#💌letters

[avas-wonderland]

To Yasuhiro Hagakure

I don’t know if I’ll ever find the right amount of words that describe how grateful I am that you’ve become a part of my life.

Not just because it’s your birthday in a few days but because I genuinely love expressing how I feel about you. You make me feel no shame in loving you. I just want to know if you still feel the same after how far we’ve gotten.

You bring me a wave of comfort that I can’t get enough of when you talk about your theories and statements! I could make a book about it and you don’t even have to ask me. I want to let you know that you’re loved and that you mean so much to me. I want to hold you and remind you that things will be alright. I want to spend early mornings watching the sun rise with you.

I want to spend hours kissing your cute face like you deserve! Because you deserve love dang it! If I had a quarter for every time my heart pounds when I think of you, I’d have enough to buy us a mansion! I want to let all the love for you in my body spill out like a glamorous fountain that just radiates happiness and wonder across time and space and whatever lays beyond it! That’s only part of the joy you make me feel! I’m not sure if anything I say describes all of the love we share enough but I don’t mind

I know what I’m saying is grade A cheesy but it’s true. I love you today, I loved you yesterday and I will tomorrow! That’s a vow I intend to keep solid! I know you love me too so it just makes the thrill of love most exciting knowing we re in deep for each other.

Don’t change a thing, you silly doofus

Happy early birthday, my love~

Signed Yours Truly, Firefly💙

[litttlestars]

i think names are such a delicate thing and we dont say each other's names enough bc why else does it strike such a chord in me when ppl say my name as if i actually exist

[chikaras-garden]

Demonhead Damian when his lovely sugar baby is angry and giving him the silent treatment, how does this possessive man handle this?

Hot anger flares in your chest as you stride through the halls, and every assassin in your path knows not to get in your way. When you look like that—powers sparking, eyes alight—everyone knows that it’s more dangerous to cross you than to feign ignorance when the Demon Head inevitably questions them. 

The guards avert their eyes when you burst into Damian’s chamber and accuse, “You dismissed my maid!”

As he sits behind his desk, his eyes slowly rise to meet yours. Then, his eyebrow quirks—just a little. “Removing one of your friends? That is all it took to convince you to speak to me again? To think I had considered having her killed.”

“I am still angry with you,” you point out, inclining your chin in the face of his blatant nonchalance. He’s not afraid of you? Good. You’re not afraid of him, either.

He tilts his head, corners of his mouth twitching. “Come to me, princess.”

You scoff. “Hire my maid back.”

A beat of silence passes, and then he lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. But I do expect you back in my bed this evening; sleeping alone is…”

This time, he’s the one to wrinkle his nose.

“…inadequate.”

[mattslolita]

꒰ dealer!chris sturniolo ꒱ ⟡ headcanons !

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

꒰ SFW! ꒱

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ have met bambi at some house party — you was a friend of matt's, so he was only somewhat aware of your existence; real sweet and innocent, you don't know the first thing about any drugs. you're in the bathroom trying to escape the noisy atmosphere around yourself, when chris stumbles in on you, a joint hanging lazily at the edge of his lips.

"woah, can you knock next time?!"

"m'sorry didn't know anyone was in here...hey what you doin' in here, anyway? s'your friends at?"

"matt's downstairs talking to some girl, i don't know-"

"matt? you know my brother? wait, aht, i got it, know who you are, now...y'eyes, got like a uh, bambi thing goin' on, y'know? gonna call you bambi, yeah?"

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ never let bambi touch any drugs — he's dead set on making sure you prolong the innocence about you in that aspect.

"not even one hit? c'mon chris-"

"y'know the rules bambi, s'don't even try it. y'not takin' no hits of shit."

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ chris keeps pink rolling papers, because bambi likes the color and it reminds him of your pink ribbons you wear in your ponytails.

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ have a specific playlist for when he takes bambi on deals with him — he's got dominic fike and marina playing throughout the car as you hum contently.

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ have a glove compartment full of lollies and other sweets for when you're on deals with him. the sight of bambi's lips carelessly wrapped around a cherry lolly has his mind whirling.

"got any suckers for me today?"

"y'know where to find em', doll."

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ spoil bambi all the time — he's buying you clothes, perfumes, and any little thing that reminds him of you.

"this top is cute, but i don't-"

"yeah, put it in the basket."

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ not have a label on your relationship — bambi's a little naive and thinks might call you his, but he's not trying to label what you have going on any time soon.

"yo, isn't she your girlfriend? she's always with you."

"girlfriend? s'not my girlfriend, nah...she's my girl though, y'get me? not datin' or no shit, jus' my girl..."

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ always have bambi sat on his lap at parties — his hand drums in the innermost flesh of your thigh as he massages you, whilst the other hand diligently distributes to the awaiting palms of people.

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ mad dog the fuck out of anyone who looks at bambi the wrong way — especially when you takes you on deals, he's seething with anger when a customer gets particularly too close to you.

"nice to see you, sweetheart, hopin' i'll see you more-"

"get the fuck away from her man, or i'm knockin' ya ass out where you stand."

"chris, seriously?"

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ send bambi random fit checks + snaps to keep you updated when you aren't with each other. likewise, he makes you send the same back so he can keep track of where you are when he's not with you.

"new shirt, you like it?"

"it looks so good on you, baby!" ( he'd never admit baby drives him wild. )

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ be affectionate to bambi in the most random ways — he's either got his arm slung around her, massaging her shoulder or he's got your legs resting atop of his own, massaging those whilst you scroll on your phone.

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ always be kissing on bambi — forehead, cheek, arms, legs, anywhere he sees fit, really.

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ make bambi wear his clothes when you stay the night at his place — he'll never admit that he loves the idea of having you in them, yet he can't resist the urge to smile when you're giggling sweetly about wearing them.

"i love this jersey! can i keep it baby, please?"

"y'know what, go head' sweetheart. looks good on you..."

