#the little confectioner

[liaprime]

My SWTOR brainrot is kinda on hold atm and I'm not sure if I feel comfortable with this lol

[siddyyyyyyyy]

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who works as the head chef in a three star restaurant. Is very passionate about his cooking and baking, although he prefers cooking. Let's the confectioner handle the sweets.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who hates costumers or guests, who think they can outsmart him, by complaining about the 'dry steak', however he simply makes them go home. This way, him and his colleagues have less stress.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who gets criticized because of his strict rules in his restaurant by the press. However, he just wants to make sure it's enjoyable and calm. Without any guests trying to get more free food by playing a victim.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who hates the press.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who hates taking the fresh products from the delivery guy, because he's more than talkative. Always makes anyone else go than himself.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who (sometimes) hates his colleagues. Mostly Soap, because he manages to set at least two pans on fire every day and then always ends up staying late to help the cleaning ladies with their job.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who once threw a tomato at Soap for pissing him off, then said; »Be happy that wasn't my knife, you wanker!«

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who sometimes gets carried away and talks more loudly than usual, making some guests question if the work morals are actually okay or not.

»Just follow the damn orders, you carrot!« »If the costumer said 'no garlic', then it means 'no garlic'! I don't need this place to be shut down because of your stupid ass.«

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who either loves it or hates it when familys with children come in. Asks the waiter or waitress who took their orders about them, being happy if the kid is well behaved.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who loves to cook things off the kid's menu, likes to serve it himself when he knows the child/children are nice and not little gremlins.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who rants to himself whenever something upsets him in the slightest way.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who likes to think that you are his favourite coworker. Knows about your excellent degree, enjoys your food and new recipes and loves the fact that you're always on time. Others can't compare.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who likes to gossip with you on breaks over a cigeratte or a cup of tea.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who always makes sure that Velvet's desserts are perfect. It's his most loyal costumer, and the sweetest elder lady on earth.

»Of course, we'll make the most sweetest cheesecake as possible.«

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who wants to put his hands into the mixer after he heard Velvet compliment you, then following up with, »I'm surprised chef Riley hasn't fallen for you already. I'd be distracted in the kitchen if I had to work with you.« Because she is somehow managed to hit a nerve.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who tries to make you do other work, like organising the storage room and collecting the deliveries, or even cleaning out the containers outside. Just to be more focused on his work... but you're starting to hate it.

Chef!Simon 'Ghost' Riley who makes Soap shut up with another tomato once he tries to tease Ghost about his 'crush'. Then contemplated with the thoughts of shutting the place down because of his antics.

⟨part 2⟩

a/n: got this idea while reawatching a random series from my childhood, so here you go. hope you enjoyed! (divider @vesearartistry) I'd happily take more requests for this AU, just drop it into my inbox!! Also, he reminds me of Gordon Ramsay.

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[orangeblossomsintheair]

GRIEF ASIDE (2/4) | MV33

summary : Every corner of the estate was consumed by a single, unspoken truth: Lord Jos was returning.

warnings : jos verstappen, child abuse, physical abuse, sexism.

an : thx for waiting loves! ‘25s been busy for me!

Max Verstappen prided himself on his composure.

He was a man who thrived on control, who wielded power with ease and commanded attention with the slightest inclination of his head.

Yet in the last fortnight, he had been reduced to something unrecognizable. Restless. Irritated. Unmoored.

By you.

It was your behavior that had unraveled him. So pointedly, so maddeningly deliberate.

The endless excuses, the sudden vanishing acts, the way you refused to meet his gaze when once you had met him head-on.

You had become a master of evasion, and it was driving him to distraction.

It started off with a simple question.

“Where’s your Lady?” Max asked, turning to Oscar with a box of chocolates in hand.

His fingers tightened slightly around the ribbon tied to it, his nerves betraying the confidence he usually wore so well.

He had waited weeks for the box to arrive. Painfully long weeks, during which the confectioner’s meticulous work and the rarity of the ingredients had only fueled his anticipation.

Chocolates were rare in the north, almost impossibly so.

The delicate cocoa beans were difficult to import, often ruined by the harsh weather before they could even cross the border.

Securing this batch had cost him more than he cared to admit, and not just in coin.

And now here he was, holding it awkwardly as your knight stood before him.

“She is occupied, my Lord,” Oscar said with a slight bow, his voice steady, polite, and frustratingly indifferent.

Max blinked, thrown off by the answer. “…Occupied?” he repeated, as if he’d misheard.

“Yes.” Oscar straightened, his hands resting casually on the hilt of his sword. “She has asked that her business remain private.”

Max faltered, his expression briefly betraying his confusion. “Private,” he echoed under his breath, tasting the word. He glanced down at the box in his hands, the chocolate suddenly feeling heavier than before.

For a moment, he considered the sensible option: handing it over to Oscar and letting him deliver it.

That was the proper course of action, wasn’t it? Courteous, efficient.

But that wasn’t why he’d gone to so much trouble. He hadn’t waited for weeks, chased that damned merchant, and secured a confectioner skilled enough to work with the temperamental cocoa just to have someone else deliver it.

No, he’d done all of that for the sake of seeing you.

To see the surprise and delight in your eyes when you realized what he’d brought.

To see the way your lips might curve into that rare, unguarded smile that always made the world feel a little brighter.

“Is she…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Is she well?”

Oscar’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “She is, my Lord.”

Max exhaled softly, his chest tightening. That should have been a comfort, and yet it wasn’t.

A part of him felt a flicker of unease. Was he intruding where he wasn’t wanted? Was this foolish? The thought stung, but he brushed it aside. He wasn’t the kind of man to walk away without trying.

With renewed resolve, he squared his shoulders and nodded, his voice steady. “I see. Then tell her this: I humbly request a moment of her time.”

Oscar inclined his head, though something in his eyes seemed to shift slightly. Was that curiosity? Amusement? It was impossible to tell. “As you wish, my Lord. I will deliver your message.”

Max nodded again, but as the knight turned to leave, he found himself lingering, still clutching the box. His thumb ran absently over the ribbon, tracing the folds as he stared down at it.

For weeks, he’d imagined what it would be like to give this to you. To see your face when you realized what it was.

Chocolates weren’t just a gift. They were an impossibility here, a piece of warmth and sweetness in a land defined by cold and scarcity.

And they were for you, only you.

—

He’d gone to Lando next. That had been quickly proven to be a mistake. Lando, with his quicksilver grin and eyes full of mischief, was the last person to approach for a straight answer.

“My Lady?” Lando had echoed, leaning casually against the stable door, arms crossed over his chest. His grin stretched wide enough to make Max immediately regret speaking. “Ah, yes. I believe she’s occupied at the moment.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Occupied doing what, exactly?”

“Oh, you know…” Lando’s hand flicked through the air as if the explanation were so obvious it barely needed saying. “Official lady business. I think she’s teaching the geese to curtsy this morning.”

“…The geese,” Max repeated flatly, his fingers tightening on the ribbon of the box.

“Very unruly creatures, geese,” Lando went on, his expression completely serious now, as if he were sharing a great truth. “It takes a lot of effort to get them to dip properly. I think one of them might’ve tried to bite her earlier. Terrible mess.”

Max stared at him, weighing whether it was worth the energy to argue. “Are you being serious right now?”

Lando’s grin only grew. “Do I look like the kind of man who isn’t serious?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m deeply wounded.” Lando placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “But I promise you, my Lord, her time is very well spent.”

Max exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine. I’ll wait. When she’s done with… the geese, let her know I’m here.”

“Absolutely, my Lord,” Lando said with a little bow, the picture of polite deference. But the laughter in his eyes didn’t escape Max’s notice.

—

With that failure, Max even stooped to seeking out Lily in the servants’ quarters.

He caught her coming down the hallway with a basket of linens tucked under one arm, her steps brisk and purposeful. She spotted him before he could call out, muttering something under her breath (he swore it was a curse) before plastering on a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Lord Max,” she greeted, shifting the basket on her hip. “What brings you down here? A rare sight for the likes of us.”

“I need to see her,” Max said bluntly, holding up the box as if it explained everything.

Lily’s gaze flicked to the box, and for a moment, something unreadable passed over her face. Amusement? Pity? Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant, replaced by a steady, practiced neutrality. “She’s… unavailable, my Lord.”

“I’ve heard that every day this week,” Max replied, exasperation creeping into his voice. “And not one person will tell me why. Are her knights sworn to secrecy? What about her maids now?”

Lily let out a short laugh, dry and faintly resigned, as if she’d expected this conversation. “It’s not that, my Lord.”

“Then what?” he pressed, stepping closer. “If you know where she is, tell me.”

“I can’t,” she said simply, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“You mean you won’t.”

“I mean I can’t,” Lily repeated, her tone firmer now, though there was a spark of humor in her eyes. “I’ve been given strict orders, my Lord.”

Max narrowed his eyes, studying her. “You know why she’s avoiding me.”

She hesitated for the briefest of moments, a flicker of something— guilt? —crossing her face before she sighed, shifting the weight of the basket again. “I do,” she admitted quietly.

“Then tell me,” Max demanded, his tone bordering on pleading now. “Is it something I’ve done? Something I said?”

Lily shook her head, though she didn’t meet his eyes this time. “No, my Lord. It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?”

She bit her lip, her gaze darting down the hall as if to ensure they weren’t overheard. “You’ll have to ask her that yourself.”

“I can’t ask her if I can’t even see her,” he snapped.

Lily’s faint smile returned, tinged with something like sympathy. “Then maybe you’ll have to be patient.”

“I’ve been patient,” Max muttered, his grip tightening on the box. “Do you have any idea what I went through to get this?” He held up the chocolates as if they were proof of his effort, his voice softening as he added, “I just… I just want to give them to her. That’s all.”

For a moment, Lily’s expression softened entirely, and she almost looked as if she might break. But then she straightened, her professional mask slipping back into place. “She’ll come around, my Lord. You’ll see her soon enough.”

“And what if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” Lily said firmly, then added with a faint chuckle, “Believe me, my Lady is stubborn, but not that stubborn.”

Max stared at her, his frustration bubbling under the surface, but he could see he wouldn’t get anything more from her. “Fine. Just… when you see her, tell her I’ve been waiting.”

Lily nodded, her smile softening once more. “I will, my Lord.”

She dipped into a quick curtsy and walked away, leaving him standing alone in the hallway with the box of chocolates weighing heavily in his hands.

—

Now, Max was no stranger to avoidance.

He knew what it meant to intimidate, to be held at arm’s length by those too timid to face him.

That was the life he led, and he accepted it without question. But you?

You were supposed to be his refuge, the one person who didn’t cower in his presence.

And yet here you were, skittering away from him as though he carried some plague, avoiding him at every turn.

It gnawed at him, an unfamiliar ache burrowing deep into his chest. By the fourth day of your nonsense, he could bear it no longer.

When he spotted you in the hallway that afternoon, halfway to the drawing room, his decision was instant.

You froze the moment your eyes met his, caught like a deer in the hunter’s sights. He could see the panic, the frantic calculations as your gaze flicked to the nearest door.

“Do not dare,” he bit out, his voice cutting through the charged silence.

You flinched, your hand hesitating mid-air as though you’d considered bolting but lacked the courage to see it through.

Max advanced, his long strides purposeful, the hem of his jacket sweeping behind him like a battle flag.

“This farce ends now,” he declared. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, his every muscle taut as he forced himself not to reach for you. Not yet.

“My Lord, I-”

He hated that. He was Max with you. He was supposed to be only Max with you.

“No,” he snapped, his words slicing through your protest. “Not this time. You’ve spent days running from me, avoiding me as though I’m some specter haunting these halls. I will not tolerate it a moment longer.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, trembling under the weight of his fury. “If I have somehow offended-”

“Offended me?” he interrupted, a sharp, humorless laugh escaping him. “You think this is about offense? This- this performance?”

He gestured sharply between the two of you, his frustration palpable. “This is not you. I know you, and I do not recognize the woman before me. What have I done, pray tell, to deserve this... this coldness? This game of cat and mouse?”

“Nothing!” The word tumbled from your lips, too quick, too desperate.

His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Do not lie to me,” he said, his voice like a thundercloud on the verge of breaking. “I have seen the way you pale at the sight of me, the way you vanish the moment I enter a room. Am I so intolerable to you now? So monstrous?”

“Of course not!” you exclaimed, your composure slipping. “You are not intolerable! Far from it. It’s not you at all, it’s-” You stopped abruptly, as though you’d realized you were on the brink of revealing too much.

“It’s what?” he demanded, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. His voice dropped, low and dangerous, but his eyes burned with something raw, something unguarded. “Tell me. Speak plainly. Do not force me to claw the truth from you, piece by piece.”

“I- I cannot,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You will.” His gaze bore into yours, his frustration radiating from every line of his body. “You owe me that much.”

His nearness was unbearable, his scent, his presence, his intensity.

Everything about him seemed to crowd the air, leaving you breathless, cornered.

“Do you think I enjoy this?” he asked, his voice breaking through the silence like a whip. “Do you think I want to stand here, begging for answers from the one person I consider my friend? For God’s sake, just tell me.”

“I don’t know how to act around you anymore,” you whispered, the words breaking free before you could swallow them back.

Max paused, his sharp gaze flickering to you, his composure splintering into something unreadable. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t know how to act,” you said again, your voice trembling despite your effort to sound resolute. “Not now. Not after... not after realizing I-” You stopped yourself, frustration biting at your tongue as your courage faltered. “This is impossible. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

His brow furrowed, and his voice, low and insistent, pulled you back into the moment. “After realizing what?”

You exhaled sharply, the breath almost catching in your throat. If the truth was going to ruin everything, better to hurl it like a stone and get it over with. “After realizing I have feelings for you.” The words tumbled out too fast, harsh and unpolished, as though you were flinging them away before they could sear you further. “And now I’ve made a mess of it, haven’t I? I’ve ruined everything.”

Max froze. For once, his infuriatingly unflappable demeanor slipped, leaving him uncharacteristically wide-eyed.

“Feelings,” he echoed, as though the word itself confounded him.

