyway.

+

The ever-green land is no longer green, or lush, or alive. Time corroded it into memory, sepia-faded, wizened. Past. The berries he’s searching for don’t grow here anymore. Everything here is empty, barren, helplessly so.

Rafayel hasn’t accounted for such development, but he should have known. Disappointment stings at his chest, and bitterly he turns away and stays at the next town over. At a family-run restaurant situated near the outskirts, he looks over the wide windows, across the highway road, beyond the jagged horizon. The painting won’t be finished, then. Another tragedy, pressed flat next to the forgetting, to the waiting, and his home.

The chef personally serves him his order and, after a shuffle of hesitation, brings up a question.

“Young man, you came from the direction of the old country, yeah?”

Rafayel meets his inquisitive gaze. “Yes, why?”

“It’s been a while since we had someone visiting that place. There’s nothing in there anymore, it’s been that way for years. Why did you go there?”

Rafayel is reluctant to say, but at the guileless set of the older man’s face, he concedes.

“I was looking for berries. The ones native there. They produce a shade that I need for my painting.”

At the mention of the fruit, the chef’s expression lights up. “Oh! I see, I see. You’re in luck, son. We grow them here at the farm. Plenty of those for everyone. How about I give you some? It’s rare meeting someone who still remembers the old country, it’s almost fate. How many did you say you need?”

Fate. Just like the time of your first meeting, as if the universe had gifted you to him. Just like the time of your parting, of your forgetting, of his waiting. Fate as a connection from you to him, red and burning brightly.

He doesn’t want to seem eager, but he knows he’s failed from the way the chef toothily grins at him.

“A hundred or so.”

The chef falters at that, jerking slightly back. But he accepts it with a nod, an avuncular smile making its way across his kind, powdery features.

“That sure is a huge number, but I think we can work something out.”

+

His painting takes a month to complete, inclusive of the time spent making the ink from the acquired berries. Sometimes, Thomas watches him paint, quiet in the background. His stays usually don’t last—a quick flash that Rafayel nearly misses, or deliberately ignores. But during the final stages of the painting process, Thomas hands him the exhibit details.

“I’m just thankful you’re on time for this one.” He sighs, relieved, then leaves.

Alone, Rafayel creates. Brushstroke after careful brushstroke, each varying by pressure and angle. He lets each layer of paint dry before moving onto the next. The berry ink—the color of your eyes—the solely different element of this painting. Center, central. The focal point. The beating heart. The years and years of waiting and longing. The form and the flesh. Alive.

This, too, is an endpoint.

+

v. can i see your face, just this once? your hands grazed his mask like a ghost wanting to touch. rafayel stayed still beneath your desirous fingers, observing, waiting, his own fingers twitching towards his dagger. even in the parting he could not let go of this distance. hopeless, hopeless. your highness would get nothing out of seeing my face. he's wrong, his eyes never left your face, and he's wrong. he didn't stop you from your grasping of his mask, and him—finally—bare and beautiful yet a little sad. you're wrong, you said, tracing his slightly parted lips with a trembling finger, you're wrong. it is everything to me.

+

The gallery is packed. No surprise there. It’s almost boring, in a way. Waiting, Missing hangs at the farthest hall in the floor, special and intimate as it should be. Thomas knows him well; otherwise, Rafayel would have whined at him to hell and back just so he could be granted this demand that is in reality a mandate.

He’s hiding from the throngs of journalists and art critics alike and sequesters himself in a corner that has a clear view of the painting. Loosening his collar and tie, Rafayel breathes and closes his eyes, leans tiredly against the wall. A few more minutes, and he’ll slink out of the building, reputation be damned.

He melts into the shadows whenever somebody passes by. He has neither time nor energy interacting with people today. Watching them through half-mast eyes, Rafayel stays in his secret place and studies with weightless detachment the people looking at the painting.

He’s made a bet with himself about the opinions of his followers and admirers. Who thinks what and why. It makes for great entertainment. The last time, a fresh-faced critic praised Rafayel’s technique as “innovative and a soul-rending reflection of the prodigy’s character.” He had laughed and laughed for hours until he couldn’t breathe any longer.

Another walks by, and before Rafayel retreats further into the corner, he glimpses a familiar gait and a familiar face.

His heartbeat races. He’s never told you that he’s holding an exhibit today. After the professorship Rafayel failed to maintain communication with you, convincing himself that it’s for the best that he protect you from afar that day onwards. It didn’t help that he had to leave as well. At the same time, you never made an effort of reaching out, and Rafayel thought that it was back to square one again, that waiting, that yearning.

But here you are right now, elegantly dressed, like someone gliding out of a dream. Rafayel swallows, his hands shake. You do not have someone else with you, and your eyes are brightly focused on Waiting, Missing, and for a fleeting moment your expression flickers into longing, strange and old and battered and sad, that it compels Rafayel to take a step forward—to you.