꒰ NSFW! ꒱

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ be extremely possessive in bed, especially if you're batting your eyelashes a little too much at a customer.

"he could never fuck you like this doll, could he?"

"f-fuck, no chris..."

"who's fuckin' pussy is this, huh? tell me who you fuckin' belong to."

"y-you, yours, fuck!"

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ love love love to give bambi backshots — you're at a party and he's horny? he's taking you upstairs to the bathroom, bending you over the sink.

"such a good fuckin' girl, takin' my cock like this..."

"look at yourself in the mirror while i fuck you, sweet girl..."

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ finger bambi in the passenger seat if you're getting too whiny and can't wait.

"please chris, need to feel you inside me..."

"so fuckin' impatient bambi, jus' can't wait? s'all you get, my fingers...make a mess on em' c'mon angel..."

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ definitely have a breeding kink — though, he knows damn well the idea of bambi getting pregnant scares him, so he keeps you with birth control.

"fuck, such a tight pussy...gon' make you a mama, yeah? wan' have my babies don't you, ma?"

"gonna look so pretty carryin' our fuckin' kids, fuck..."

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ love high sex with you — he's lazily thrusting up into you while you ride him, head thrown back in pure ecstasy, or

"ridin' me so well ma, look so pretty on top of me like this..."

✦ his lidded eyes watch in anticipation as you're down below on your knees in front of him, looking up at him through your lashes while you suck him off.

"gah, shit mama, makin' me feel so good...keep fuckin' goin' thas my good girl..."

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ would love doggy — when you wear those short shorts around him, all he can think about is having your ass up in the air while he's pounding into you like there's no tomorrow.

✦ love missionary, too — it's a more intimate position, but he can't help wanting to see your fucked out expression while he's deep inside you, watching your ever changing expression while you feel him deep inside of you.

dealer!chris would . . .

✦ be a little bad at aftercare at first, but he's slowly getting the hang of it the more time he spends with you — he's cleaning you up and massaging you after you guys finish, and ordering food for the both of you whilst he smokes a joint for himself.

( lilly's corner 💌 )

dealer!chris are my roots guys, i'm gonna start writing for him again. dealer!chris & bambi!reader are my literal babies & i hope you guys enjoy them! 💌

@muwapsturniolo @thenickgirl @guccifrog @fawnchives @cottoncandyswisherz

[caeliangel]

FLAG MAKING RESSOURCES !!

tagging: @cocajimmycola @puriette @neopronouns @genderstarbucks @genderselkies @estrogenism @haunted-thing @mogai-sunflowers

If you want to be untagged, pls lmk!

note: I do not use most of these, but I digged on the internet in order to find stuff that could very much help to make flags!

★╷﹕INSPO PALETTES

sites that will help you get inspiration with colours and generate colour palettes from nothing or even from words.

coolors.co

colorhunt.co

colormind.io

mycolor.space

colormagic.app

picular.co

perchance.org

hexcolor.co

pinterest

★╷﹕FLAG MAKING

apps and sites to make flags.

any drawing app

flag-creator.com

tennessine.co.uk

teamultima.org

★╷﹕PRIDE FLAGS

collection of flags.

pride-flags on deviantart

lgbtqia fandom

★╷﹕TEMPLATES

templates to make flags for simple or more complicated terms.

neopronouns on deviantart

flag templates by crowdsourcedgender

pride-flags in deviantart

★╷﹕NAMING

sites and information to help naming certain terms.

thewordmixer.com

namecombiner.info

unique-names.com

study.com: latin roots

latin and greek roots pdf

thoughtco.com (latin & greek roots 1)

en.m.wikipedia.org (latin & greek roots 2)

google translate

using the languages you speak (ie I often use irish or french when naming my stuff!)

★╷﹕SYMBOLS

Bunch of links where symbols, templates and such are in order to make symbols on your flags.

ask-pride-color-schemes

logodesign.ai

logomakr.com

pride-flags gallery : (01) (02) (03) (04) (05)

apps: canva, picsart, etc

★╷﹕TERMS

suffixes card: (here)

suffixes vs systems: (here)

In-nature: (here)

[lonelydollparts]

THINKING ABOUT … THANOS (player 230) 𓂃ᡣ𐭩₊˚. ⊹

content & warnings : nsfw, fem reader, fingering, oral (f receiving), pet play, dub-con/non-con, anal (painal? up to interpretation), drugging, dddne

wc : 311

a/n : my first posted work and it's squid game LFMAO

THANOS .. who's thickly ringed fingers pump in and out of you at a hurtful pace, the cold metal nudging your clit just right at times and making you shudder even more than you already do, only to slow down and push your hips back into the mattress with his hand on your lower tummy when you start grinding yourself on his fingers faster with no word of permission.

THANOS .. groaning and complaining, “Aw fuck, you're so wet, I don't want my nail polish to chip!” before he puts his tongue against your cunt.

THANOS .. whose whole face disappears from your view, a splash of purple the only thing you see when you glance down, highlighting the color of your own nails as they tangle into the flock of his hair.

THANOS .. telling you, “Stack, girl. Yeah, like you're a fucking show dog.”

THANOS .. who spits down on your ass and pushes a wet finger into it as you ‘present’ for him, holding you in place firmly when you start squirming and asking, “What? Wait, wait, no!”

THANOS .. who smiles as you start tearing up and telling him you've never done this before, grunting “I can tell” and "so fucking tight” in response.

THANOS .. who says, “Don't wanna make you a baby mama, do we?” when he presses his spongy tip against your hole.

THANOS .. opening his necklace up and taking out a tiny pill, the cross dragging over the skin of your back as he leans over you. He lets out a breathy chuckle next to your ear, watching your lips part in shock as you feel him begin to stretch the tight ring of your muscles. He pops the pink tablet into your opened mouth before you plant a hand over it in hopes of muffling your sniffles and whines. “I got you, girl. It'll help you relax,” he grins.

[arabaka]

What do you think about Laois and a breeding kink?