“Yes, feelings,” you snapped, your voice rising despite your best efforts to contain it. “Ridiculous, inconvenient feelings for you, of all people. And now you’re going to tell me how absurd it is, and I’ll have to live with the mortification of this moment haunting me forever.”

“Absurd?” His lips quirked, and you bristled at the hint of amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Max,” you warned, feeling your face burn.

“I’m not laughing,” he said, though his voice betrayed the faintest trace of mirth. “I’m simply... astonished.”

“Well, forgive me if I fail to see the humor in any of this!”

“You think I find this funny?” He stepped closer, the low timbre of his voice setting your nerves alight. “You, confessing something I’ve wanted to say for... weeks? You, standing here thinking I don’t-”

He broke off, and you caught the way his jaw clenched, his hand flexing at his side. His voice dropped, quieter but no less intense. “You think I went to all that trouble for chocolates because it was nothing?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “The chocolates?”

“Yes, the chocolates.” His frustration sharpened, his free hand gesturing toward an invisible point as if grasping for the right words.

“Do you know how rare they are here? How much effort it took? The merchants, the confectioner... and all for what? To watch you run from me? To feel like an idiot carrying them from one corner of the estate to the other while you slip away again?”

“I didn’t ask for them,” you said softly, though the words stung even as you spoke them.

“No,” he admitted, his voice quieter but no less fierce. “But I wanted to give them to you. For you. And now, they just... feel like a waste.”

“Max...”

“No,” he interrupted, the raw vulnerability in his voice stopping you cold. “They’re not a waste because of you. They’re a waste because you won’t let me in. Because you’ve spent days pretending I don’t matter to you when all I’ve wanted was a chance to prove how much you matter to me.”

You stared at him, your breath hitching as his words hit like a thunderclap.

“Do you think I don’t feel the same?” he asked, stepping closer, his tone both accusing and desperate. “Do you think I’ve spent all this time chasing you for nothing?”

Your voice trembled as you whispered, “You feel the same?”

“Yes,” he said simply, the weight of the word carrying everything he hadn’t been able to say. “And I thought I made it obvious.”

“Well, then I suppose I’ll have to make myself clearer.”

And before you could think, Max closed the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both gentle and consuming. The world seemed to fall away, the weight of your unspoken feelings pouring into the space between you.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, his urgency tempered by an almost reverent care.

Time seemed to stretch, each second filled with the warmth of him, the heady sensation of finally letting go. He tasted faintly of the cold wind outside, of something intoxicatingly familiar yet completely new.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with your own. His eyes searched yours, still stormy with emotion but softened now by something quieter, more certain.

He whispered, “perhaps I should have said something sooner.”

“You think?” you shot back, and to your dismay, he chuckled, a warm, rich sound that melted some of the tension twisting in your chest.

“Darling,” he murmured, and the tenderness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, “you never had to wonder.”

“Well, I did,” you managed, your voice cracking slightly.

“I see that now,” he said with a sigh, his gaze steady and unwavering as he reached for your hand. His fingers slipped around yours with a deliberate tenderness, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. The touch was so soft, so impossibly gentle, that it made your chest ache.

“I’m glad you told me,” he murmured, his voice was warm as if sharing a secret shared only between the two of you. “And I’m glad you like me. Because I…” He hesitated, his eyes flickering with something unspoken, something heavy. “I would’ve settled.”

The word hung in the air, brittle and raw, and you blinked, confused. “Settled?”

He nodded, his lips pressing into a faint, rueful smile. “For being friends,” he clarified, his voice steady but tinged with quiet resignation. “I would have accepted just having you in my life in some way, even if it wasn’t the way I wanted. Even if it meant being civil and… arranged.”

“Arranged,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he said, his gaze holding yours as if trying to convey the depth of his words. “I would’ve gone through with it, our marriage, without ever asking for more. I would’ve smiled at the formalities, kept my distance, played the role. Anything to keep you near, even if it meant pretending.”

Your breath caught, a lump rising in your throat. “That’s… That’s horrible, Max. Why would you do that to yourself?”

“Because it’s you,” he said simply, his tone soft but unwavering. “Because the thought of losing you entirely… I couldn’t bear it. I thought I’d rather have something small, something manageable, than risk everything and scare you away.”

“Scare me away?” you repeated, shaking your head in disbelief. “Do you honestly think so little of me?”

“No,” he said quickly, his grip on your hand tightening, as though anchoring himself to you. “Never. But I know how you are. You get this look, like the world’s closing in on you, and you start pulling away before anyone can get too close, and I thought… I thought if I pushed too hard, I’d be next.”

You stared at him, your heart twisting at the vulnerability etched into his features. “You were afraid of me?”

“Not afraid of you,” he said, his voice dipping low, the honesty in it startling. “Afraid of losing you.”

The confession hung between you, fragile but unbreakable, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, you managed, “And you thought being stuck in a loveless, arranged marriage was better than just telling me?”

His smile returned, softer this time, almost self-deprecating. “When you put it like that, it does sound ridiculous. But at the time, it felt safer. Less terrifying than this.”

“This,” you repeated, your voice catching. “What we’re doing right now?”

“Yes,” he admitted, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin. “This. Being honest. Saying how I feel. It’s terrifying because it matters. Because you matter.”

You felt your resolve waver, your frustration dissolving under the weight of his words. “Max, you’re an idiot,” you said, your voice trembling despite your attempt at firmness.

“I won’t argue with that,” he said, his smile growing. “But I’m your idiot now, if you’ll have me.”

The warmth in his gaze, the sheer tenderness in his touch, was almost too much to bear. “You’re thanking me,” you said softly, shaking your head. “For liking you?”

“I am,” he said, his voice unwavering. “Because you didn’t have to. You could’ve walked away. You could’ve held back. But you didn’t. And now… Now we have this. Something real. Something worth holding onto.”

Your heart pounded, your breath shallow as you stared at him. “And what if I told you I didn’t want to settle either?”

His smile widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he stepped closer. “Then I’d tell you that you’re stuck with me now,” he said, his voice a soft promise.

“I suppose there are worse things,” you said, though your smile betrayed the fullness of your heart.

“Far worse,” he agreed, leaning in just enough that his breath brushed against your cheek. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life convincing you that I’m the best thing you’ve ever settled for.”

—-

The next morning, you were seated by the window in your chambers, the soft light casting a warm glow over the room. A knock at the door drew your attention.

“Come in,” you called, setting your book aside.

When the door opened, there stood Max. His gaze softened when it found you, and in his hands was a box tied neatly with a crimson ribbon.

“Are those the chocolates?” you asked, a knowing smile already tugging at your lips.

He stepped closer, his own lips curving faintly. “They are.”

You rose to meet him, your eyes flicking to the box as he handed it over. The weight of it was solid in your hands, the ribbon silk-smooth beneath your fingers.

You carefully untied the bow, the lid lifting to reveal an array of glossy, artfully crafted chocolates nestled in their compartments.

The rich aroma of cocoa and spices drifted upward, and your breath caught. “They’re beautiful,” you murmured, glancing up at him. “Thank you, Max. Truly.”

“You haven’t even tasted one yet,” he said, though his tone was soft, pleased.

“Oh, I will.” You picked one delicately, its intricate design almost too lovely to disturb. Almost.

You took a small bite, and the flavor bloomed on your tongue, silky and sweet with just the right hint of bitterness. A quiet sigh of delight escaped you.

Max’s expression softened further, as though your enjoyment was worth all the trouble he’d endured.

“These are incredible,” you said, savoring the last bit. Then you arched a brow at him, a teasing glint in your eye. “But you said yesterday that these were difficult to get. What aren’t you telling me?”

He exhaled, leaning against the edge of your desk, his arms crossing casually. “Do you really want to hear the whole story?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, picking another chocolate and holding it up like evidence. “If you went to that much effort, I want to know every detail. I want to appreciate them properly.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head, but there was something tender in his gaze as he began. “It started with a merchant passing through the capital. Word had it that he’d secured a shipment of cocoa that are.. let’s just say, coveted by certain circles.”

“Certain circles?” you asked, biting into the chocolate and letting the flavor coat your tongue.

“Dukes and duchesses, mostly,” he said wryly. “The merchant wasn’t even planning to stop here. His route was direct, and his stock was all but spoken for.”

“And yet, somehow, here they are,” you said, gesturing to the box. “How did you manage that?”

Max tilted his head, his smile faintly crooked. “It took some convincing.”

“Convincing?” you pressed, smiling despite yourself.

“And a fair bit of chasing,” he admitted, a rueful edge to his tone. “The merchant refused my first offer, so I had to send word ahead to intercept him at the border. When that didn’t work, I had one of my men track him to the next town and… negotiate.”

You blinked, mid-bite. “Negotiate? Max.”

He spread his hands. “It wasn’t as dire as it sounds. But it took a considerable amount of effort, and an even more considerable sum.”

Your heart softened, and you set the chocolate down, looking at him with earnest warmth. “You did all of that… just for me?”

His gaze met yours, steady and open. “Of course I did. You deserve nothing less.”

Your chest tightened, an ache blooming behind your ribs. Not unpleasant, but something overwhelming in its intensity. You smiled, the edges of it trembling slightly. “Max, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate. “Just tell me they were worth it.”

You picked up another chocolate, holding it between your fingers as you studied him. “Oh, they’re worth it,” you said, your voice soft. “But you didn’t have to go to such lengths.”

His eyes softened further, and he took a step closer, until he was just within arm’s reach. “For you, I’d go to greater ones.”

The sincerity in his tone made you pause, your breath hitching. Slowly, you took a bite of the chocolate, savoring its richness as you held his gaze.

“Well,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter but no less warm, “then I’ll savor these all the more. Thank you, Max. Truly.”

He gave a faint smile, his gaze lingering on you. “You’re worth it,” he said again, almost too softly for you to hear.

—

A few days later found the two of you nestled in one of the estate’s sitting rooms, the kind of quiet, secluded spot that felt made for winter afternoons, tucked in a corner, heavy drapes drawn against the chill, and the only light coming from the soft flicker of a fire.

You were curled up on the settee, your legs tucked beneath you, a woolen blanket draped over your shoulders, and a book resting against your knees.

Max sat nearby in an armchair, his posture lazy, his boots propped on a low table, a mug of tea in hand. The fire crackled, the kind of sound that settled deep into the bones.

“You know,” he began, breaking the quiet, “there’s not a single good reason for ‘pookie’ to exist in the English language.”

You didn’t look up from your book, though a smirk tugged at your lips. “I take it you’ve given this some serious thought.”

“Too much thought,” he confirmed, setting his tea down with a resolute air. “I’m just saying, there are standards. Imagine you calling me that in public.”

“What’s wrong with pookie? It’s cute.”

“It’s infantilizing,” he countered, his voice dripping with mock horror. “Do you want me to lose all credibility? Imagine you waltzing into the ballroom, calling me ‘pookie’ in front of Lord Leclerc. He already hates me.”

You smirked behind the edge of your book. “Maybe it’d soften him up. Who could hate someone called pookie?”

“Everyone,” he deadpanned, leaning forward as though the conversation had suddenly taken on life-or-death stakes. “And do you know what happens when dukes hate you? Wars. Wars happen.”

You snorted, the sound more unbecoming than you intended. “Oh yes, the annals of history are full of noblemen going to battle over ill-advised pet names.”

He arched a brow. “Don’t laugh. You’d be the first casualty. Imagine the gossip: ‘Her Lady, tragically felled by her husband’s indignity.’”

You laughed, the sound light and teasing. “Oh, come on. I think society would be more than entertained by your reaction. Honestly, it’d be a great conversation starter.”

Max’s face twisted in mock horror. "I’ll have you know that there’s such a thing as dignity. Standards. Not ‘pookie.’" He gave you an exaggerated shudder. "If you ever said that in public, I'd die on the spot."

“You’d be fine,” you said, grinning. “I think you'd survive. Just barely."

“Not a chance,” he muttered, clearly still distraught over the possibility. He shifted in his chair, sitting up straighter now, his hands running over his trousers as if wiping away the very thought of the word. “I’m serious about this, you know. There have to be some boundaries. What would you say if I called you something equally ridiculous?”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “Like what?”

Max paused, giving you that look, the one where he thought he had you cornered. “‘Sweet cheeks,’ perhaps.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “That’s an actual crime,” you said, grinning widely. “Sweet cheeks is... beyond reprehensible.”

He chuckled, satisfied with his small victory, but he wasn’t done. "Or, maybe... how about ‘cuddlekins’?” He dragged out the last syllable, drawing out the ridiculousness for full effect.

Your eyes widened in mock horror. "You can’t be serious. I’m telling you, that would ruin me.” You leaned forward, bracing your elbows on your knees as you regarded him with exaggerated concern. “I might actually have to divorce you.”

Max grinned smugly, clearly relishing the reaction. “See? I knew you’d understand.” He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “That’s why we need to establish clear boundaries. For your sake, as well as mine.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Fine, Mr. Standards,” you said, leaning back into the settee, settling the blanket over you more comfortably. “But what would you allow, then? What’s dignified enough for you, Your Majesty?”

He thought about it for a moment, tapping his finger against his chin in mock consideration. “Something classic. Elegant. ‘Darling,’ for instance.” He paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Or ‘love.’ I suppose I could even accept ‘angel,’ if you’re feeling sentimental.”

“Angel?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow. “You want me to call you that? You’re nearly insufferable already, I can’t imagine what would happen if I started.”

“Angel is timeless,” he insisted, leaning forward with a dramatic flourish. “You’d be lucky to use it.”

You snorted in disbelief. “Timeless? You’re not a saint, Max.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered. “Still, I’d wear it better than ‘pookie,’ don’t you think?”

You tilted your head, considering. “I suppose I could live with ‘angel’.. for now. But you’re pushing it.”

Max grinned like a cat who’d just gotten away with murder. "Good. And in return, I will grant you the honor of calling me..." He paused dramatically. "Max.”

You blinked at him, genuinely surprised. “That’s it? Just ‘Max’?”

He shrugged nonchalantly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “It’s a classic. And besides, it has a certain charm when you say it like that.” He leaned back into his chair, an air of contentment settling over him.

