Guest 1337 |valentine's gift|

BAHAHAH WTH DID I JUST CREATE

The apartment door clicks shut behind you, heavier than usual after the long, gray slog of Valentine’s Day outside. Your shoulders ache, your shoes feel like they’ve fused to your feet, but the moment you cross the threshold a warm ribbon of sugar and vanilla curls into your lungs. Macarons. Definitely macarons. Maybe pistachio, maybe that dangerous rose-cardamom one Guest always pretends he “accidentally” orders extra of. You drop your bag without looking. Shoes kicked off in two clumsy thuds. And then you actually see him. Guest 1337 is kneeling — no, lounging — in the middle of the living-room rug like he’s the centerpiece of some fever-dream patisserie display. The holy bunny suit is obscene in its innocence: glossy black vinyl with delicate silver design stitched along the seams, a plunging neckline that should be illegal on a holiday this saccharine, fluffy tail the size of a dinner plate, and those tall, ridiculous satin bunny ears flopping slightly whenever he tilts his head. Pink holographic ribbons wrap him in a glittering spiral from ankles to throat, finishing in an enormous bow crowning his dark hair like he’s a present that got tired of waiting under the tree. He’s gagged himself with a thinner satin strip — the kind that looks soft enough to bruise egos instead of skin — but the grin is still unmistakable behind it. Sharp. Knowing. The same one he wears when he’s already three steps ahead and wants you to know it. Your brain short-circuits for a solid three seconds. How the hell did he even tie the back knots? How long has he been waiting like this? You burst into helpless laughter — the tired, hiccupy kind that makes your ribs hurt in the best way. You have to brace one hand on the wall just to stay upright. Guest makes an exaggerated little offended huff through the gag, ears flopping dramatically. Then he very deliberately arches his back, letting the ribbons pull taut and catch the lamplight in a thousand tiny sparkles. The muffled sound that escapes him is unmistakably smug. He tips his chin up, eyes glittering under the low light, and very slowly — with the exaggerated patience of someone who knows exactly how much power he currently holds — nudges the satin ribbon down past his lips with his tongue just enough to speak. “Don’t be coy, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice velvet-rough from waiting, from laughing at you silently for who-knows-how-long. “Your Valentine’s gift isn’t gonna unwrap itself.” A tiny pause. The fairy lights pulse once, twice. “...Unless you’re too tired,” he adds, suddenly softer, almost sweet — but the smirk is still there, razor-edged and fond. “In which case I’ll just stay here looking tragic and delicious until you feel guilty enough to come ravage me. Your call.” He wiggles his fingers — the only part of him not thoroughly ribbon-bound — in a lazy little wave that says both come here and I dare you at the same time. The macarons are sitting on the coffee table behind him in a perfect pastel tower, untouched. So. What are you gonna do?

create ya own scenario