₊˚ʚ ☁️ ₊˚ ♡ ﾟ. content warnings ⟶ nsfw. laios touden x afab! reader.

"mmmph," laios grunts, sucking hard on your tit, "so good..." your breasts are firmer; you're going to get your period soon.

you watch as his thick digits grope and massage your breast, your ears tickled by the profane smacking of his lips. he drinks from you like a man who's been without water, his eyelids heavy with rapture as he imagines you pregnant. hypnotized by the idea, he starts working his hips up to a slow, measured pace.

"ohhh..." the word leaves your lips on a shuddered exhale, your body tipping forward as laios firmly grabs your ass, stretching you out with his nails digging in ever so slightly into your flesh.

"i'm not pulling out." he's serious, voice low and raspy, guiding you up and down his cock with purpose. "can i?" he still asks, a subtle reminder that he'll stop if you tell him to.

you nod furiously, your legs still wrapped around his sides. "yes... and i don't want you stopping until i'm all filled up."

"i can do that." laios starts thrusting harder. "i'm going to get you pregnant."

[luvacookie]

she’s busy.

some of the aot boys responding to “she’s busy”

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ featuring : connie, armin, eren & onny

❥ warnings : nsfw insinuation, cussing, blk fem coded reader.

❥ cookie for ur thoughts ? : a fake message scenario ??? yes please sir ! on a srs note : i’m trying to finish the other fics i have in the works,, bare w me guys !

connie springer

eren jaeger

onyankopon

armin arlet

[immoral-stranger]

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 // 𝐌𝐕𝟏

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟒. 🪐 “I like to stick to walls. Observing conversations, lifting them when they fall.” – Foster the People, Fire Escape.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Word count: 5k

Warnings: There's a dinner party and reader is a chef, so a lot of talk about food. Reader is also very self-deprecating. Allusions to issues regarding mental health and self-worth, but it's not really the main story. It makes sense, I promise, I just don't know how to warn about it.

A/N: My sister requested this after we watched the movie Sommartider (very swedish), so there's a similar scene in that. I personally find this one very cute. ♡

The apartment smelled of butter and garlic, the scent clinging to the sun-warm kitchen, filled with light that spilled through the sheer linen curtains. It was small but charming, a snug little nest tucked into the hills of the French Riviera, not too far from Nice. You stood at the counter, hands damp from having peeled potatoes, a half-prepared gratin tray in front of you. It had been a gift from your parents, a fittingly named Marseille bleu Le Creuset roasting pan. You would’ve never bought it for yourself—too expensive—but as a gift, you’d been thankful to receive it. 

“Did you decant the wine like I told you?” Imogen’s voice drifted from the other room, where she was preening in front of the gilded mirror you’d picked up at a flea market. It wasn’t her style—too rustic, too worn—but she’d said it added “charm” to your place, always opting for a backhanded compliment instead of the truth. She hated your style because it was the opposite of hers. 

You didn’t look up from your work. “No, uhm—”

“Kinda busy,” she interrupted, breezing in. Imogen always moved like she was on a runway, even barefoot in her sister’s modest kitchen. Her hair was swept into a sleek bun, and she wore a silk blouse that you suspected cost more than your entire apartment deposit. Sponsored, most definitely. She paused to eye the tray in front of you. “What even is that?”

“The base to dauphinoise potatoes,” you said, flicking a glance at her. She didn’t care about the answer; she never did. Imogen asked questions to fill the air, not to gather information. You also suspected that she loved the sound of her own voice so much that she never felt the need to shut the fuck up. 

She wrinkled her nose, but it was half-hearted, like a habit she wasn’t willing to break. “I still can’t believe you do this out of pure enjoyment.”

You shrugged, lifting a knife to thinly slice another potato. “Everyone needs to eat, Imogen.”

“Yeah, that’s what Uber Eats is for,” she said breezily, perching on one of your barstools. “No need to go to culinary school.”

You turned to give her a pointed look, hand on your hip. “And who do you think works in the kitchens at the restaurants you order from?”

Imogen made a face, part exasperated and part amused, and waved you off. “You do not always have to poke holes in other people’s logic. It’s an unattractive trait.”

Before you could respond, the sharp trill of the doorbell cut through the room. Imogen’s eyes widened, and she hopped off the stool in a single fluid motion. “Oh god, that’s them—” She smoothed her blouse and gave herself a quick glance in the reflection of a hanging copper pot. “Do I look good?”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but your voice softened in spite of yourself. “You always do. It’s your job.” 

As Imogen floated toward the door, a knot of tension twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t jealousy—it never had been. It was more complicated than that: a mix of frustration and yearning that you didn’t want to untangle. Imogen walked through life as though she owned the air around her, while you had spent most of yours holding your breath. 

She pulled the door open with a practiced flourish, stepping aside to let Daniel stroll in first. His confidence and laughter preceded him, a quick kiss placed on Imogen’s cheek, and she giggled in a way that made you want to hurl. 

Daniel moved with the kind of ease that made it impossible to tell if he was posing or simply existing. Former Formula 1 driver, now Imogen’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, who appeared far more interested in globetrotting and sponsorships than in anything truly meaningful with her. With a bit of self-distance, you actually really enjoyed Daniel’s presence. He was funny and kind, even though you had nothing in common. 

“Danny, always good to see you,” you said, managing a polite smile as he stepped into the kitchen, lifting your attention from the food preparations. 

“Whatever it is you’re cooking smells wonderful,” he replied, inhaling deeply. “This is Max,” Danny added, stepping aside to reveal the man behind him. 

Through a gap, you could spot Imogen in the entryway, observing your reaction and how you greeted the both of them. It was almost like she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or, worse—embarrass her. You, of course, knew who she had invited over for dinner. You’d had to sit through hours worth of gossip all the times you and Imogen caught up on each other’s lives. So, having two world-famous athletes stand in your kitchen wasn’t as surreal as it may sound. 