You studied him for a moment, then let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. There was something about the moment, about the soft way he spoke, the way his eyes had a lightness to it, that made you feel oddly warm.

"Fine,” you said, glancing back at your book but unable to suppress a smile. “But I’ll say it right now: if you ever call me anything that’s even remotely ridiculous in public, you’re going to wish you hadn’t.”

—

The evening had started as so many did. A quiet, comfortable sort of intimacy.

The snow outside beat against the windows, the sound muffled by thick velvet curtains, while the firelight flickered across the room, painting everything in soft, golden hues.

Max lounged in his chair, one arm draped over the back lazily, his other hand swirling the last of the wine in his glass. It was the kind of night that begged for diversion.

That was when he spotted it: the chessboard, tucked onto the corner of the bookshelf, its wooden box worn smooth with use. He stood and wandered over, plucking it from its place as though the idea had been waiting there all along.

“You play?” he asked, holding it up as though it were some sort of hidden treasure.

You glanced up from your seat, where you had been flipping idly through a book, the corners of your lips lifting into a subtle smile. “On occasion.”

He arched a brow at the casual way you said it, like you hadn’t just issued a challenge in the simplest of phrases.

“On occasion,” he repeated, setting the board on the low table between you. “That sounds suspiciously like the prelude to a trouncing.”

Your smile widened slightly, and you leaned forward to help him set up the pieces. “If you’re worried about losing, Max, you can always put it back on the shelf.”

His bark of laughter was low, rich, and thoroughly amused. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to provoke me.”

“Would it work?”

“It already has.”

With that, the pieces were set, the game begun.

At first, Max played as if this were nothing more than a pleasant diversion, his moves deliberate but far from calculated.

He leaned back in his chair, tossing out playful commentary, fully expecting this to be an easy, lighthearted way to pass the time.

But then you struck.

In just a few moves, you had dismantled his initial strategy, if it could even be called that, with a precision that made him pause.

Max’s hand hovered over his next piece, his gaze flicking between you and the board as though he’d missed some vital clue.

“Was that… intentional?” he asked, a faint crease forming between his brows.

You lifted your eyes to meet his, feigning innocence, though the sparkle in your gaze gave you away. “Was what intentional?”

“That.” He gestured vaguely at the board, his tone dripping with mock disbelief. “The part where you just… destroyed my plan.”

You tilted your head, your expression betraying just the faintest hint of smugness. “Max, you had no plan.”

He blinked, then laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Oh, so you’re one of those players.”

“One of those players?”

“The ones who think they’re too clever by half.”

“Think?” you repeated, your tone as smooth as silk.

Max chuckled again, shaking his head as he moved his knight forward. “Alright, let’s see how clever you really are.”

The first game ended quickly, too quickly for Max’s liking. He stared at the board in disbelief as you leaned back in your chair, the faintest hint of triumph in your smile.

“Was that too fast for you?” you asked, the light teasing in your tone making him huff a laugh.

“Too fast? No. Humbling? Absolutely.”

The second game started with Max clearly trying harder, his movements slower, more deliberate.

He studied the board with an intensity you hadn’t expected, his fingers tapping against the arm of his chair as he weighed his options. You almost pitied him. Almost.

“Don’t hold back on my account,” you said after a particularly defensive move on his part.

He smirked, leaning forward slightly as he moved his bishop into position. “I don’t intend to.”

It didn’t matter. Ten minutes later, you had him cornered again.

“Is this what you do for fun?” Max asked, his voice somewhere between impressed and exasperated as he surveyed the wreckage of his pieces. “Humiliate unsuspecting opponents?”

You laughed softly, the sound warm and full of mirth. “Only when they insist on playing against me.”

By the third game, Max had abandoned any pretense of casual competition. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, as he stared at the board like a general planning a campaign. His focus was admirable, though ultimately futile.

“You’ve done this before,” he said eventually, his tone a mix of suspicion and amusement.

You tilted your head, your fingers lightly tapping the edge of your rook. “Played chess?”

“No. Watched someone’s pride unravel in real time.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up at that, and for a moment, the tension of the game melted into something softer. The warmth of the fire, the rhythm of your banter.

It all wrapped around the two of you like a cocoon, shutting out the world beyond the storm.

“You’re a good sport,” you said after a moment, moving your queen with practiced ease.

Max glanced up at you, his smile slow and genuine.

“Checkmate,” you said softly, the word slipping out like a secret.

He stared at the board for a long moment before laughing, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “I should be annoyed,” he said, his tone wry, “but somehow, I’m not.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” Max said, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made the air feel just a little warmer, “I’ve decided I enjoy losing to you.”

—

Max leaned against the doorway of your bedroom, his arms folded casually, though there was a slight tension in his posture.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the threshold he was careful not to cross.

No matter how much you reassured him or how much he’d relaxed around you, he still wouldn’t set foot inside your room.

Some etiquette rules seemed etched into his very bones.

“You might want to come to the aviary,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a faint edge.

You paused, glancing up from your writing desk. The way he lingered in the doorway, shifting his weight ever so slightly, caught your attention. “What’s going on?”

Max cleared his throat and gave a slight shrug, trying too hard to seem nonchalant. “Your father’s falcon,” he said after a beat. “It’s here. With a letter.”

You straightened, intrigued. “Father’s falcon?”

“That’s what I said.” He hesitated, one hand brushing through his hair. “You’ll see. It’s waiting for you. And... watching me.”

That last part made you grin, and you rose to follow him. Max wasn’t usually nervous, but the slight unease in his tone piqued your curiosity.

The two of you walked through the twisting corridors of the estate, the sound of your footsteps mingling with the faint hum of the household settling for the day.

When you reached the aviary, the warm, earthy scent of hay, cedar, and feathers greeted you like an old friend.

Inside, the room was alive with sound, the soft rustle of wings, the gentle coos of doves nestled in the rafters, and the occasional bright trill of a songbird darting through the shafts of sunlight streaming through the tall, arched windows.

At the center of it all, perched on the wooden stand in the heart of the room, was the peregrine falcon.

The bird’s eyes followed your entrance immediately, but it was Max it seemed to focus on the most, as though sizing him up. Max stopped a few paces from the perch, his hands slipping into his pockets as if to hide any sudden movements.

“Your father’s falcon,” he said again, his tone wry. “Does it always glare like that?”

“It doesn’t glare,” you said, though you had to admit the falcon’s gaze was as intense as ever. “It’s just assessing you.”

“Sure it is,” Max muttered, shifting slightly. “If it decides I’m a threat, how fast does it usually go for the face?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “It won’t attack you. Not unless you try to touch it.”

“Believe me, that’s not happening.”

Ignoring him, you stepped forward, extending your arm toward the bird. The falcon’s head tilted slightly, its keen eyes locking onto yours.

Then, with a sharp trill, it launched itself from the perch. Its wings barely made a sound as it landed gracefully on your forearm, its talons light against the leather bracer you wore.

“There you are,” you murmured, stroking its sleek head with gentle fingers.

The falcon made a soft, almost affectionate chirp and leaned into your touch, brushing its beak against your cheek in greeting.

“Of course,” Max said dryly, watching from a safe distance. “It loves you.”

“It trusts me.” You glanced at him with a smirk. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

The falcon’s sharp gaze flicked to Max again, and he raised his hands defensively. “I’m not arguing. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

You laughed under your breath, turning your attention to the small roll of parchment tied to the falcon’s leg. The wax seal, bearing your family’s crest, was unmistakable.

Breaking the seal, you unrolled the thick parchment, your eyes scanning the familiar script.

The falcon shifted on your arm, leaning slightly against your shoulder as though it, too, was eager to hear the news.

My clever one,

I’ll be arriving a few days before the winter feast, sooner than I’d planned. I hope you've been well and that House Verstappen has treated you well.

It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you. I look forward to our reunion.

With affection,

Father

Your heart skipped a beat as you read the letter, the familiar handwriting drawing a warm smile across your face.

“He’s coming back,” you murmured, excitement bubbling in your voice. “Before the festival!”

Max tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he took in your excitement. “Good news for once. You’ve been missing him.”

“Of course I have,” you replied quickly, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks.

A soft chirp reminded you of the falcon perched patiently at your shoulder, its sharp eyes watching your every move. It nudged its beak against your cheek, urging you to action.

“All right, all right,” you murmured with a chuckle, reaching up to stroke the bird’s sleek feathers. “I’ll send him a reply. You’re more impatient than I am.”

“Should I give you two some privacy?” Max leaned against the wooden beam as you walked to the small table in the corner of the aviary.

You shot him a playful glare. “The falcon’s far better company than you some days.”

“Harsh,” Max muttered with mock indignation, though his smile lingered.

Grabbing a strip of parchment, you quickly penned a short response, your hand steady despite your racing thoughts. The falcon ruffled its wings and tilted its head, watching you with the sharp attentiveness of a messenger that knew its job.

When you finished, you sealed the note and turned back to the falcon. “Here we go,” you said softly, tying the parchment to its leg with practiced ease. “Make sure he gets this, all right?”

The falcon chirped again, nudging your hand once more before spreading its powerful wings.

“You spoil that bird,” Max commented.

You ignored him, lifting your arm and watching the falcon take off in a flurry of feathers, vanishing through the open beams of the aviary.

—

"Lord Jos Verstappen is coming home."

The announcement echoed through the halls like the tolling of a funeral bell, heavy and foreboding. The once peaceful estate stirred to life, not with joy, but with a frantic, fearful energy.

Servants darted through the corridors, their faces pale and tense as they adjusted garlands that now felt like mockery against the gloom. Silver was polished until hands trembled, every blemish scoured away with desperation.

Knights inspected their armor with grim focus, their fingers twitching over hilts and clasps as though preparing for battle rather than ceremony.

Even the preparations for the winter feast, grand and excessive as always, now carried a frantic edge, as if the abundance might shield them from his scrutiny.

Cooks whispered curses under their breath, their knives slicing meat with fevered precision. The clatter of pots and the hiss of roasting fires seemed louder, sharper, grating against the silence that lay beneath.

The estate itself seemed to darken, its stately elegance cast in shadow by the weight of his impending arrival.

Red banners bearing the Verstappen crest unfurled from the towers like blood dripping onto the pale winter sky. They flapped in the wind with a mournful sound, their bold colors stark against the growing chill.

—

The heavy oak doors groaned open, and the room was instantly swallowed by silence. The grand dining hall, usually alive with movement and murmured activity, now felt cavernous, the echoes of footsteps hollow against the stone.

Jos entered, his presence dominating the space even before he spoke. His boots struck the floor with deliberate precision, the sound like a hammer driving nails into a coffin.

His cloak of black wolf fur swept behind him, its edges brushing the ground, and the lifeless eyes of the beast stared out like a warning. His face was a cold mask of sharp lines and quiet menace, and his gaze moved across the room before landing on Max.

“Max,” Jos said, his voice low and gravelly, yet it carried with ease, filling every corner of the room. “You look like a boy playing lord. Tell me. Do you believe you’ve done well?”

Max stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. His posture was stiff, his hands braced against the table as though steadying himself. “Yes, Father. Everything is as you instructed.”

Jos tilted his head, his expression devoid of approval or interest. Instead, his piercing gaze shifted to you.

You were seated beside Max, your hands clasped tightly in your lap to hide the trembling.

His eyes swept over you and your stomach twisted under the weight of his scrutiny.

“So,” Jos said, his tone slow, deliberate, and heavy with disdain. “This is the Southern girl?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, his lip curling into a faint sneer. “I was told you were of good stock. That you would bring beauty and grace to this family. But standing here now...” He let the sentence dangle, his silence cutting deeper than any insult.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, but it felt like staring into a predator’s eyes. Your heart hammered in your chest, and the blood rushed to your face, burning with a mix of anger and humiliation.

Jos stepped closer, his movements slow and measured. He leaned down slightly, as if to examine you more closely, his eyes narrowing.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less cruel, “were they lying? Or do Southerners simply have lower standards for what they call... adequate?”

The words hit like a blow, and you fought to keep your composure. You felt your throat tighten, your nails digging into your palms.

“Father,” Max said, his voice steady but strained.

Jos turned his head sharply toward his son, his eyes flashing with impatience. “Did I say you could speak?” He scoffed. “You’d do well to learn the value of silence, child. Or did my absence made you bold?”

Max swallowed hard but said nothing, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Jos straightened, his focus returning to you. “Listen carefully,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I care little for who you are, where you come from, or what you think you’re worth. Your purpose here is simple: to provide strong heirs for this family. That is all. If you can manage even that.”

His gaze swept over you once more, his expression one of disdainful dismissal. “I suspect even that might be a challenge.”

The room was unbearably quiet, the tension pressing down like a physical weight. You felt your breath hitch, your humiliation raw and visible.

Jos’s cold smile was fleeting. “Weakness will not be tolerated. Not from you, and not from him.”

His gaze flicked back to Max. “If she fails, you know what must be done. I expect no hesitation.”

Max’s hand slipped under the table, finding yours. His fingers curled around yours, firm but not comforting. It was a gesture meant to steady you, but it felt like an apology more than anything else.

Jos turned his back on both of you, walking slowly to the head of the table. He took his seat, motioning for the servants to bring the first course, though their presence felt like little more than ghosts at the edges of your vision.

The meal passed in tense silence. Jos ate methodically, his eyes occasionally flicking to you and Max, though he offered no further words.

His presence alone was enough to fill the room with an oppressive weight.

When the plates were cleared and the servants retreated, Jos spoke one last time, his voice sharp and deliberate. “Do not embarrass this family,” he said, looking between the two of you. “My patience is not limitless, and my tolerance for failure even less so.”

He rose from the table, his chair scraping softly against the stone. Without another glance, he strode toward the doors, his cloak billowing behind him.

The grand dining hall was empty now, save for the two of you. The chandeliers above flickered with the last glow of half-melted candles, casting long shadows across the sprawling mahogany table.

Plates of untouched food sat cold on the tablecloth, embroidered with gold, while the remnants of the night’s cruelty lingered in the air like the bitter scent of spilled wine.