“Hey.”

The curious look vanishes; left no traces in your delighted face, as if it wasn’t there in the first place. “Rafayel!” you exclaim. “Long time no see! Congratulations on the exhibit; these are all beautiful.”

Outwardly he smirks, belying the torrential emotions he’s currently going through. He cants his head a little, works his charm on you. “Impressed? No need to hold back your compliments.”

Laughter, prismatic and crystalline. “Yes, yes. Especially this one—Waiting, Missing. What an interesting title. At the center, what paint did you use?”

Ah. Rafayel inhales before answering. “It’s actually ink. I had to make it from a hundred berries. It was a tedious process, but I wouldn’t use anything else. It has to be this, you see.”

“Whoa, no wonder you’d been radio silent all this time. You were creating this masterpiece.”

He hums, afraid that, if he speaks, he’d reveal too much.

“Well …” You throw a playful glance at him. “Shouldn’t we celebrate your success?”

His breath catches. “I—”

Before he manages to finish the sentence, a journalist calls out to him and that summons plenty more, swarming him with no chance of escape. It pushes you out of his peripheral vision, and Rafayel wants to shout your name, but you smile and gesture at him to entertain them first. You mouth, I’ll be back, and wander around other paintings some more.

When he finally succeeds in shaking the journalists off, he seeks you out and stumbles upon you near the exit, where there’s fewer people to pile on him.

“Excellent,” he says, sidling up beside you. You turn to him and smile, and there’s that lightning-flash of something again. For one unbelievably surreal instant, Rafayel thinks that despite your hazy memories, maybe you’d been waiting for him all this time, too.

And that thought emboldens him, moving closer and closer until your bodies almost touch. An asymptote of contact. But this time, he has mustered the courage to close that unbridgeable gap.

Rafayel offers you his hand. “Let’s get out of here?”

You stare at his hand then at his face, his eyes, and a meaningful moment stretches between you and him. But even before the idea of retracting enters his mind, you grab his hand joyfully, grinning ear to ear. His heart warms, full with everything.

You squeeze his hand, ready to go. “Lead the way, then!”

+

vi. a kiss is a greeting and a goodbye, and rafayel tasted of ferocious tides even if you'd seen them only in dreams. his eyes closed, as though savoring his last moments with you, guarded till the bitter end. would that i could ask you to stay—with me. but he shook his head—a final rejection. maybe in another life. there was nobody to watch you cry, in the after.

+

Rafayel is working on a new painting—a portrait this time. The model squirms on his couch, obvious about the discomfort of posing for too long. He huffs a laugh to himself, hidden by the canvas strategically placed between them.

“I heard that,” you grumble.

“Shush, you’re breaking my concentration.”

“If that already breaks your focus then I pity the rest of the art community.” A beat, then: “Is it done?”

“Patience, my dear muse. You need endure it a little more.”

“Hmph, fine. But after this you’re treating me to an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“All right, all right.” He shakes his head, fond. “My muse, so demanding.”

Something sweet touches the edge of his tongue, succulent with a hint of tartness. Like longing. Except now, it’s layered with something new and exciting. Something like a new beginning.

In the far distance, the sea murmurs, lit fire by the setting sun.

[cancelforcipe]

I was a little sad that Earth decided to leave that little plant in her and Monty's old house.

So instead I came up with the idea that Earth decided to give it to Eclipse. I mean:

- this is a keepsake that shows him that he is valued and considered a friend;

- the plant is small enough that Eclipse can easily take it with him wherever he needs to go;

- I could be wrong, but, in my opinion, this plant is a succulent, so it grows quite slowly and is not very difficult to care for;

- this may (or may not) be Earth's secret plan to teach Eclipse to care about someone. Plus, the plant will not annoy him with stupid questions or idle chatter.

So, in a nutshell:

[thetriumphantpanda]

the gift that keeps giving | marcus pike

Summary | Isn't it just your luck to get the office hottie as your secret santa this year?

Pairing | Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Word Count | 1.4K

Warnings | Just... Marcus Pike being Marcus Pike, some flirting and general office banter and a steamy kiss but nothing explicit!

Authors Note | To my Cheese & Crackers. My Darling Friend. I hope this makes your festive season that little bit lighter. I hope you love this because I love you, to the moon and back and beyond. Thank you for making 2023 that little bit easier. Happy Christmas @undercoverpena 🧡

“That’s looking a little worse for wear.” Marcus, stood at your desk, waiting for his report, finger pointed at the very much dead succulent on your desk.

You look up from your desk, fingers still flitting across the keyboard as you race to finish the notes he’d asked for.