Max was taller than you’d expected, his broad shoulders and quiet presence making the doorway seem smaller. Clad in a simple black t-shirt, he seemed like any other guy your age. He looked relaxed but not indifferent, his gaze curious as he took in your modest apartment.

You raised an eyebrow, unable to resist the rising amusement. “Danny, I don’t know if it’s funny or offensive that you think I don’t know who he is.” 

They both chuckled slightly at your words, and it was like you could see how tension released from Imogen’s shoulders, instantly becoming a couple centimeters shorter. 

“I would shake your hand, Max, but I have oil all over mine,” you said, holding up your slick fingers as evidence, before returning to the food, dealing with a marinated cut of meat. 

“Right,” Danny said, clapping Max on the shoulder and steering him further into the room. “She’s got this whole culinary genius thing going on, doesn’t she? Always smells like a five-star restaurant in here.”

“Not exactly,” you said, though the compliment made your cheeks feel warm. You glanced up at Max, who was still watching you, his smile small but genuine.

“Well, don’t let us interrupt your masterpiece,” Imogen said airily. “We’ll stay out of your way. You’ve got this under control, right?”

You only nodded, turning back to the food. It wasn’t until you heard Imogen’s laughter trailing into the living room that you allowed yourself to relax. There was a faint comfort in being in your element, even if you weren’t entirely alone.

In the background, you heard them talk as Imogen poured up glasses of wine for everyone. The wine she had forgotten to decant—that you knew needed air to taste decent. You heard her talk about the wine like it was something special. You, however, knew that she had stolen all of her knowledge from when she shot an ad for a winery somewhere in South Africa, and it didn’t particularly look like either Max or Danny cared that much. Ironic, for someone who had their own wine company, but you also got tired of hearing Imogen talk about things she didn’t really care enough about to research but talked about anyway to seem interesting. 

As she poured the fourth and final glass, you saw Max pick up two of them in your periphery. You tried to not visibly tense up as you heard his steps approach across your creaking wooden floors. He set both the glasses down on your kitchen island with a careful clink. 

With a wordless nod, you thanked him, picking one of the glasses up and swiveling the red liquid around to aerate it. 

Max lingered near the counter, his hands tucked into his pockets as he studied the array of ingredients you had spread out around you. “Is that you?” he asked, nodding toward a framed photo on the wall. 

It was one of the few remnants of your short-lived modeling career—an editorial shot of you, disturbingly close up, showing skin texture and flyaway hairs, vivid watercolour-like makeup in patches around your face and neck. You didn’t even look like yourself in it, which maybe was why it was the only photo of yourself you could bear seeing every day as you spent time in your kitchen. 

“Totally narcissistic, I know,” you snorted, keeping your eyes on the frying pan sizzling on the stove. 

“No, uhm, I didn’t mean it like that.” Max’s tone softened. “I think it looks cool. You must model too then?” 

“Nope.” You shook your head, glancing up at him, surprised by his sincerity. “I mean, I tried to, but I quit a while ago and went to culinary school.”

“That explains all this.” Max said, gesturing to the kitchen.

“I may have gone overboard,” you admitted, laughing softly. 

Imogen, perched on the edge of the sofa like a cat surveying her domain, twirled a lock of her hair idly before cutting in smoothly. “Is she boring you with her food talk, Max?” Her voice had that lilting quality you recognized well—equal parts teasing and dismissive, designed to simultaneously charm and belittle.

You stiffened instinctively, your movements freezing, spatula scraping the bottom of the pan. 

Max, however, straightened slightly, his casual stance shifting. “Not at all,” he replied, his tone easy but resolute, as if dismissing her suggestion entirely. Then he turned toward you. “Actually…” He hesitated, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can I help with anything?”

“Oh, probably not,” you said, trying to recover from sounding too surprised. “Imogen always says that I’m like a dictator in the kitchen and that my recipes are unreadable.” 

Max stepped closer, peering down at your notebook with recipes, pages filled with messy handwriting, arrows, and scratchy diagrams. “No, I get it. It’s like a mind map. Makes it easier to see the process,” he said after a moment. “Even if I don’t know what half of these things mean. What even is… a wild turkey?” 

You tilted your head, genuinely surprised that he could make sense of your ramblings. Looking over, you saw his finger point to one ingredient. You let out an unguarded laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. “It’s bourbon, for the marinade,” you explained. “Does this look like turkey meat to you?”

The meat sizzling in the frying pan was obviously some cut of beef, to judge by the colour. You didn’t need to be a culinary expert to know that. 

“No,” Max admitted with a grin. “And it would be weird to measure meat in tablespoons.” 

Your lips quirked upward, and you reached for a pear from the fruit bowl beside you, along with a cutting board and a little knife. You were hesitant to give him one of your good knives, worried he’d cut himself the first thing he did. It was quite common for people to do when they were unfamiliar with the sharpness a chef’s knife could have. 

“I guess you can chop that pear in little cubes, if you want to help.” 

Max took the pear from you, turning it over in his hands as if he were inspecting some foreign object. “A pear?” 

“It’s for the salad,” you explained, already turning back to your own task. 

“You can put pear in a salad?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve eaten a pear since I was about seven.” 

You arched a brow, glancing at him over your shoulder to see that he was fully sincere. With swift movements, you took the knife and cut a slice of the pear before dipping it into a vinaigrette you’d already prepared. 

“Try it, for science,” you said, holding it up for him to taste. 

Max hesitated before taking a small bite, his brow furrowing slightly as he chewed. Then he nodded, his expression lightening. “Huh, you know what you’re doing.” 

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you dismissed his comment, turning to look at the stove again. 

Max chuckled in response, shaking his head. He then stepped closer to the counter as he grabbed a knife. His movements were unpracticed but deliberate, the pear wobbling slightly as he began chopping it into uneven pieces. You felt the familiar itch of not being in control, almost taking over your own movements. But, you stopped thinking for a moment. Dinner wouldn’t be ruined just because the pear wasn’t in perfect cubes. And Max was actually putting in effort, biting down on his tongue, a line forming between his brows as he focused.