You sat stiffly, your trembling hands gripping the edge of your chair.

The fabric of your gown, a pale blue that had once made you feel lovely, now felt heavy and suffocating, like chains wrapped around your body.

Across from you, Max leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, his black coat rumpled, his tie loosened as though the weight of the evening had crushed him.

His lips parted, a small breath escaping, but no words came. His gaze flitted to your face, then dropped to his lap as he rubbed the back of his neck with trembling fingers.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice cold, barely above a whisper. Your hands tightened on the chair, the sharp edge biting into your palms. “Don’t ask me if I’m alright. Don’t insult me like that.”

His head jerked up, his brow furrowing. His mouth opened again, but nothing emerged. He looked lost, childlike, almost, as though he couldn’t fathom where to begin.

“Do you know what it feels like,” you continued, your voice rising, cracking, “to sit there and have every shred of your dignity ripped away, while the man you thought loved you just… watches?”

Max flinched. His knee bounced nervously under the table, but he still said nothing. His eyes, glassy with regret, darted back to yours as though searching for something, anything, to cling to.

You shoved your chair back with a screech, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.

Rising to your feet, you gripped the edge of the table to steady yourself. “Your father humiliated me tonight. He dragged my name through the mud in front of all those people, and you- you just sat there.”

“I wanted to stop him,” he murmured finally, his voice rough. He stood too, but hesitated, his hand hovering over the back of his chair as though afraid to move closer.

“Wanted to?” you repeated, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

You rounded the table, your skirts brushing against the polished floor, your heels clicking with every step. “Wanted to? What use is wanting when you didn’t do a damned thing, Max?”

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He stepped back as you approached, the candlelight catching the sharp line of his jaw, his collar undone like a man too weary to even maintain propriety. “I froze,” he said finally, the words forced, raw. “I-”

You stopped short, staring at him, your chest heaving.

The anger burning in your veins was the only thing keeping the tears at bay. “You froze?” you repeated, incredulous. “That’s your excuse?”

He pressed a hand to his face, dragging it down in frustration.

His coat shifted with the motion, revealing the slightly wrinkled fabric beneath, proof of how tightly he’d been gripping his knees under the table earlier. “I didn’t know what to do,” he said, his voice low, shaking.

Your laugh was hollow, bitter, as you took another step closer. The train of your gown caught on the edge of a chair, but you yanked it free without breaking stride. “You didn’t know what to do?” you spat. “You could’ve told him to stop. You could’ve said, ‘She is mine, and you will not speak to her that way.’ You could’ve done something, Max. Anything.”

His hands reached out instinctively, but you recoiled, stepping back so sharply your gown swished around your ankles. His face crumpled as his arms fell back to his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the dying fire in the hearth.

“Sorry?” you repeated, your voice trembling now, raw and unsteady. “You think that’s enough? You think ‘sorry’ is going to erase the fact that you left me there, alone, while he tore me apart?”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t,” you snapped, holding up a trembling hand to stop him. “Don’t you dare make excuses. You didn’t stop him because you’re afraid of him. Admit it, Max. You’re afraid.”

He didn’t deny it. His gaze dropped to the floor, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Your voice cracked as you took a step back, your arms wrapping around yourself as though you could hold the shattered pieces of your heart together.

“Promise me,” you said softly, each word trembling. “Promise me you won’t let him do that to me again.”

Max’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, pleading. “I…”

“Promise me,” you repeated, louder this time, your desperation cutting through the air like a blade.

“I-” His voice broke. He reached for you again, but this time you swatted his hand away, your tears blurring the edges of his face. “I can’t,” he whispered, the words breaking you more than anything else.

The breath left your lungs in a sharp, painful exhale. You staggered back, your gaze searching his face for some shred of hope, but all you found was his shame.

“Then don’t you dare call me your love anymore,” you said, your voice trembling, a single tear slipping down your cheek. “Don’t you dare.”

He froze, his hand still half-extended toward you. His lips parted, but no sound came.

Without another word, you turned sharply on your heel, the fabric of your gown rustling like thunder in the silence.

Max’s voice broke behind you, a desperate plea you couldn’t bear to hear.

“Please..”

“Don’t,” you said, your voice breaking. “Don’t follow me, Max.”

His face crumpled as you walked away, the echo of your heels fading into the dark corners of the hall.

—-

The days following the dinner were marked by an aching, suffocating silence.

You didn’t speak to Max. Didn't even look at him.

Not because you didn’t cross paths, but because you couldn’t. The words caught in your throat every time you tried, tangled up in a way you just couldn’t seem to untangle.

It felt too raw, too heavy.

His silence that night, the way he’d just sat there while his father shredded you down to nothing, still stung like an open wound. It was the kind of pain that didn’t just hurt in the moment. It lingered, nestled in your chest, weighing you down in ways you hadn’t expected.

And Max didn’t push.

He didn’t try to force his way into your grief, didn’t demand your forgiveness or plead for you to move past it.

If anything, he seemed determined to let you set the pace, to give you whatever space you needed even if it meant keeping himself at arm’s length.

You still crossed paths, of course. There was no avoiding it entirely.

You still went on your daily walks through the gardens, wandering paths lined with neatly trimmed hedges and blooming flowers.

You still spent time in the library, the two of you occupying the same space while surrounded by the soft rustle of pages and the faint scent of old parchment.

But now the silence between you was no longer comforting. It wasn’t the easy, companionable quiet you’d once cherished, the kind that felt like the two of you could sit together without the need for constant words.

Sometimes, when you were sitting together, you caught him out of the corner of your eye.

Watching you, his face drawn and tired, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name. Regret, maybe. Or guilt. Or some terrible mix of both.

And sometimes, when you walked side by side in the garden, you’d see his hand twitch, as though he were reaching out for yours instinctively.

It was a habit of his, something he’d always done without thinking. A casual, familiar gesture that had once brought you comfort.

But now, when his fingers brushed the air between you, he’d stop short. You’d watch as his hand clenched into a fist at his side, as though he were physically restraining himself.

There was nothing casual about it anymore. No thoughtless familiarity, no ease.

It wasn’t as though he wasn’t trying.

You could see it in the small, hesitant ways he tried to bridge the distance between you—the way he lingered in the same room longer than he needed to, the way his eyes softened whenever they met yours, as though silently asking if it was safe to come closer.

But you weren’t ready. Not yet.

Every time he looked at you like that, every time you caught the faintest trace of hope in his expression, the memory of that night came rushing back like a tidal wave.

So you stayed quiet, kept your distance even as you occupied the same spaces.

And Max didn’t say anything, didn’t press or push.

He just stayed there, hovering at the edges of your life like a shadow, silent and waiting. Waiting for you to decide if there was anything left to salvage.

—

“You should just talk to him,” Lily said softly, breaking the silence as she poured tea into the delicate china cup in front of you.

You looked up sharply, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “And why, exactly, should I?”

Lily didn’t look at you right away. She finished pouring, carefully setting the teapot down. “Because you look like you’re holding your breath every time he’s near you.”

Your frown deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She raised an eyebrow, her gaze steady. “It means you’re walking around like this thing between you is strangling you. Like it’s taken up every inch of space in your chest and there’s no room left for air.”

You felt your cheeks flush, the sting of her observation cutting sharper than you wanted to admit.

You glanced down at the steam rising from your tea, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t see why I should be the one to talk to him. He’s the one who...” You trailed off, your throat tightening, the memory of that night still raw and aching.

“I’m not saying you need to forgive him. You don’t have to. Not now, not ever, if that’s what you decide. But this silence? It’s not helping either of you. Maybe it’s time to say something. For your sake, if nothing else.”

You hesitated, your fingers brushing over the rim of your cup as you avoided her gaze. “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” you admitted, your voice trembling with the weight of the truth.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she said, her tone patient, gentle. “It doesn’t have to fix everything. But maybe it’s worth letting him know how you feel. Letting yourself breathe again.”

You shook your head, the familiar swell of anger and hurt rising in your chest. “Why should I be the one to fix this? He’s the one who stood there and let his father humiliate me. He didn’t say a word, Lily. Not one word.”

Her face softened with something like understanding, and for a moment, she didn’t respond. Then she said quietly, “I know. And you’re right. He should have spoken up. He should have done more. But...” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Have you seen him lately?”

Your brows furrowed as you finally looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he looks awful,” Lily said bluntly. “Like he hasn’t slept in days. He’s walking around with this... this look on his face, like he’s dragging the weight of the world behind him. It’s... it’s hard to watch, honestly.”

You frowned, your heart twisting at the image her words conjured. Max, hollow-eyed and exhausted, carrying his guilt like a shroud. It wasn’t what you’d wanted. You hadn’t wanted to break him. You just wanted him to understand how much he’d hurt you.

Lily tilted her head, studying you. “I’m not saying you owe him anything. You don’t. But maybe... maybe talking to him wouldn’t just be for his sake. Maybe it would help you too.”

The ache in your chest deepened, a knot of emotions too tangled to unravel.

You weren’t sure if you were ready.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever be ready.

You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I’ll think about it,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lily gave you a small, encouraging smile. “That’s all I’m saying. Just think about it.”

—

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, just forgive him already, my lady,” Lando groaned dramatically, his boots scuffing the floor as he limped into the hall with a hand pressed to his ribs and the most pitiful expression you’d ever seen.

You blinked, startled, your gaze darting between his grimace and the faint scrape of steel from outside the window. “Forgive him? What are you talking about?”

Lando paused just long enough to throw you a deeply offended look before collapsing onto a nearby chair as if the journey from the training yard to the hall had nearly killed him. “What am I talking about? Oh, only the fact that your fiancé is trying to murder me. That’s all.”

Your brow furrowed as you glanced at Oscar, who had followed Lando inside.

The knight stood by the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, his expression calm but tinged with faint amusement.

“What happened?” you asked, turning back to Lando, who was now slumped over the arm of the chair like a man on his deathbed.

“What happened? He happened!” Lando shot upright, jabbing a finger toward the courtyard. “Your darling betrothed has gone completely mad. I swear, he’s been possessed by some spirit of vengeance. He’s brutal- relentless! My body wasn’t built for this kind of abuse, my lady. I’m delicate.”

Oscar snorted, shaking his head. “Delicate isn’t the word I’d use.”

Lando’s mouth dropped open, scandalized. “Excuse me? This is coming from the man who sat back and watched me get beaten within an inch of my life?”

He turned to you, eyes wide and beseeching. “Do you see what I’m dealing with? First, your fiancé tries to cut me in half, and now your knight mocks my pain. I’m surrounded by cruelty!”

You fought back a smile, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

“Exaggerating?” Lando looked positively aghast, clutching his chest as though you’d stabbed him. “You think I’m exaggerating? He disarmed me within minutes, then made me pick up the sword and do it all over again- six times! At one point, I was fairly certain I’d lost the ability to breathe. Do you know what he said to me? ‘You’re improving.’ Improving! My ribs say otherwise!”

Oscar’s lips twitched, though he didn’t quite smile. “You’re still standing, aren’t you?”

“Barely,” Lando huffed. He stood gingerly, clutching his back as though the act of rising from the chair had aged him twenty years. “I’ll have you know I’m going straight to the healer. And after that, I’m taking the longest bath of my life. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the tub, rethinking every decision that led me to this moment.”

With that, he hobbled toward the stairs, muttering under his breath about sadists and swordsmen who didn’t know the meaning of mercy.

You turned back to Oscar, who had remained silent through most of Lando’s theatrics. He was still standing by the door, his gaze distant now, fixed somewhere beyond the frost-covered window panes.

“He’s still out there, you know,” he said finally, his tone dry.

“What?”

Oscar tilted his head toward the courtyard. “Your fiancé. He hasn’t stopped. He’s still training.”

You moved closer to the window, peering out into the dusky evening. Sure enough, there he was, a dark figure against the pale, frostbitten ground.

His sword moved in deliberate, measured arcs, each swing cutting through the biting wind like it was nothing. His breath hung in the air in sharp clouds, but he didn’t falter.

“Why?” you murmured, your brow furrowing as you turned to Oscar. “It’s freezing out there.”

Oscar’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes. “He’s not the type to stop. Cold doesn’t bother him, not when he’s like this.”

“Like what?”

Oscar hesitated, his usual bluntness faltering for just a moment. “Like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts.”

You glanced back at your fiancé, your chest tightening as you watched him swing the sword again and again, each movement precise and controlled, like he was fighting an invisible enemy.

Oscar shifted, his voice quieter now. “Look, my lady... I’m not going to tell you what to do. It’s not my place to ask for forgiveness on his behalf. That’s something he’ll have to earn himself.”

You turned to him, surprised by the sudden change in his tone.

Gone was the sharp, pragmatic knight you knew. In his place was something softer, almost hesitant.

“But,” he continued, meeting your gaze, “as a man, I am asking you to give him a chance. Not because he deserves it. But because I’ve seen men like him before. Men who don’t know how to say what they mean.”

His words settled heavily between you, the quiet crackle of the fire the only sound in the room.

“I’m not saying he’s perfect,” Oscar added, his voice even softer now. “But I think he’s trying. And sometimes, that’s worth something.”

—

The snow fell in sheets, each flake biting at Max’s skin like shards of ice. It blanketed the courtyard, piling high in thick drifts that glowed faintly under the dull gray of the moon.

The wind howled, tearing through the frozen night, cutting past the thin fabric of his sweat-soaked tunic and carving into his flesh like jagged teeth.

Max’s breath rose in ragged bursts, visible in the frigid air, each exhale trembling with effort. His hands, stiff and raw, clutched the hilt of his sword with a grip so tight his knuckles felt as though they might split.

The steel was freezing, an unyielding weight that seemed to fuse with his palm. His fingers, reddened and cracked, struggled to keep hold, but he didn’t dare let go.

He swung again. The blade hissed through the icy air before colliding with the splintered wood of the practice post.

The impact sent a jolt up his arms, rattling his shoulders, his teeth.

Pain flared in his joints, spreading through his already screaming muscles, but he ignored it. His body ached, his knuckles bled, but it still wasn’t enough. It never was.