“It’s looking dead, Marcus.”

“I was trying not to rub it in,” He shrugs, running a finger over one of the branches, a look of remorse on his face when he snaps off and lands on the white of the desk, “But yeah, that’s very much dead.”

“Frank deserved it.” You shrug, eyes never leaving your screen.

“Frank?”

“Yes, Frank,” You nod your head towards the succulent, “You’re meant to name plants, makes you more attached to them, more likely to care properly for them,” Another shrug of your shoulders, “Now look at him, showing me up as a bad mother.”

Marcus can’t help but chuckle a little, “You’ll have to get yourself another.”

“If I can’t keep a succulent alive,” You sigh, fingers slowing ever-so-slightly on the keyboard, “There isn’t much hope for anything else.”

“I believe in you.” He offers.

You stare at him through your lashes, a look that warns him that he needs to be quiet, “You know, the longer you stand there distracting me, the longer it’ll take me to type these notes up?”

“I always thought you thrived on pressure?” He teases, reminding you of a conversation a few months ago where you’d admitted that the best work you produce is always to a time crunch.

“Marcus, respectfully,” You finally look up at him properly, “You need to leave me alone, if you go and sit down in your office and leave me to it, this report will be on your desk in the next twenty minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re late.” Your voice is monotone as Marcus hurries out of the elevator.

“I know.” He’s stressed, twenty minutes late to his debrief meeting.

“I told you last night what time you needed to be here.”

He runs a hand over his face, taking the manila file from your hand, flicking through it to make sure he knows what the fuck is going on right now.

“I’ve just moved.”

You sigh, shake your head, but keep up his pace as you race through the office, “What’s that got to do with you being late?”

“The fridge magnet,” He offers, as if you’ll know exactly what he’s talking about, “I lost it when I moved.”

“Am I supposed to make the link myself?”

He stops at his desk, blindly opening drawers, rooting through papers to try and find something, “I used it to pin important things on the fridge, like when I need to be in to speak to the big boss.”

You shake your head, trailing behind him again as he starts walking again, “You can get a damn fridge magnet on every street corner, Marcus.”

“I know,” He says, a little breathless, as he finally comes to the meeting room door, “I’ll get around to it eventually, promise.”

There’s a small gift bag sitting on your desk when you come back from the Christmas lunch. There are an array of other gift bags and small wrapped presents on everyone’s desk. You sigh, flopping into your chair. Someone from the finance team is already passing around glasses of something fizzy, work clearly done for the day. Someone is hooking their phone up to the a speaker. You look left and right, making sure that no-one is looking, before you pull open the top of the back and peer in.

You can’t quite believe it, reaching your hand inside to grasp the pot, pulling it out. A scoff leaves your mouth, a small cactus sitting in a pot that’s been painted like a Christmas jumper. You shake your head, a laugh escaping as you drag a finger over the little spines, like you always do when trying to choose a new plant. You push the bag out of the way, setting the small plant down on your desk, right where Frank had been before.

You use your fingers to turn it around, setting it perfectly in place, when those familiar legs come into view, perfectly pressed trousers right in your eyeline, but it isn’t the legs you’re really looking at, although you do sometimes, it’s his fingers, pressing a fridge magnet onto your desk, sliding it across to you, a magnet that is now so familiar to you, having stood in that damn gift shop for almost thirty minutes try to choose the right one. One with a watercolour painting splashed across it, one that you know he likes, never shutting about what the colours mean and how it makes him feel.

“Oh my god,” You feign surprise, “Does this mean you’ll be on time from now on?”

“It looks like,” He’s got a smile on his mouth when you look at him, “Also means you’ll be able to get off my case.”

You smile back at him, “I’m pretty sure I’m the only reason you still have a job after your timekeeping this past month,” You tease, “But sure, if you want me off your case that bad, I’ll leave you alone.”

His attention moves from the magnet to the cactus already having pride of place on your desk. He picks it up, annoying you slightly as you’d just got it in the right position for you, “What are you going to name it?”

You raise your eyebrow, a knowing look in your eye, “It’s your gift, Marcus, you should name it.”

Marcus drops his head, a snort of a laugh breathing from his nostrils, “That obvious, huh?”

“About as obvious as this.” You bring your fingers to the fridge magnet.

You hold his eyes, watching as he thinks for a second, before he offers his name, “Vincent.”

There’s an actual laugh that drops from your mouth now, “You’re so predictable, Pike,” You shake your head, “Of course it would be an artist.”

He shifts from foot to foot a little, “You know,” His hand comes nervously to the back of his neck, “If it wasn’t for the damn $5 cap, I’d have gotten us a gift certificate to this restaurant downtown that I like.”

You breath catches in your throat slightly, because there’s no way, there’s no way that means what it means, “Us?”