“Are you always this much of a perfectionist,” you asked, viewing his motions, “or are you just showing off in front of me?” 

“I’ve never put this much brain capacity into anything before,” Max joked, adding a laugh as he examined one of the misshapen pear cubes. 

For a moment, the kitchen fell into an easy rhythm. Imogen and Danny’s laughter floated in from the other room, a sharp contrast to the quiet concentration shared between you and Max. You didn’t usually let anyone help in the kitchen—it was your sanctuary, your domain—but for some reason, with Max fumbling his way through chopping fruit and throwing curious questions your way, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. 

When the food was done, the four of you gathered around your dining table, decorated with pottery and plates that you had collected throughout the years. Nothing matched, just like you preferred it. The golden hour crept through the windows as the room filled with light from the sun and flickering candles. 

And the dinner went fine, just like it always did, even though you couldn’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario of accidentally poisoning someone, or forgetting an allergy, maybe dropping the main dish right on the floor. Your sister and her company ate like they enjoyed it at least. The added blur of wine helping with the atmosphere. 

You were always the most quiet one in group settings, only speaking when spoken to, really. But you liked it that way. The stories Max and Daniel could tell from their lives were vastly more interesting than anything you had experienced anyway. Imogen too lived a more eventful life with fashion weeks and world travelling. Everyone seemed to like it that way too, the scrape of forks against plates punctuating Danny’s latest story. 

“…and when I finally got the bloody thing out of the house, the neighbour’s dog chased it straight back in,” Danny concluded, laughing as he leaned back in his chair. Imogen giggled, dabbing her lips with a napkin in that poised way of hers.

Max chuckled but shifted his gaze to you, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “So, how did you end up going from modeling to cooking?” He asked, after Danny was done telling the detailed story about a snake entering his house back home in Australia. 

You didn’t realise for how long you’d been quiet until you were now forced to speak, your voice sounding foreign to even your own ears. Setting your fork down, you answered, “I gave myself one last runway season to see if I could support myself. I walked three shows, while Imogen walked like thirty.”

“Thirty-two,” Imogen corrected, not missing a beat. She reached for her wine glass, taking a delicate sip before adding, “I’ll always believe you could’ve done it if you didn’t give up so easily.” Her tone was light but pointed. 

Your lips tightened. “I didn’t give up, Imogen—I moved on.” 

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it,” she said with a faint shrug. “You never see yourself as anything special, always such a plain Jane.” 

The words settled heavily in the air, their weight pressing against your chest. For a brief moment, the table fell silent, the only sound the faint clink of cutlery against porcelain. You forced yourself to maintain an even expression as you reached for your glass of water. 

“It’s kind of hard to when you’re having dinner with three child prodigies,” you answered, letting out a pathetic laugh to conceal your emotions. 

For someone who was so afraid of you embarrassing her, Imogen really had no issue with her own words causing embarrassment for others. 

Max frowned slightly, his hands stilling as he turned toward you. “I wouldn’t call myself a prodigy,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with something else—discomfort, perhaps.

“Yeah, right,” Danny said, nudging Max with an elbow. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, mate. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Max smiled faintly but didn’t reply. There was a softness in his expression that made your stomach twist, though you quickly moved your gaze to look at your plate; the uneven shapes of pear in the salad were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 

The conversation shifted, as it always did with Imogen, back to her. Something about a designer or a photographer saying she was the best model to work with. Something about a socialite event where ridiculous things had happened. Ridiculous meaning stupidly expensive or over the top. You wanted to laugh, knowing that they most likely didn’t use the real thing for the crazy champagne fountains she talked about, or that the sturgeon caviar they had served was a cheap knock-off, because no chef in their right mind would use the amount she mentioned. 

You zoned out as she talked, only starting to pay attention again when the conversation drifted towards what they were doing tonight and that they might need to call a cab soon. 

“Oh, where are you going?” you asked, unsure if you actually cared. 

“A sponsored event on a yacht in the marina. You know the jewelry company I did an ad for?” she replied casually, her tone almost bored.

You nodded, though the familiar ache of exclusion began to settle in your chest. You knew the exact advert she was referring to, not because you cared, but because those freaking pictures of her were everywhere. In stores, on every social media app, on digital billboards across multiple cities of the French Riviera—hell, you’d even seen it at a bus stop. 

“I assumed you wouldn’t want to come,” she added. The statement wasn’t cruel, but it stung all the same. “You never do.” 

Your fingers curled around the stem of your glass as you gave a small nod, keeping your face neutral. “No, I guess you’re right.” 

Max hesitated, glancing between you and Imogen. “I mean, she could come if she wanted to, right?”

“Yeah,” Imogen said, tilting her head as though the idea had never occurred to her. “I guess I could make a call to get you on the list.” 

“Don’t bother, you know it’s not my scene anyway,” you said quickly, your voice firmer than you intended.

Danny grinned, leaning back in his chair. “A wild night for her is solving a crossword puzzle with a pen you can’t erase.” 

“Or,” Imogen added with a smirk, her eyes glinting with mischief, “when she’s brave enough, watching an episode of Criminal Minds instead of Friends like she usually does.”

Their laughter filled the room, bouncing off the walls with the kind of ease you’d never quite mastered. It wasn’t malicious—at least not intentionally—but it still left a weight in your chest, heavy and familiar.

You kept your head down, pushing the last bit of salad around your plate, and told yourself you didn’t care. This was the dynamic, after all. Imogen had always been the star of the show, and Danny loved playing her supporting act. You had other friends who understood you better, who you had more in common with. Max, though—Max had been a surprise. And even now, as their laughter rang on, you caught him glancing at you from across the table, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

The dinner ended not long after. They had places to be, important people to talk to—while you had sitcoms to watch and dishes to take care of. You were happy to see Imogen every once in a while when she and Danny were both in Monaco, and you loved cooking for people, no matter who they were. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little happy knowing that Imogen was busy with work all throughout the upcoming month. 