Snow clung to his damp hair, melting into icy rivulets that dripped down his temples, his neck. He hadn’t bothered with gloves. Or a cloak.

The cold was a blessing. A punishment. It numbed the ache of his hands, the burn in his shoulders, and dulled the deeper pain lodged in his chest.

The wind picked up, sharp and merciless, whipping across his exposed skin.

He welcomed it, leaning into the sting as though the air might tear him apart, cleanse him of the memories gnawing at his mind. He swung again, harder this time, the motion wild, unbalanced.

The blade struck the post with a sickening crack, splinters flying as the impact jarred his entire body.

He stumbled, breath hitching as exhaustion clawed at him. His arms felt like lead, his legs trembling under the weight of his own battered frame.

Every inch of him throbbed, the dull, relentless pain seeping into his bones. His body, older than it should have been at twenty-three, protested with every movement.

His hands were aged before their time, the calluses and scars a map of years spent holding a sword when he should have been a boy.

Still, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. If he stopped, the silence would creep in. If he stopped, the memories would return.

He pivoted, his breath a broken rasp as he swung again. The sword felt heavier with every motion, its hilt biting into the tender, split skin of his palm.

The wind roared, scattering snow into his eyes, but he barely blinked. His focus was razor-sharp, pinned on the shattered remains of the post as though destroying it might somehow quiet the storm inside him.

But it didn’t.

The memories came anyway, vicious and unrelenting.

Nine years old. Kneeling on frozen stone, the cold seeping through his skin as he counted the seconds between lashes. The whip cracked, the sound sharp and unforgiving, and his father’s voice followed, low and calm.

“Hold still, boy. A soldier doesn’t flinch. If you move again, we start over.”

He could still feel the sting of the leather against his back, the burn that lingered long after the blows stopped.

He remembered biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, his small body shaking with the effort to stay still. He hadn’t cried, not until his father had left the room, the echo of the slammed door ringing in his ears.

Fourteen. Standing rigid as Jos’s words sliced into him, sharper than any blade. “You’ll never be a man. You’ll never be strong enough. If you can’t endure this, how do you expect to survive out there?”

Max swung again, the blade whistling through the freezing air, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

His vision swam, his balance faltering as his strength began to wane, but he refused to stop. He couldn’t stop.

Because if he did, he’d hear his father’s voice again. He’d see your face.

The memory hit him like a blow, the sound of your voice echoing in his mind. Raw. Shattered. The way you’d looked at him.

Wide-eyed. Disbelieving. Like you didn’t know who he was anymore.

The sword slipped from his hands, falling to the snow with a muted thud. His chest heaved, his lungs burning as he struggled to catch his breath. He stood there, trembling, the snow swirling around him in a blinding haze.

The frost clung to his lashes, melting into cold trails that streaked down his cheeks.

He clenched his fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as a fresh wave of pain rippled through him. He welcomed it, needed it, but it still wasn’t enough.

The memory of your face refused to leave him.

You’d been standing in the hall, your gaze darting between him and Jos as though you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Max could still hear the venom in his father’s voice, the cruel, cutting words that had torn into you like claws.

And he’d done nothing.

He’d stood there, frozen, his body locked in place as his father’s fury spilled out. He’d wanted to move, wanted to speak, to defend you, but he hadn’t.

Because when Jos turned his gaze on him, sharp and filled with that same disgust Max had seen since he was a boy, all his courage had turned to ash in-

“What are you doing out here?”

Max flinched at the sound of your voice, the syllables cutting through his thoughts.

He didn’t turn to face you, his broad back stiff against the wind. “Training,” he said after a long pause, the word rasping out of him, half-choked with exhaustion.

“Training?” you repeated, stepping closer. The frost crunched beneath your boots, your breath clouding in the cold air. “It’s freezing, Max. You shouldn’t-”

“I know,” he interrupted, his voice low, hollow. His hands moved behind his back, fingers curling into fists as though he could hide them, but even from this distance, you could see the raw, bloody skin.

“Max,” you whispered, horror prickling at the edges of your voice. “Your hands-”

“They’re fine,” he said quickly, his tone sharper than he intended. He winced at himself, sucking in a shaky breath. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point,” you said, stepping closer, the hem of your cloak brushing against the frost-laden grass. “What are you trying to do to yourself? It’s the middle of the night, you’re bleeding, and it’s so cold you can barely breathe.”

“I’m used to it,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the ground as though it could swallow him whole.

“Are you?” you challenged, your voice cutting sharper now.

He didn’t answer, the silence between you heavy and brittle. The moonlight cast a silvery glow over his hunched figure, illuminating the tension coiled in his frame.

You exhaled slowly, your breath visible in the icy air. “You’re going to get sick.”

“I’ll go inside later,” he said, his tone dull, lifeless. “You should go ahead first.”

“Max-”

“I told you,” he said, spinning to face you, his voice raw and fraying at the edges. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw the depths of his anguish.

The shadows, the guilt, the broken pieces he couldn’t seem to hide. “I will settle. As long as I have you in my life, even if you hate me for the rest of it, I’ll settle for that silence. I’ll take it. I’ll endure it.”

Your heart twisted painfully, the cold biting sharper now as the weight of his words fell between you. “So that’s it?” you said, your voice trembling. “You’re not even going to try?”

His shoulders sagged, his breath hitching as he shook his head. “Do I even deserve to?”

Your chest tightened, and you took another step forward, your voice rising with the desperation clawing at your throat. “It’s not about deserving, Max. It’s about trying. About fighting for the people you care about, no matter how hard it is.”

“I’ve grown soft,” he murmured, the words barely audible as he turned away from you. His hands twitched at his sides, trembling as though they carried the weight of his shame. “If I had stood up to him- if I had spoken out- my father would’ve dragged me to the dungeons. I haven’t been there in years, and still… the memory-”

His voice cracked, and he ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands like he wanted to rip the thoughts from his skull.

“Max,” you said, your voice softening despite the anger still simmering in your chest. “What are you talking about?”

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he fought to keep his composure. “I was afraid,” he whispered, the admission like a knife slicing through the air. “That’s why I froze. That’s why I didn’t defend you. I was afraid, and I hate myself for it. I hate that I let him humiliate you. I hate that I let you sit there, waiting for me to speak, and I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

Max exhaled. “And I’m sorry. I would let him whip me a thousand times if it meant you’d look at me with softness again.”

The world seemed to stop. Your stomach dropped, your blood turning to ice. “What?” you whispered, the word barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “What do you mean, whip you?”

Max’s silence was unbearable, the way his head bowed under the weight of his words. It was as if speaking them had drained the fight from him. But then, slowly, he sank to his knees before you, his hands trembling as they moved to rest in his lap.

“Do it,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice raw with desperation. “If it will make you forgive me- if it will make things right- hurt me. However you like. I deserve it.” His head hung low, his body tense, as though bracing for some cruel blow. “I betrayed you. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but if pain is what it takes-”

“Stop,” you said, your voice sharp, horrified. The sight of him kneeling before you, offering himself up like some sacrificial lamb, sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you. “Max, get up. Please.”

He didn’t move. If anything, he seemed to fold further into himself, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. “I can take it,” he insisted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve taken worse. I’ll take it for you.”

“No,” you choked out, the word trembling on your lips. You crouched before him, your hands hovering uselessly in the air, unsure whether to reach for him or pull away. “Max, this isn’t- this isn’t how this works. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He flinched, as if your words themselves were a blow. “But I hurt you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I stood there and let him- let him say those things to you, and I did nothing. I froze. And now I’m here, training, trying to- trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again. But it’s not enough, is it?” He raised his head then, his eyes wet, his expression pleading. “So tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix it. Tell me how to be better.”

Your throat tightened, a lump rising that you couldn’t swallow down. “Max,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “This… this isn’t the answer. You don’t have to punish yourself to be forgiven. You don’t have to prove your worth to me like this.”

He blinked, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and anguish. “Then what do I do?” he whispered. “I don’t know how else to-”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you interrupted, your voice firm despite the tears stinging your eyes. “You’re not your father. You don’t have to fight like he did. And you don’t have to hurt like this- not to earn love, not to earn forgiveness.”

For a moment, Max simply stared at you, his lips parted, as if your words were a foreign language he couldn’t quite comprehend.

Slowly, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek. His breath hitched, and he froze beneath your touch, like he didn’t believe it was real.

“You deserve kindness, Max,” you said, your voice breaking on the last word. “Even from yourself.”

His shoulders shook, his head dropping forward until his forehead rested against your hand

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he let himself cry.

—

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[orphicsun]

Ellie Williams fucking you post-patrol (c/w: 18+ content, missionary, strap-on sex with jackson ellie)

Still in that old, grey hoodie of hers, tiny frayed holes along the lined hem. She is completely naked from the waist down, save for the strap she pounds into your pussy, her hips grinding against yours from above, her lanky sides hugged tight by the softness of your thighs; you always love wrapping your legs around her while she fucks you senseless.

"Ellie," you gasp her name, and your tone is contradictory in itself. She can't pull it apart even if held at gunpoint demanded to. Everything is happening so fast, and all she knows is that you said her name. Was it a warning that you were close, an exclamation, a plea for more?

But then you grasp at the ratty fabric of her hoodie, at her shoulder. You pull her down against you and bury your face into her shoulder, and she melts. Her thrusts can't keep up with you, growing sloppier and more like pathetic, greedy grinds into your hole than deep strokes. It's embarrassing how Ellie, your girlfriend who is supposed to be the one making you cum, is about to soak the both of you because of one cute action.

When she regains control over her lust-driven mind, you feel the silicone glide into you in a deep, slow pace. It sends you into more of a frenzy than if she were simply jackhammering into your cunt. No, she takes the time to make you feel the print of her dick slide and press into your sensitive insides. You try to hold in your soft whines and gasps, and it's a bit easier when you've got all sound muffled into her hoodie. Strategy.

Ellie drives you crazy without even knowing, though. You inhale through your nose, and all you can smell is Ellie's last patrol—the earthy compound of tree bark and dirt or soil, probably the former. There is the slight note of old cologne she put on this morning or last night, and it makes you dizzy in the head. But behind it all, when you take a deeper sniff, you can smell just Ellie. Her flesh, her sweat. It clings to her. You almost forget the moment, just getting lost in the comfort. You don't realize how close she brings you until she snaps you out of your daydreaming.

"Are you gonna stop sniffin' me and tell me how good I'm fucking this pretty pussy?" Ellie questioning teasingly. It makes your pussy wetter, not only because of her words, but because they’re strained and come out in an awkward, low cadence you’ve grown familiar with. Ellie is a loser at heart, even when she is deep inside you. It’s your weakness and she knows it, but can’t bring herself to use it against you because her own face reddens at the way her words jumble from her mouth. You know she means them.

Your answer is a half-moan, half blabber of incoherent words. She thrusts into you so hard it knocks your head back into place.

"Y-Yeah...fucking me so good..please don't stop, gonna cum for you, Els." You ramble on, one of your clammy hands trailing underneath her hoodie to grope at her tits. Ellie has something equivalent to mosquito bites which make them so easy to hold and roll in your hands until her rose-tinted nipples rise. Above you, Ellie's face scrunches up as she tries not to lose her rhythm again. It doesn't matter, though. You're too far, about to cum and coat the plastic she spoils you with after each and every assignment she is handed.

Ellie lets herself completely lay on top of you, her warm overbearing in the best way imaginable. Every inch of her moves as her hips do most of the work, and she lets out a little sigh of relief when you finally tense up and your legs shake against her sides.

Your orgasm is followed by only the confectionate feeling of love. She holds you tight in something reminiscent to a bear hug, her arms wrapped tightly around your body. Ellie isn't typically the sweetheart, rather the sardonic talk of Jackson wrapped up in a freckled package. But here in bed with you, she smothers your face with wet kisses and squeezes you like you can't possibly belong anywhere but here.

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[heartfullofleeches]

Dentist Reader figures out Sucrose [Taffy Candy Yan] isn't a human fairly quickly, but they're such a grumpy ass-hat compared to the charitable, kind hearted candy shop owner everyone pretty much ignores them except for when they need their teeth taken care of.

-

Dentist Reader: Try to feed me one more piece of candy and I will punch you in the nose.

Sucrose: [giggles] Aww, don't be scared, Gumdrop! All it takes is one small bite and you'll-

[Dentist Reader slams their fist into the confectioner's face - their sense of self justice short lifed as a strangely sweet smell wafts from the blood coating their knuckles.]

Dentist Reader: What the- Is this....Cherry syrup?? What the hell are you?!

Sucrose, panting heavily as they wipe the blood pouring from their nose: Gumdrop- You're such a brute! <3 I was planning on keeping my little secret until we got married - I guess there's no hiding anything from you! My, you got me all riled up with that punch- Take me now, you beast!

-

Dentist Reader: You can't seriously still think this monster is human... His skin is bright pink for Christ sake!

Sucrose, drying fake tears from their eyes: It's a skin condition. :⁠'⁠(

[The townspeople glare angrily at Reader as Sucrose hides his face in his apron, weeping]

[ira-hydrangea]

Twisted Sugar Realm

One fateful night, a mysterious comet of crystallized sugar streaked across the sky and crash into the forgotten land of Cookie kingdom. The crash created a strange new realm , now known as the Twisted Sugar Realm—a land where magic and sugar intertwine in dangerous ways.

Amidst the chaos, a Cookie born to balance it out. The Chosen Cookie, Y/N Cookie. Unlike ordinary Cookies, this cookie possesses a unique core of pure, ancient magic that holds the key to restoring balance. With their power, a balance soon found itself in Twisted Sugar Realm.

To help keep the balance, they appointed 7 Leaders Cookie and bestow them, the crystal shards. In return, this 7 Leader Cookies also pledge their loyalty to Chosen Cookie, swore to always protect them from the evil of all of this Cookie Land.

As the Twisted Sugar Realm formed, the magic of shards help reshaped the land giving each of the Leader Cookies authority to rules over their respective territory.