“Yeah, I mean, if you’d like it of course,” His nervous hand running up and down the side of his neck, “I don’t need a secret santa to take you out.”

You shake your head a little, bite your bottom lip, “It’s funny, because if it hadn’t been for the $5 dollar cap, I would have got us tickets to the new exhibition at the gallery.”

Your words sink in, him realising you want him just as much as he wants you, outside of this office and the professional relationship you have.

“And what if dinner came with a kiss?”

“What if the exhibition came with one too?”

He’s taking hold of your wrist, dragging you from your chair, back out of the office and down towards the privacy of the alcove near the elevator. Your back, pressed against the wall, Marcus’ hands on your waist as his mouth finally slants over your own. It’s exactly how you’d imagined it for all these months, soft but sure, warm hands seeping through the layers of your clothes. And he tastes exactly as you thought he would, slightly sweet, considering his sweet tooth, and you can taste the beer he drank at lunch. It’s intoxicating. You slip your hands under the shoulders of his suit jacket, gripping the broadness of him as he pulls away.

“Gotta keep your hands to yourself,” He whispers against your mouth, “If you don’t we’re gonna be sat with HR in the morning.”

You bite your lip, leaning towards him a little to press your lips gently to his own, “Don’t threaten me with a good time, agent.”

He looks at you, fire in his eyes, “Go and get your things,” It’s a strict order, that floats straight to settle in your tummy, “I’m sure I can get us in for dinner somewhere.”

“Yes, sir.”

[astonmartingf]

YOU'VE BEEN ON MY MIND —

— co-parenting with alonso has been smooth sailing, until he starts dropping hints that he wants to be with you again

SPECIAL ★ ALES AND YNLONSO

amgf after that chapter, this is your gift ig enjoy it because it'll only get better (worse) from here 😀👍

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ALEJANDRO ALONSO (ALES)

born on June 2019, 5 years of age

likes dinosaurs, toy cars, legos, and construction work

likes to eat ice cream, alonso's special tacos, and a specific pizza that yn makes

likes long walks on the beach with his father and mother

likes to add grass in his lego builds

currently raising a succulent with his father, they named it avi

has his own id at the hospital yn works at due to his frequency in visiting

started pre-school recently and spends most of his time in school

his favorite places are the aston martin office and anywhere with his mother and father

playmates with lewis and nico's daughters

his godfather is lance, yn's cousin

YNLONSO — FORMATIVE YEARS

met through lawrence stroll back when yn was volunteering in the medical bay at a few races

alonso would fake injuries just to go to the medical bay whenever he can, and often skipped meetings just to take a few peeks at yn

alonso became extremely jealous when someone else crashed and was brought to the medical bay, so he began to pray for everyone's safety so they don't have to meet yn

when called for mandatory check ups, alonso would always look for yn and hog her for the whole day

the grid became increasingly curious about alonso's relationship with you, despite your attempts in keeping the relationship private

broke up once after a nasty crash in 2016, yn couldn't bear seeing alonso in pain especially since she was the one treating him

yn is a date to marry type, and found a future in alonso when they got engaged in 2018

their first date was in a parking lot outside the hospital when yn was still an intern for residency, and alonso surprised yn with tacos during a night shift

once, alonso planned on surprising yn but she was stuck in a long surgery, so he fell asleep waiting for her

alonso would always stop by the hospital after races and meetings just to see yn and talk to her even if it's just a few seconds

yn prefers it when alonso was in wec due to less racing schedules, also because alonso won the year she gave birth to ales

had a mutual split much to alonso's pleas after he came out from retirement in 2021

started co-parenting at the beginning of 2022 when ales and yn moved back to spain

frequently drives to each other's house and has a spare key of each other's front door and gate

alonso kept yn as his emergency contact even after their split, so she was still getting updates from alonso

yn and alonso both use lance to get updates about each other, and use him to play messenger, which lance didn't really like at the beginning, but now he's holding a lot of their secrets

their weekly routine with ales includes walking to the beach, having one lunch outing, one dinner date and a trip to the grocery

speaking of groceries, they go buy groceries together so ales has the same food in both households

it's also customary for them to invite the other for a meal when picking up ales, but really it's alonso being a mastermind to spend more time with yn

currently, alonso is trying to make it work with yn, and is contemplating on leaving after the 2023 season to be with them

★ YOU'VE BEEN ON MY MIND — @namgification @nebarious @minkyungseokie @viennakarma @lxclerc @booksandflowrs @c-losur3 @lichterfee @moonyzsworld @e-nonsense @vicurious28 @dannyriccsupremacy @thearchieves @welovediaaxx @vogueprincess @mael1pastry @khaylin27 @whydowesleepeachnight @iridescent-sol