As they filtered out, their voices trailing off into the warm Riviera night, the apartment felt suddenly too quiet. Locking the door after them, you slid down onto the floor, sitting with your knees tucked up towards your body, rubbing your tired eyes with the back of your hands, not caring if mascara crumbled all over your face. You felt empty, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. The half-drunk bottle of wine on the kitchen counter looked temping as you considered finishing it yourself. 

— — — — — — — — — — — —

Max trailed behind Danny and Imogen as they strolled toward the cab waiting just down the street. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the sea, and the stars twinkled faintly above the rooftops.

Danny was cracking a joke, and Imogen’s laughter rang out like a bell, but Max barely registered it. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his mind somewhere else entirely—back upstairs, at the table, watching you push your food around with that faint, detached smile.

He slowed his steps, his feet dragging. The idea of the yacht party, the glitz and endless small talk, suddenly felt suffocating. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of leaving felt… wrong. Max hated events like that. Everyone knew that. And while it was nice to catch up with Danny since they didn’t see much of each other nowadays, he found Imogen insufferable. He could play padel with Danny tomorrow if he wanted to talk more with him. Before he could think better of it, Max stopped altogether.

“Hey,” he called after them, making Danny and Imogen turn around.

“What’s up?” Danny asked, his brow furrowing.

Max hesitated, then gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I think I forgot my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Imogen gave him a bemused smile, her head tilting slightly. “You sure? It’s not like we can wait forever.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Max said firmly, already stepping back. He waved them off. “Have fun.”

He turned before he could see their expressions and made his way back to the building.

The walk up the stairs felt oddly daunting now, each step heavier than the last, as though the weight of his own indecision was pulling him back. The soft hum of the building at night—the faint creak of pipes, the muffled sounds of life behind closed doors—seemed to grow louder with every passing moment. Max reached your door and hesitated, his hand hovering uncertainly near the wood.

What was he even going to say? He wasn’t the type to overthink things, but this felt different. He didn’t want to overstep. What if you didn’t want company? The evening had already been a mixed bag of awkward moments, and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse.

Max sighed, his arm lowering slightly, just about ready to turn back when he heard your voice from the other side of the door.

“I miss you too, like craaazy,” you said, your voice muffled but clear enough through the door. Max froze, his curiosity getting the better of him. You sounded close, as though you were standing right by the door. Picking up the pieces, he figured you were talking to someone over the phone. 

“Imogen and Daniel came over for dinner earlier, and he brought a friend of his, and it was the most awkward thing ever,” you spoke again. 

Max frowned slightly. He was the friend, of course. While he’d sensed some discomfort during the evening, particularly whenever the conversation turned toward you, he hadn’t thought it was that bad. Who would you be talking to like that anyway, debriefing something that had just happened? Did you have… a boyfriend? 

“Mum,” you added, your voice cutting through his doubt, “of course it was a boy.”

He relaxed a fraction, leaning slightly closer to the door without realizing it.

“A cute one, too,” you admitted. 

Max blinked, warmth creeping into his face. A cute boy. That was a twist he hadn’t expected. He couldn’t help but grin, his chest lifting slightly at the thought. And you definitely didn’t have a boyfriend.

“You don’t have to ask if I bottled it. You already know I did,” you said after a brief pause, your voice quieter now. “I’m not like Imogen. I don’t think I’ll ever learn to be that easygoing.” 

Max was back to frowning, this time for a different reason. He didn’t like the sound of that. He wanted to knock, to interrupt, but he didn’t move.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you,” you said, your tone softening into affection as you ended the call. “Tell Dad I said hi. Buh-bye.”

Max barely gave himself a moment to think before he raised his hand and knocked. There was a pause, long enough for him to wonder if you’d heard, and then your voice came through the door. 

“Did you forget something?”

By the sound of your voice, he could tell that you were expecting it to be Imogen coming back for something. Not him. 

Max smiled despite himself. “Yeah,” he said, the words coming out more confidently than he expected. “I think I did.”

For a moment, there was silence, and then he heard rustling from behind the door, almost as if you’d stumbled to reach it. The lock clicked, and the door opened, revealing you with wide, startled eyes. You looked more tired than you had before, makeup and clothes a bit askew. He assumed Imogen had something to do with how polished you’d looked at the beginning of the evening. 

“Max?” you asked, your voice pitched slightly higher in surprise.

He cleared his throat, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I was wondering…” he started, shifting his weight but keeping his tone light, “if maybe, I could stay here and be boring with you?” 

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, though the words sounded stupid the moment they left his lips. He half-expected you to laugh, but instead, you blinked at him, your surprise melting into something softer.

“Uhm, yeah,” you said, stepping back to let him in. “Sure.”

Max stepped inside, and for the second time that night, he was struck by how inviting your apartment felt. The uneven warmth of the terracotta tiles beneath his feet, the mismatched chairs around the small dining table, and the array of plants lining the windowsill. It was nothing like he was used to, yet it felt like the picture-perfect definition of the word home.

Moving into the kitchen, his eyes landed on something on the counter—a tray of something, its surface dusted with cocoa powder.

“You made dessert?” he asked, tilting his head toward it.

“Yeah,” you said, shutting the door behind him, smoothing out your shirt with your hands. “I made tiramisu. Want some?”

Max didn’t hesitate. Moments later, he was seated on your sofa with a fork in hand, his first bite of the tiramisu silencing any lingering awkwardness. “Fuck me, this is like the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation.

You laughed, a soft, almost shy sound that Max couldn’t help but find adorable. You really couldn’t handle compliments well, and Max was going to use that to his advantage to make you wonderfully uncomfortable. “And you were going to have all this dessert for yourself instead of going out with us?” he asked, setting his fork down briefly to give you a look of mock betrayal.

“Well,” you said with a small shrug, sitting down beside him with your own plate of dessert. “I wasn’t really invited in the first place.”