Crimson Tartland {The Kingdom of Order & Roses}

A kingdom where strict rules shape every layer of its golden crust. Once a land of warmth and harmony under the Sweetheart Queen, it is now governed by the Crimson Judge, who enforces absolute order. The land is shaped like a massive gingerbread castle garden, with candy-cane hedges, tart-filled fountains, and chessboard-patterned roads made of caramelized sugar.

Here, perfection is law, and those who dare disobey risk sugar petrification, becoming nothing more than lifeless cookie statues. The kingdom’s towering tart walls, caramel rivers of discipline, and the Crimson Court of Judgment reflect its ruler’s unyielding will.

Cinnamon Dune {The Kingdom of Spiced Winds}

Cinnamon Dune is a land of endless golden sands and sweet, spiced winds. Ruled by the Caramel Mirage King. This desert kingdom is lush with treasure and magic but the desert’s harsh landscape offers little mercy to those who seek to exploit it, where shimmering mirages confuse travelers and masked secrets lie buried beneath the dunes. The land is also steeped in cinnamon curses, and only those who understand the desert’s rhythm can survive its sweet, yet dangerous charm.

Molasses Abyss {The Kingdom of Sweet Shadows}

Hidden deep within the Twisted Sugar Realm, the Molasses Abyss is a dark and mysterious kingdom ruled by the Abyssal Confectioner. A sugary ocean of unknown depths, filled with secrets and syrupy contracts. The ocean is no longer water, but a dark, swirling mass of molten molasses and caramel waves, constantly shifting. This land is consumed by thick, dark molasses seas, where sweet contracts bind its inhabitants and where every deal comes with a price.

Gilded Sugar Oasis {The Kingdom of Sweet Serenity}

Gilded Sugar Oasis is a vibrant kingdom ruled by the cheerful and extravagant Sultan of Spiced Honey. This land is an oasis of golden honey rivers, saffron deserts, and lush palm trees that thrive under the warm, never-setting sun. A never-ending festival takes place here, with sugar-coated fireworks, golden candy pavilions, and a bustling dessert market. The rivers flow with liquid honey and sweet saffron syrup, with bridges made of almond brittle.

Beneath the radiant skies, the Gilded Sugar Oasis flourishes, offering endless riches and warmth, but with a touch of danger—for not all sweetness comes without a cost.

Crystalized Belle {The Kingdom of Shattered Beauty}

Crystallized Belle is a kingdom of breathtaking beauty and fragile perfection, ruled by the Sugarglass Monarch. The land is a stunning realm of sparkling sugarglass palaces and glimmering crystal flowers, where every corner reflects the pursuit of flawlessness. beauty is both power and prison, where imperfections are swiftly corrected, and those who fail to meet the highest standards risk being shattered into decorative pieces.

In Crystallized Belle, only the most refined and beautiful can thrive, but one wrong step could lead to a fall from grace, forever trapped in sugarglass.

Candied Circuit {The Kingdom of Sweet Innovation}

Candied Circuit is a kingdom where technology and candy collide, ruled by the enigmatic and tech-savvy, the Candied Phantom. This land is a mysterious blend of glowing neon candy wires, sugary circuitry, and futuristic confectionary factories, where everything is powered by candy magic and high-tech sweets. In Candied Circuit, the future of sweets and tech intertwines, but beneath the glowing surface, there are whispers of experiments gone wrong and sugary creations that have turned into dangerous, sentient beings.

Eclipsed Sugar Hollow {The Kingdom of Eclipse Magic}

Eclipsed Sugar Hollow is a mystical kingdom bathed in eternal twilight, ruled by the enigmatic Midnight Ice Sovereign. This realm exists in a perpetual moonlit glow, where macaron towers rise from dark chocolate rivers, and silvery sugar leaves flutter under the cool night air.

The kingdom’s magic is tied to the eclipsed moon, imbuing its people and landscape with dark enchantments and lunar energy. In Eclipsed Sugar Hollow, the lines between reality and dream blur, as illusions of sweet serenity hide hidden dangers. The land thrives on moonlit macaron magic, but the secrets of its power are as elusive as the changing phases of the moon itself.

The Sugarveil Haven {The Kingdom of Sweet Secrets}

The Sugarveil Haven is a land cloaked in mysterious sweetness, ruled by Y/N Cookie, the Sweet Mystery Keeper and also known as Chosen Cookie. Nestled in the heart of the Twisted Sugar Realm, this kingdom is enveloped in a constant, gentle sugar mist that gives the land an otherworldly glow. The veil of sugar hides the kingdom’s hidden wonders, where magical pastries and unseen treats linger just beyond reach, waiting to be discovered.

The kingdom is known for its whimsical charm and enchanting serenity, where the sweet aromas of sugar veil the truth behind its seemingly perfect facade. Secrets are woven into the very fabric of the realm, and only those with a true understanding of its mystical nature can uncover its hidden treasures.

In Sugarveil Haven, Y/N Cookie wisdom and quiet power guide the kingdom, balancing the delicate line between curiosity and danger, as the fog of mystery whispers of a hidden sweetness that could either be the key to the kingdom's future—or its undoing.

In the Cookie Run Kingdom, The Gingerbrave Gang and the Ancients have learned a tale of a Chosen Cookie, a special cookie whose powers could either save or destroy the entire Cookie world. This Chosen Cookie are maybe the key to restoring balance to the realms and unlocking a hidden power that can undo the damage caused by Dark Enchantress Cookie's spreading influence. With hope that this power can help them to defeat Dark Enchantress Cookie, the gang and the ancient decide to journey into the Twisted Sugar Realm and find this Chosen Cookie.

But what is the meaning of the journey if it not without trials?

[wandascosmic]

Could you write just a cute fic where Wanda and reader do a bunch of autumn season activities. Like Wanda loves to bake so she makes some halloween themed desserts with the help of reader (who in reality just makes a mess and eats all the ingredients).

Wanda would also probably be the type to just want to take a walk because she likes seeing the trees that change color, and of course reader wouldn’t listen when Wanda told her to dress warm so Wanda sacrifices her scarf or hat or both for her to wear instead.

Then for halloween all the avengers could dress up in costumes to hand out candy to the kids, and reader would convince Wanda to do a couples costume.

autumn appreciation (request)

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: in which you and your girlfriend make the most of the wonderful autumn season.

word count: 965

tags: unedited, fluff, domesticity, idiots baking together, our favorite couple going for a walk, couples costume!!!, kids trick or treating at the avengers compound, we love halloween so much

“Hey, Nat, have you seen Wanda?” you ask the assassin in the compound. 

Nat shrugs. “I’m pretty sure she’s making ghost cookies, pumpkin cookies, and a witch-shaped cake on a broom. Which is odd because couldn’t she just make a self-portrait–”

“Got it, thanks Nat!” you cut her off, running in the direction of your girlfriend. 

Stopping in the kitchen, you grin at the sight before you. Wanda was in deep focus, mixing a bunch of cake batter in various bowls, trying her best to bake to perfection. However, she was covered in flour, food coloring, and every baking ingredient you could think of had somehow stained her apron. 

“Witchy,” you greet, walking over towards her. 

“Y/N!” Wanda’s eyes light up before you as she makes her way over, giving you a tight hug before you could protest. 

“Wands,” you say, as Wanda refuses to let go. 

“Hm?” Wanda hums. 

“You’re covered in every baking ingredient in America,” you say, snickering. 

Wanda gasps, immediately letting go and seeing your shirt stained with everything that was on her apron. “I’m so sorry, detka! I’ll go get you a new shirt and change this apron– I didn’t even realize–” 

“Wands, don’t worry,” you cut off. “You’re not really baking if you’re not covered in head to toe in flour and confectioner’s sugar.” 

Wanda grins in response.

“Besides, I came over here to help you, since it looked like fun and I haven’t seen you yet today,” you reassure. 

“Oh!” Wanda says excitedly. “Yes, that would be so much fun. Okay, so I need some help with the ghost cookies since the frosting is a little tricky cause it’s a different kind than the pumpkin ones, so let’s do that!” Wanda grabs your hand and begins to lead you to the kitchen.

You grab a measuring cup and start getting to work per Wanda’s instructions. 

Two hours later, you and Wanda are still hard at work. 

“Detka, I think the kitchen is even messier with you than when I started. And that’s saying something since it looked like a flour bomb had gone off in front of me,” Wanda giggles. 

“Hey, you put me to work, woman,” you say, grabbing a piece of cookie dough and munching on it. 

“And you’ve mostly just eaten our ingredients.” 

“You put candy in front of me, you can’t expect me not to eat it,” you shrug. “Plus, we’re basically almost done now! We’ve just got to put everything in the oven.” You grin. “What do you say to your wonderful girlfriend?” 

“Don’t eat all the marshmallows next time?” Wanda retorts with her arms crossed. 

You give her a look, causing Wanda to finally let her smile shine through. 

“Fine, thank you, I love you,” Wanda gives you a kiss. 

“I love you too, my grumpy Sokovian witch.” 

And by the end of the day, every treat you and Wanda had worked so hard on has been eaten by a member of the compound.

*** “Baby,” Wanda shakes you lightly on the couch as you sleep on top of her chest. 

“Hm?” you hum sleepily. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” Wanda says. 

“Why?” you ask, looking at Wanda confusedly. “We rarely take walks.” 

“That’s why we should start!” Wanda responds. “I want to see the leaves change color, please,” Wanda stretches out the last syllable and gives you a pleading look. 

“Fine,” you agree reluctantly. 

“Thank you!” Wanda says, giving you a kiss. “I’m gonna grab my coat, you grab yours too since it’s cold.”

But, of course, you don’t listen to your incredibly smart girlfriend.  

Two minutes into your walk, in which Wanda’s already gushed about seven yellow trees, eight red trees, and five orange trees, you’re completely freezing, and trying your best to hide your shivers. 

But, of course, Wanda notices. 

And silently, Wanda wraps her scarf around your neck and gives you her hat, pulling you into your arms as you continue your walk down the beautiful trail. 

***

“Wanda, come on, it’ll be fun!” you argue, the morning of Halloween. 

“I don’t know,” Wanda says reluctantly as you show her the peanut butter and jelly costume you had bought for the two of you. Wanda was going to be the jelly, of course. 

“Please, witchy?” you give her your best pleading look to which Wanda’s incapable of saying no to. 

“Fine,” Wanda agrees. “But you owe me,” she says, grabbing the costume and going into the bathroom to change. 

“You got it,” you agree, yelling past the door. 

The kids love yours and Wanda’s costume, every single child who’s rang the doorbell and said trick or treat has pointed out your costume, making Wanda blush every time. 

“Trick or treat!” the last group of kids said in unison as Steve opened the compound door. 

“It’s the Avengers!” one of them remarked. 

“You guys are so cool,” another one said. 

“Hey, you guys are the best couple!” a girl, about five years younger than you pointed at you and Wanda. “I love you guys so much.” 

“Aw, we love you,” you respond, giving her a few extra pieces of candy as well as her friends. 

The kids take a few pictures with a couple of you, and you wave as they leave, “Have a great evening!” you call out.

Closing the door, Steve turns to you all, “I think we’re good for tonight, goodnight everyone,” he says, heading off in the direction of his room. 

You turn to Wanda with a grin. “So, wasn’t the costume worth it?” 

“I look ridiculous,” Wanda retorts. “But, unfortunately, anything for you, detka.” 

“I’ll return the favor next year,” you tell her with a kiss. 

“You better,” Wanda says, wrapping her arms around your waist as you both head off to bed together.

[muiitoloko]

Valentine's Chains

Summary: On a cold Valentine’s night, Judge Turpin’s rigid control is tested when he offers his wife a gift—only to receive one in return that shakes the foundation of his world.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Possessiveness.

Author's Notes: Well, that's the last story about Valentine's Day. I'm definitely out of ideas; I think I've found my writer's block again 😅

Also read on Ao3

The steady clatter of hooves against the cobblestone streets filled the carriage as Judge Turpin sat in rigid silence, his gaze fixed on the world outside. London’s streets, always bustling with merchants and beggars alike, had transformed into something unbearably saccharine on this wretched February evening. Gaslights flickered against the damp air, illuminating shop windows decorated in garish displays of red and pink. Bouquets of roses, tied with ribbons, adorned market stalls, and confectioners peddled their decadent chocolates to lovestruck fools.

Turpin exhaled sharply through his hooked nose, his fingers tightening over his knee, his black leather gloves creaking under the strain.

Valentine’s Day.

A ridiculous affair, a triviality designed for weak men who sought to win affection through frivolities instead of command. The idea that one would need a marked day to express devotion was, in his mind, absurd. If a man were strong, if a man were in control, his love—his possession—should know without the need for flowers or chocolates.

His hazel eyes flickered toward a young couple beneath the glow of a streetlamp. A man, dressed in a modest wool coat, was presenting a velvet box to a blushing woman, her gloved hands trembling as she opened it. A delicate necklace shimmered inside, catching the lamplight. She gasped, overcome with adoration, before throwing her arms around the fool’s neck, her lips pressing to his cheek in earnest gratitude.

Turpin scoffed under his breath, his gloved fingers twitching against his knee. How easily women were won over by baubles. How little it took for them to melt.

And yet…

The thought of you waiting at home, unaware of this nonsense, stirred something uncomfortable inside him. You had been a good wife as of late—submissive, obedient, knowing your place. He had ensured that. But he was not blind. He had seen the way your eyes lingered upon the world outside. You were not foolish enough to act against him, but still—he knew there was a longing within you, a quiet yearning for something outside the walls he had built around you.

A weakness he should punish.

And yet…

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face, irritation curling in his chest. Should he bring you something? Some token to remind you that you belonged to him? That he could give as well as take?

Jewelry would be the simplest answer. A necklace, perhaps, something to adorn your throat—a mark of ownership that gleamed for all to see. Or a bracelet, something delicate, fitting, an unspoken promise wrapped around your wrist.

Flowers, however, seemed pathetic. Temporary. They would wilt and die within days, and he would not waste his time on such fleeting things.

His jaw clenched, his irritation mounting. Why was he even entertaining this? He was not some enamored boy courting a fickle maiden. You were his wife. His possession. Did he not already give you everything? A home. Protection. Stability. He had rescued you from the dangers of the world, kept you safe, kept you his.