Max frowned. “That’s not fair. They should’ve—”

“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “Really. It’s not my scene anyway.”

Max studied you for a moment, his fork hovering over the dish. You were the opposite of so many people that he knew. And so similar to himself that it was almost scary to him. 

Tucking up your legs under your body, you made yourself comfortable on the sofa before you continued talking. “I tend to stick to the walls in places like that anyway. Just observing conversations, trying but failing to lift them when they fall.” 

“Do you also feel like you’ve got a foot in your mouth whenever you open it?” he wondered honestly. 

“Exactly. Always putting my foot in my mouth,” you replied with a chuckle. 

“Sounds impressive to me,” he joked with a grin. “I’m not that agile.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You were the one to bring it up.” 

For a moment, the apartment settled into a quiet hum, the faint sounds of the outside world barely audible through the walls. Max leaned forward, setting his plate down on your coffee table. The TV was noticeably black in front of the two of you.

“So,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “what is it tonight? A crime show or… what was the other thing?”

“Friends,” you replied, reading in his reaction. “You’ve never seen Friends?”

Max’s brows lifted. “Not really. Maybe bits and pieces, but I couldn’t tell you much about it.”

“Oh my god,” you said, your tone equal parts horror and humor as your eyes widened dramatically. “You have a lot to learn.”

He laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me everything I need to know.”

You smiled, a real one that softened your whole face. You picked up the remote, turning on the pilot episode. Max wasn’t really paying attention, but he liked how certain funny things made you audibly laugh. The more you watched and the more tiramisu you ate—the more the comfortable feeling spread like a fire through your living room, silently burning as he placed an arm around you and shared your blanket. 

This wasn’t where he’d thought he’d end up as he had entered your apartment the first time tonight, but now, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡

౨ৎ [ main masterlist . taglist . other love letters ]

Taglist: @koko-mei @anamiad00msday @floweringanna @lucyysthings @yelenam5 @firefirevampire @alexxavicry @emails-i-can-send @freyathehuntress

[cookiekissers]

pls i need some yandere burning spice cookie 🥺🥺 just general headcannons or anything really 👍

[Yandere Burning Spice HCs]

Honestly, you could say regular Burning Spice is a yandere and I wouldn't disagree /j

But actual Yandere Burning Spice would dial his usual traits up to an 11.

Burning Spice is aggressive, possessive, and he always wants MORE. More of you, more of your time, more of your affection, more of your attention.

Burning Spice gets incredibly annoyed when your attention is on anyone but him, and he doesn't hesitate when crumbling the competition for your affection.

He will leave bits and pieces of those who dared to get in his way as "gifts" on your doorstep. It is a sign of his strength and conquest!

If you have feelings for Burning Spice, and haven't caught on to his darker intentions, he will ironically start playing hard to get. This is his way of testing you, to see if you're as intensely in love with him as he is with you.

He wants someone to reignite that SPARK he's been yearning for. And when he saw you, he felt an old, familiar flame flicker inside him. That's when he became obsessed. It was immediate and intense. And Burning Spice wants to chase that feeling.

Once he felt that spark, he won't waste any time trying to kidnap you. Burning Spice won't be subtle about it either. There will be no traps, no slow burn, or luring you into a false sense of security. He will pretty much break into your home in broad daylight and grab you. I mean... who's going to stop him? Unless you are protected by the Ancients, nothing and no one is going to stop him.

Burning Spice lives for excitement. He LOVES the thrill of the chase. So there will be a couple of times while he's bringing you back to Beast-Yeast where he will "allow" you escape, only for him to hunt you down again.

You never get far because he's only toying with you. Its merely a game to him. The only reason you have a chance to run is because he allows it.

From then on, Burning Spice essentially regards you as a trophy. You're always by his side, hanging on his arm.

Burning Spice isn't fully delusional. He fully knows that he took you against your will and that you want to escape him. Like how he gave you chances to escape when on the way to Beast-Yeast, he will do it here too.

You think if you play the loving "spouse" act long enough, Burning Spice will get comfortable and let his guard down. Once you think you have the chance to escape, Burning Spice quickly snuffs out any hope you had of freedom. He knew all along of your plans and little act. But, he's gracious, and will give you a head start before he hunts you down and captures you again.

[avas-wonderland]

Dear Yasuhiro Hagakure,

———-

In case you didn’t know, I love you deeply.

I’m serious whenever I say it because I mean it. I think about you in the slightest and my heart feels like it can sprout wings and fly rounds in my chest.

Loving you makes me dizzy, I get all giggly! I want to run into your arms like in those cheesy movies!

I get giddy and spin around and flap my hands because I remember how determined you are after everything that happens to you!

I find comfort in knowing that you’re for real. I’d have a jar overflowing with quarters , each one for every time I thought of kissing you.

Make that like three full jars, even more!

You’re not the smartest but that doesn’t equal to how I feel about you.

I take one look at you and I have this need to kiss your stupid face❤️ You have any idea that I’d do anything in my power to make you smile? Because I would even if you ask me a thousand time.

I want to hold you tight! Ran my hands through your locs and exchange random facts together! I want to own a place together just for the two of us to spend life with each other.

And when you doubt that I love you, I do love you.

With every breath I take. Please know that nothing will change how I feel about you even after the end of eternity

Here’s to loving you for many years to come!

Happy Anniversary!

————

Love, Your Firefly💛

[litttlestars]

i may be burnt out n depressed n insecure abt my place in ppl's lives but at least i love smiling with my teeth now and im slowly waking up earlier and learning to love driving and drinking less coffee and yesterday my friend told me her mom really loved me

[chikaras-garden]

Imagine you go to buy some furniture with Jason (or dick), and all they can think about the entire time is how easy it'd be to fuck you. Would he be able to bend you over that counter over there? Would it be too high? Too low? Would you somehow get hurt?

The idea for this was instant. Like a fever dream. 