And yet…

His fingers drummed against his knee, his hazel eyes narrowing at the sight of a well-dressed gentleman stepping from a shop, a bouquet of white roses cradled in his arms. He walked briskly, determination in his stride, his expression unreadable. There was no weakness in him, no foolishness—only duty. As if the flowers were not a romantic gesture, but an expectation. A necessity.

Turpin’s stomach twisted, though he would not name the feeling. With a sharp motion, he rapped his knuckles against the carriage’s roof. The driver slowed at once, pulling the horses to a halt.

“Wait here,” Turpin muttered, his voice clipped as he stepped out onto the damp cobblestones. The air was thick with the scent of rain and the faint perfume of crushed petals. He straightened his coat, his expression carefully composed as he approached the nearest jeweler’s stall, his eyes scanning the modest selection.

A simple necklace caught his eye—gold, unadorned but elegant. It was not ostentatious, not meant to dazzle, but to claim. A reminder. A chain, if one were so inclined to view it that way.

Turpin ran a gloved finger along its length, testing its weight. Satisfactory.

“Wrap it,” he ordered, tossing a few coins onto the merchant’s counter, ignoring the man’s startled gratitude as he took the small, velvet-lined box and turned back toward his carriage.

He sat once more, staring down at the box in his palm, his thumb running over its edges.

Why did this feel like a mistake?

Why did he feel as though he had conceded something?

With a quiet exhale, he tucked the box into his coat pocket, his expression hardening. He would give it to you. Not as some foolish declaration, not as some boyish display of affection, but as a reminder.

You were his and that was all the sentiment needed.

The dining room was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the flickering flames casting long shadows along the polished mahogany table. The silverware gleamed, and the scent of roasted lamb and spiced potatoes lingered in the air. Turpin sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid as ever, his knife and fork cutting methodically through his meal.

He had not looked at you once.

The small velvet box lay beside your plate, untouched for the first few minutes of dinner. No ceremony, no grand gesture—just a quiet, almost dismissive placement, as though it were no more significant than the salt shaker beside it. He had not acknowledged it beyond that. Not asked if you liked it. Not glanced up to gauge your reaction.

But you let your reaction be known.

Pushing your chair back with deliberate grace, you rose from your seat, the silk of your dress rustling softly as you moved. Turpin did not pause in his meal, nor did he lift his gaze, his attention seemingly locked onto the food before him.

You stepped beside him, leaning down, pressing your lips gently against his cheek. “Thank you, my lord,” you murmured, your voice warm, sincere. “It is beautiful.”

That should not have pleased him.

He had not done this for your happiness. He had done this to remind you of your place, of his claim over you. And yet, as your lips brushed against his skin, as your voice curled around those words, something unfamiliar and unsettling stirred in his chest.

He did not respond. Did not move. His jaw merely tightened, his grip on his fork briefly stiffening before he resumed eating, as though your touch had not sent a foreign warmth through him.

You stepped back, your smile lingering. But then, as you returned to your seat, you spoke again.

“I have a gift for you as well.”

The knife in Turpin’s hand stilled against his plate. His head snapped up, hazel eyes darkening instantly as suspicion flared in his gaze.

A gift?

His mind churned. You had not left the house—surely not. He would have known, would have been informed. And yet, the mere idea of it sent a slow, simmering anger curling through him.

Before he could demand an explanation, you reached across the table, taking his hand in yours.

Turpin tensed.

You guided his palm, pressing it—gently, firmly—against the soft curve of your stomach.

He blinked.

At first, there was no understanding. Just confusion, his mind working through the gesture with mechanical precision. And then, slowly, the realization settled over him like a heavy fog.

A baby.

His heir.

His fingers flexed instinctively against your stomach, feeling the warmth of you, the delicate hint of the life growing beneath his palm. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Turpin was speechless.

You watched him carefully, a soft, knowing smile curving your lips. “You will be a father, my lord,” you whispered, your fingers squeezing his hand lightly. “We will have a child.”

Turpin’s breath was slow, measured.

He should not care for this.

He should not be overcome by this moment, by this… fragile thing you had given him.

And yet…

His eyes flickered downward, to where his hand remained against your stomach. The thought of his bloodline continuing, of an heir—his heir—growing within you, stirred something deep, something possessive, something almost reverent.

His fingers tightened slightly—not in anger, but in something else, something unfamiliar.

“You are certain?” he asked at last, his voice low, edged with something unreadable.

You nodded, your expression soft, unwavering. “I am.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy, thick with the weight of something neither of you had expected.

Then, after a long moment, Richard Turpin did something he had never done before. His hand, still pressed against your stomach, lingered.

His thumb traced the fabric of your dress in the lightest of motions—so faint, so fleeting, that had you not been watching him so closely, you might have thought you imagined it.

But you had not.

Turpin inhaled slowly, deeply, as though grounding himself, as though steadying something within him and then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the moment ended.

He pulled his hand away, retreating back into himself, his expression hardening once more. But his eyes—his eyes still lingered on your stomach, as though some part of him had not yet let go.

“Finish your meal,” he ordered, his voice as firm as ever, though quieter this time. “You are eating for two now.”

And though his gaze had returned to his plate, his mind remained elsewhere.

And for the first time in his life, Richard Turpin felt something dangerously close to contentment.

A baby.

[emeraldrush]

Reading Sunrise On The Reaping and learning about Louella, Maysilee, Wyatt, Ampert, and overall Haymitch's games made me so confused.

Why I couldn't remember he teaming up with a young girl? Katniss had to mention it in Catching Fire while they were watching his games, right? Tributes from 12 always teaming up with 11?

It was like Mandala effect, my brain trying to correct my memories, I even made up some dialogues (yes, I remember Katniss saying something like: "I see Haymitch carrying a little girl's dead body, hopeless, just like I was next to Rue. He couldn't save her either, so he just held her until she left this world").

And then I read the final chapters, and Haymitch explained how the Capitol and Snow (probably even Plutarch) controlled the narrative. They told a very different story from what actually happened, blatantly lying and leaving out crucial details, like the New Comers, Ampert being Beetee's son, Mags and Wiress involvement in the Games as District 12's mentors, the whole rebel plan and then everything made perfect sense!

We know all we know about the other 73 Hunger Games thanks to Katniss' knowledge, and she obtained said knowledge by just watching what the Capitol, what Snow, wanted her to watch. And then that made me wonder:

HOW MANY OTHER STORIES THEY MANIPULATED, CONFECTIONATED FOR THEIR OWN POLITICAL AGENDA? Annie's? Finnick's? Johanna's? Cashmere's? They were just kids, how many rebel plans they frustrated? What was their truth?

Suzanne did a brilliant job showing how media controls the narrative and make it look effortless, how we, in this time and age, are fed by this gigantic corporative monster who gives us exactly what we need to know in order to adopt an ideal mindset that allows them to control the whole fucked up system.

And idk, maybe it's the sleep depravation but I think she is the actual mastermind and we should all TALK ABOUT IT.

[elvensorceress]

tuesday teases

Haven’t been around in a million years but the show baited me with delicious Eddie angst. So. Hello lovely little gay people in my phone. Would you like some Tuesday fic teases?

@tizniz @hippolotamus @chaosandwolves @inell @smilingbuckley @spotsandsocks @daffi-990 @exhuastedpigeon @blutterlie @thelikesofus @ronordmann @dr-shortsighted-owl @lovecolibri @eddiebabygirldiaz @fiona-fififi @thekristen999

Here’s the ridiculous boys after the realtor phone call meeting…

“She probably wasn’t thinking anything one way or the other. She’s just focused on her job and finding us— me. Me, technically. A house.”

No. Not just Eddie. Their house. It would be theirs. Even if Buck isn’t there. Even if he never steps one foot into it. Eddie’s home is still Buck’s home. That won’t change. Ever.

But he can’t say that. How does he say that?

He gets up from the couch and grabs his empty mug. “You still want to make snickerdoodles? Or some other cookie? Or, what did you call it? Cake masquerading as loaf bread?” Eddie doesn’t wait for an answer. He goes into the kitchen and gets out the stash of flour he’s recently acquired.

He stocked up. Just in case. Can’t have the alternative of Buck without his baking.

Eddie sets one of the ten pound bags on the counter then grabs a pack of butter and the carton of eggs from the fridge and finds the measuring cups and spoons in their drawer. The basket Buck made years ago during quarantine is next. It holds the vanilla, the baking powder and soda, various flavored extracts, finishing salt, molasses, packets of instant yeast, chocolate chips, other baking essentials. He takes the jar of cinnamon from the spice rack in the cupboard, goes to put it with everything, but finds Buck staring from the kitchen doorway.

He looks too wistful. Too heartbroken. And all Eddie can offer is a kitchen and ingredients. He doesn’t have anything else.

Was it really that much of a loss? They were only together for six months. Did Buck really want to spend his life with the guy? It couldn’t have been that serious. It never is.

None of the people Buck’s dated are good enough for him.

Maybe Buck isn’t thinking of his ex right now. Maybe he’s thinking about the kid who was like a son to him.

Or the whole Eddie moving to El Paso thing. He seems fine, for the most part. He’s helping. But that’s what Buck does. He helps. He supports. Even when he shouldn’t.

But Buck has bad relationships to get over. He’s not really thinking about Eddie or Eddie’s problems. He’s focusing on a task so that his mind doesn’t wander where it shouldn’t.

Buck would be fine without Eddie. Hell, he’s probably better off. Or he will be.

Eddie asks too much of him. He takes up too much of Buck's time with his issues.

Eddie looks through the little stock pile he’s put together. “Anything else you need?”

Buck looks, stands beside him, and answers, “Sugar?”

Sugar.

Eddie’s stomach twists. It’s not a pet name. It’s an answer. Not a term of endearment. Answer. And of course it slipped Eddie’s mind. Why wouldn’t something that huge and essential be missing from his offering. He should have some though. Buried in the back of the pantry. He finds white, brown, and confectioner’s, and adds them to the supply. “All yours. Whatever you want to make. I’ll run to the store and get more if you need anything. We should have plenty of flour though. I got you five bags.”

Buck’s head snaps toward him. “Five bags? You got me five bags of flour? Like, two pound ones, right? Or the five pounders?”

Eddie shakes his head and gestures. “No, the tens. Like that one.”

“You bought me fifty pounds of flour?”

“Well, you’re the one who decided his coping mechanism was snickerdoodles and sourdough. I’m just being supportive. Since you’re my wingman and I’m yours or whatever you said when you stole my tablet and my realtor call.”

Buck huffs but smirks. “More like saved your call.”

More like saved Eddie’s everything but who’s counting?

[frudoo]

Full Hands Pt. 3

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, fluff <3

Full Hands Masterlist

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Three loud, brash knocks rap on the sturdy wooden door to your apartment. Startled, you nearly drop your freshly baked strawberry pie as you pull it out of the oven, but you’re able to set it onto the counter right before disaster strikes. You wipe the sweat from your forehead and rush across the room to answer the door, smiling when you see a familiar handsome face waiting to be welcomed in.

“Got a little somethin’ on your face there, love,” John chuckles, reaching a gentle hand out to swipe off some flour from your cheek.

With a soft mutter of thanks, you open the door further, allowing him to step inside. The eager man follows you into the kitchen, taking a seat at your small dining table and leaning back to make himself comfortable. Despite it being his first time inside your flat, you rather enjoy the fact that he feels so at home. Immediately, you go back to work, pouring a good amount of heavy cream into a metal bowl you’d been chilling in the fridge. After a thorough sifting of confectioner’s sugar and a few minutes of mixing vigorously, the most delicious, delicate whipped cream is done. You scoop a bit onto your pinky finger to taste it, humming in satisfaction.

“Here, taste,” you instruct John, grabbing a spoon and scooping a bit of the topping onto it.

Before he gets the chance to take the spoon from you, you cup his jaw in your hand and feed him the bite. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, instead giving you a small smile and a nod.

“It’s perfect, darlin’,” he confirms, and as you turn back around proudly, you miss the way his fingertips brush over the line of his jaw where yours just were.

You place the whipped cream into a separate container and seal it up, putting it in the fridge so it’ll stay firm while the pie cools. Untying the strings of your apron, you hang it back up in the pantry and inform John that you’re going to get ready. You get a grunt of acknowledgement in return, making you grin as you trudge into your bedroom.

Three weeks have passed since your first date with John, and quite a few more have taken place. Somehow upon returning from vacation, the kiddos’ parents found out that you’re seeing somebody—you get the feeling that a certain little girl with the runniest mouth known to man had something to do with it. Either way, the parents were excited and invited you and John to come have dinner with them. The kids’ grandparents are visiting and will be taking care of them so that you’ll all have time to chat without having to worry about little hands grabbing at plates.

You slip into a pastel pink sundress with frilly straps that dangle if you droop your shoulders too low—encouragement to keep good posture—paired with white sandals and your favorite strawberry earrings. As you fix your hair in the mirror, you worry that you’re too dressed up, but a soft knock on your door distracts you from your thoughts. You call out for John to come in as you swipe on some rouge-tinted lipgloss.

“Just wonderin’ where your- oh. God, you look… wow,” he stutters, meeting your eyes in the reflection as he leans against your doorframe, bulky arms crossed over his chest.

“You do this every time you see me,” you huff in amusement, dabbing off the extra gloss with a tissue before turning to walk towards him.

“You look stunnin’ every time I see you,” he chuckles, gently grabbing your wrist and pulling you in for a hug.

John buries his face into the crook of your neck, warm hands holding your waist like you’re made of fragile glass, the most precious thing he could ever touch. He would have been happy to hold you for eternity had you not pulled back with the sweetest smile he’s been blessed to know. He’s fairly certain that you’re the closest he’ll get to heaven.

“Ready?” John hums, glancing at his watch before holding your gaze again.

When you nod your agreement, he steps away from the doorframe to allow you out of your room first, trailing closely behind as you make your way back into the kitchen. He happily takes the cooled pie and container of whipped cream into his outstretched palms so you don’t have to ‘worry that pretty little head off ‘bout carryin’ too much,’ as he said. As you step out of the apartment and lock up, your only regret is that you didn’t have him leave one hand empty for you to hold.