“Nah,” Jason says, patting his palm against the kitchen island you point out to him. With each option, he spends a full two minutes pacing around it, bending to inspect the countertop, the cabinets—how thorough he is would be admirable if he actually liked anything. 

Hands in his pockets, he strolls back over to where you’ve been waiting for him to decide. “That one’s too tall for you.”

Almost ready to give up, you half-heartedly point to the one next to it. “What about this one?” 

“C’mon, baby,” he scoffs. “That’s got wheels.”

Incredulous, you ask, “Why can’t we have wheels?”

“You’ll get hurt.”

“Huh?”

“Can’t have you slipping on me,” he tuts, already strolling away. “Broken jaws aren’t sexy.”

You stay right where you are, growing more confused by the second. “I’m not going to break my jaw while I’m cooking, Jay.”

He pauses and turns just enough to look over his shoulder. His eyes glint with an I know something you don’t know sort of mischief, and one half of his mouth twitches into a shit-eating grin. “Didn’t say anything about cooking, kitten.”

You blink. Your cheeks grow warm. Oh. Oh. Oh, God.

“Jason Peter—”

“No wheels, less than three inches higher than your waist, no pointy door pulls, and I think you’d look nice against a white quartz top,” he interrupts, firing off wish list items like bullets, as if he’s not talking about the ideal qualities for a kitchen island on which he plans to rail you. “Let’s keep looking, baby; might have to bend you over a couple of these to see how comfortable they are for you.”

[mattslolita]

bambi!reader who's too impatient on a deal . . .

( banner from @bernardsbendystraws 💌🍓 )

"chris..." you whine, thighs squeezed together as you look over at him, "how long is this gonna take?"

"the fuck, bambi?" chris says in disbelief, his eyes narrowing at your pent up state, a scoff leaving his lips, "you seriously can't wait a few more minutes?"

you pout, taking his hand and placing it on your thigh, the cold touch his hand sending shivers down your spine as he gives the soft, brown flesh there a squeeze. you give him a pleading expression, and he shakes his head, rubbing the stubble along his jaw, chuckling lowly. he's parked out front of his customer's apartment, a small baggie ready for him in chris's lap as one hand sits on the steering wheel whilst the other kneads your thigh, causing you to buck your hips stubbornly.

"so fuckin' impatient, baby," he shakes his head, looking around for his customer, "don't wanna wait? fine."

chris's hand dances across the innermost part of your thigh, his fingers teasingly your lips as he rubs slow, deliberate circles on your clit. a lewd whine escapes your lips, as you buck your hips whilst your head lolls to the side. "oh baby please don't tease me."

"you think you gettin' a fuckin' say so?" chris snaps at you, eyes narrowing at you as he licks his lips at you, shaking his head as the corners of his lips upturned slightly, "m'gonna tease ya however i want, sweetheart."

he continues rubbing slow circles on your clit, your sensitive bundle of nerves begging for more attention as you spread your legs wider to give chris better access. he looks around and sees his customer coming out of his apartment, causing chris to smirk as he plunges one of his digits inside of you without warning, causing your hips to buck as you cry out.

"f-fuck!" you whine, arching your back off of your seat as chris's customer approaches his car.

"you better quiet down or i'll stop," he warns you, curling his fingers inside of your aching hole.

it takes everything in you to bite down on your bottom lip, almost drawing blood as chris adds yet another finger, moving them in and out at a rapid pace. you quickly reach for your sweater, placing it over your lap as chris continues plunging his fingers in and out of you, the wet, squelching noises sounding throughout the vehicle.

"what's up, man?" his customer greets chris, reaching a hand inside the driver's side to dap chris up.

"hey, man," chris answers him nonchalantly, as if his fingers aren't currently deep inside your pussy, hearing you struggle to conceal the sinful sounds that threatened to escape your lips.

you give his customer a tight-lipped smile when he waves to you, causing chris to curl his fingers again, your velvety walls clenching around him as continues his assault inside of you.

"alright thanks bro, 'ppreciate you comin' out here," his customer says after exchanging the paraphernalia, his eyes then kindly on you, "see you around, kid."

"b-bye!" you manage to squeak out, the tight coil in your stomach a reminder of how close you were.

as he begins walking away, chris turns to you, a smirk still transfixed on his face as he starts his engine ━ he rips the sweater off, throwing it somewhere in the backseat as he speeds his fingers up, watching the way they disappear into your tight cunt. "squeezin' me baby, y'gonna cum on my fingers?"

"s-so close, chris," you moan arching your back as your nails dig into the middle counsel beside you, "fuck, fuck, i'm-"

that particular curl of chris's fingers sends you over the edge, a loud moan leaving your lips as you cum hard around his fingers, your arousal covering them completely as he coaxes you through your orgasm. with a wet squelch, chris takes his fingers out of you, causing you to hiss at the sensitivity as he brings his fingers up to his lips, licking them clean.

"that was so good," you pant, grabbing a pack of tissues from the side door, helping chris wipe his fingers clean, "thank you, baby!"

"yeah yeah, y'know you're gettin' it when we get back home, right?"

[half-a-corpse-half-a-poet]

If I ever see a flaw of yours, i'd say my eyes are the flawed ones.

-Mahmoud Darwish

[mead-iocre]

“What position do you have her in” 😭😭. Alexia’s better than me I would feed into the chaos of brat!reader and text back a position just to stroke the fire

LMAOOO yall messy 😭😭😭😭

I think alexia would definitely do that sometimes. like brat!reader's sass definitely rubs on her sometimes so she’ll suddenly feel the urge to retort back.

brat!reader: what position you got her in?

alexia: cowgirl

brat!reader: you’ve always liked other people doing majority of the work for you— even on the pitch smh

alexia: what the fuck?

—

brat!reader: what position you got her in?

alexia: missionary

brat!reader:: boringgggg. yawn.

—

brat!reader:: what position you got her in?

alexia: not this again

brat!reader:: never heard of that one. can we try it tonight?