𝝑𝝔

“You didn’t tell me they were bloody vegetarians,” John playfully grumbles, one strong arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders as the two of you walk in sync.

“I didn’t know! They let me feed the kids meat!” You laugh, leaning in closer to absorb his warmth.

It’s chillier than the weather forecast had predicted, harsh wind nipping at your uncovered skin. John notices your shiver and stops walking, pulling off the lightweight maroon sweatshirt he’d been wearing. You furrow your eyebrows as he offers it to you, holding a hand up in protest. He sighs and lowers the article of clothing over your head, helping you put your arms through. Despite only having a t-shirt on beneath, the chill doesn’t seem to bother him—instead, he’s more interested in your comfort, tilting your chin up between his thumb and forefinger when you voice your concerns for him.

“I’m alright, darlin’. This ol’ mutt’s got plenty o’fur,” he chuckles, gesturing to his arms covered with tufts of dark hair. “I am a bit hungry, though. Afraid some vegetables disguised as a shepherd’s pie don’t cut it.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” you giggle, holding onto his bicep as he begins to walk again, headed in the direction of a restaurant you’re unfamiliar with.

As much as you hate to admit it, his sweatshirt is warm and comfortable and it smells like him, deliriously smoky and spicy. It’s a perfect distraction from the crisp winds, and it keeps you grounded from the foreign atmosphere of the joint John ushers you into. Save for the typical busyness that comes with dining out, it’s a nice-looking place, dimly lit and cozy. John hums as he leads you to a table for two in a separate room that’s less crowded.

“You come here a lot?” You cock an eyebrow, allowing him to push your chair in once you’ve sat.

“I’m friends with the owner, love. Eat here quite a bit, actually,” he hums, taking his own seat across from you. “Gives me a good discount.”

“Oh, yeah? Bring all your girlfriends here, huh?” You tease, earning yourself a playful glare.

Before he gets the chance to reply, a waiter brings him a pint and a basket of freshly-baked bread before realizing that you’re there, too. He pats John on the shoulder and flashes you a warm smile.

“S’about time you brought your girl! We were all startin’ to believe you made ‘er up,” he laughs, giving you a wink. “What can I get f’you, love?”

“Glass of merlot, please,” you grin back, eyebrows furrowed as you look back at your man.

“No worries, doll. Steak’ll be righ’ out, John.”

John reaches for a slice of bread from the middle of the table and butters it generously, completely silent. He only meets your gaze when you laugh under your breath, eyes scanning over his face in amusement—or disbelief, he can never tell with you.

“You talk about me?” You ask, observing the way his lips quirk up into a grin at the lilt in your voice.

“‘Course I do. You’re my girl, yeah?”

His girl. His girl.

Of course you are.

𝝑𝝔

“Mmm, I should not have let you order that third glass of wine,” John laughs as you stumble into him for the sixth time, clearly unable to walk in a straight line.

“I’m- fine!” You hiccup, hands grasping onto his forearm in an attempt to keep yourself steady.

“Sure you are,” he hums, but when you trip over your feet and just barely avoid faceplanting into the concrete, he sighs.

Before you get the chance to protest, John scoops you up into his arms bridal-style with a grunt. Initially, you kick your feet in surprise but eventually succumb to his efforts, burying your face in his neck and giggling softly. He chuckles in response, squeezing your body to him just a little bit tighter.

“What am I gonna do with you, hm?” He teases, pressing his cheek against the top of your head as he starts in the direction of your apartment.

“Dunno,” you mumble, shutting your eyes and allowing your body to go limp, safe and comfortable in his embrace.

You must have fallen asleep again, because when you open your eyes, John is struggling to unlock your door and hold you at the same time. You sniffle and wiggle down, alerting the man to set you on your feet carefully.

“Sorry, darlin’. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, finally able to put the key in the lock with no issue.

As he opens the door and helps you inside, you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck once more. He huffs in amusement and presses his forehead against yours, gaze darting between your lidded eyes.

“Thank you,” you hum, speech still slurred but your tone is genuine.

“You don’t have to thank me, love. I’m happy to go wherever you need me to,” he grins, studying the features on your face like he's just discovered your beauty for the first time all over again.

Maybe it’s the liquid courage or the way he’s looking at you, but your heart flutters and your brain tells you that you need to do something now. Your nails gently scratch the back of his neck and your eyes fall shut, nose nuzzling against his. You let out a shaky breath and hear John breathe in right before soft lips collide in a kiss tender and all-consuming. He hums softly, cupping your face in his large hands to pull you even closer, your own hands moving to rest on his broad shoulders.

You taste as good as the most delightful confection—no, even better—sweeter than the strawberry pie and more intoxicating than the wine, and John can’t get enough. The kiss is so much better than he could have ever imagined, and now that he’s had a slice of heaven, he’s absolutely addicted. He almost pouts when you pull away, a dazed smile on your face and a giggle on your lips. He grins along with you, pressing another short kiss to the highest point of your cheekbone.

“Can you get to bed alrigh’?” He questions in a whisper, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip with a delicate touch.

You nod in confirmation, leaning your cheek into the warmth of his palm and shutting your eyes in pure bliss—the euphoria that comes with being his girl.

His girl.

John bids you goodbye with another feather-light kiss and the ghost of a certain promise on the tip of his tongue.

Next ->

[sweetracha]

Dumb Bunny

Sugar Content: Spicy Sweet (SMUT!), Sugary Sweet (Some Fluff)

Allergy Warning: Mommy Dom Felix, Miss Dom Han, Sub Reader, Edging (Han), Overstim (Felix), Humiliation, Messy Sex, Oral, Heavily Implied Sub-Space, Degradation, Praise, Dumbification, Illusions to Aftercare.

Confectioner's Note: I got so carried away with this one. It was meant to be a short Kinky Sprinkles. Thank you @kaciidubs for the idea!

You didn't mean to disobey. Okay well, you did but you didn't mean to get caught. The boys were out celebrating after the VMA's, and at this point, they should be halfway gone from sober at their third party of the night. You were still a secret, a little gift Han and Felix kept greedily for themselves. A situation you were more than okay with.

They just looked so good. Their carpet outfits, their presence when accepting the award, their performance…god damn their performance. You couldn't help the wet patch that grew in your panties. Good thing Felix always came prepared. You quickly riffled through his luggage to find your rabbit vibe. Clothes were discarded all over the floor on your trip back to the bed. Once the head came to life and the weight sat heavily on your clit, you were gone.

So gone in fact that you didn't hear the door to the room open. You didn't hear the small gasps and tsks of disappointment. Nor did you hear the footsteps leading to you. What broke you out from your bliss was two sets of hands staking a claim on your thighs as you felt both sides of the bed dip.

"Poor poor bunny…" Felix faked a sigh. You attempted to force your legs shut but their strength combined spread you open even further. "We are just terrible doms aren't we Han?"

"The worst! Oh, baby, you don't deserve to be treated like this. Maybe we should leave."

"NO! No…you are the best, please!"

"Oh?" Han acted as if his curiosity was peaked. "What would ever possess our good girl to act so naughty if it wasn't that we were bad at our jobs? It couldn't be that she decided to act like a slut tonight instead, hmm?"

"We even skipped the after-parties to come celebrate with you, bunny. We knew we had a good girl waiting for us." Felix came in close to your ear and dropped his voice scarily low. "Right, baby? You wouldn't happen to not be our good girl. Would you?"

"I'm sorry!" you cracked and the boys looked shocked at one another, obviously still a part of the game they were playing. "I was so horny without you! I kept watching your performance and and and I COULDN'T HELP IT" you cried out.

"Oh poor bunny, Mommy is so sorry. You seem so desperate right now. Of course, your dumb little horny brain couldn't handle more than a day without our cocks. We should have known. Just our slutty little bunny." Felix took a hand to caress your face, he smirked as he saw the glass form over your eyes. So close, they were so so close.

"But that doesn't mean you can go unpunished, baby. You know our rules and you still decide to break them. You might be able to trick Mommy with that 'dumb bunny' act, but Miss knows better. Baby, you deliberately chose to be naughty. Don't lie, honey, I already know." Han's hand cupped the other side of your face, thumbing your lips. That was the final move. When the thumb slipped past your lips and you began to suck, they saw you were exactly where they wanted you.

Han and Felix took their parts like perfectly trained actors. Felix was your mommy, sweet and kind laced with humiliation. Han was Miss, the dom that lived to see you crumble and take you to your breaking point.

Positioned flat on his back, Han shot Felix a knowing look. Felix quickly took you by your bare waist and placed you right above Han's face. But this part was new. Instead of facing the headboard so Han could eat you out like you were his last meal, you were turned to face outwards. Meeting eyes with Felix who was straddling the other dom's thighs.

"Confused bunny? You are so lost in that empty head of yours. Lower yourself on his tongue, Miss is going to make you feel so good."

You were not going to break any more orders tonight. It all made sense as you lowered yourself, your soaked clit meeting his fat tongue. Doubling over in pleasure and crying out, Felix had to reposition you. Before you could stable yourself Han got to work.

You threw your head back in a whaling cry as he played with your puffy cunt. The rapper knew he had a way with his tongue. Messy sex didn't even begin to explain what Han liked. He wanted slick, split, and cum. He needed it wet and sticky, you were capable of giving it to him.

The room around you began to blur, eyes crossing from pleasure. One tap to Han's thigh form Felix made him lift your hips quickly off his face. Instantly tears threatened to spill. You let out a groan of desperation which was met with a sharp smack to your ass.

"Oh Baby" Han caught his breath. "You think Miss would let you off that easily? No. This is a punishment for being such a slutty little thing. Now back down." A double tap to the reddening spot followed his command.

This repeated 3 more times, each soaking your face in more and more tears. The bed was drenched under you. Squelching became the dominant sound in the room. Nonsensical pleas left you. A sweet hand was placed on the back of your head, glassy eyes met dark ones. Felix leaned in just close enough to kiss. He might let you finally tip over the edge. Right before your lips met, he shoved your head down. Now hovering over Han's angry cock, Felix's hand brought it to your lips.

"Suck his cock, bunny. Make miss cum and he will let you finish. That is easy enough for you to understand, right baby?"

You didn't respond, not even a nod. You just slotted his cock in your mouth and began to suck. Han took advantage of this new angle. Rough hands spread your ass apart as he sunk his tongue in even deeper. His new hold on you allowed for more access to all the spots that drove you over the edge. It was clear he was following your actions. Suck fast? Lick faster. Deep Throat? Deeper fingers. With this information, you quickly brought both of you to the edge. Using your last trick, you took Han all the way to the base and gagged. He went crazy when he felt your thick saliva drip down his cock. Han filled your throat with cum as he pushed hard on that spot deep inside of you. You blacked out before you even heard your own moan.

A gentle tap to your face brought you back to reality. Soft shushing met your subtle cries. Soon you were lifted into a pair of arms and brought to a bare chest. The skin on your skin grounded you.

"Color Bunny?" Han's voice was so gentle like he worried it would break you.

"Green" it came out rough due to the abuse on your vocal cords. "Let Mommy please you, Bunny. Then we will take care of our subby baby." Han tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

You were moved so your head was cradled between Han's thick thighs, back flush to the sheets. Felix lifted your legs to pin your knees to your chest. You didn't have to worry about staying in place, Han's job was to hold you there.

It was easy for Felix to enter your soaking cunt, Han made sure you were more than wet enough. It only took 3 strokes before you were ready to cum again.

"Bunny, you are so sensitive. Oh my god-- fuck bunny, you are squeezing me so hard. Cum baby, do it. Cum for Mommy" and cum you did.

You couldn't even come down from your high before Felix was building you up again. Each time you came, Felix sunk his thrusts in deeper. Han edges, Felix overstims. A hand crept up to your throat, halting.

"Mommy is making you feel so good, isn't he baby?" Han whispered in your ear.

"Mhm y-ye- mhmm"

"Shhh Bunny, you don't need to answer. Miss was so mean, wasn't he? Awh poor baby, he made such a mess of you."

"Oh she loves it, don't you baby' The hand previously on your throat spread across your face, hooking three fingers in your mouth. Han pulled open your jaw so spit pooled and ran down your face. The sounds of your moans leaving your open mouth made Han hard all over again.

"One more for me baby, Just one more for Mommy, I know you can." You nodded as best you could. "Good girl bunny"

Felix gave it everything he got. Shoving your knees further into your chest, he spread you painfully open as he took his new position. He pistoned in and out like a machine perfectly programmed for you. You shook so hard Han's grip was going to bruise in the morning. You came with a scream as a low groan indicated Felix was emptying into you.

"Fuck bunny..fuck" Felix wore a drunken smile.

"Here baby, let me help you" Han slowly unfolded you like a piece of tissue paper. He felt a bit bad when he heard your joints pop.

"Where's Mommy?" your slurry speech made Han smile, pulling you closer to his chest.

"I'm right here bunny, is Miss comfy?"

"Mhmmm" The two shared a look of absolute love.

"How far gone is she?" Felix whispered to Han as he lifted you.

"Pretty far, the bath will help. I'm okay with an extra snuggly bunny though." He brushed your spit-dried hair back.

"Our little Bunny" Felix kissed your nose, whisking you off to the bathtub.

The Sweetest Batch: @goblinracha, @xx3rachaslutxx, @j-onedrabbles, @lixiesweetbrownie, @marrivmel,@lyramundana, @raaaaaaahhhh

[heartfullofleeches]

i need more sucrose i beg

just a crumb, any fact or a random blurb i beggggggg

My original idea for Dentist Reader was that they were scared off of candy as a child 2005 Willy Wonka style, but someone left this comment.

So here's a drabble with both meshed into one.

Yan Candy Person Shop Owner + Dentist Reader

"You have one final chance to get out of my office before I have you dragged out in handcuffs."

If that damned sheriff would actually do his job for once- The worst part about moving to a smaller area was the local authority's instance on solving issues between yourselves. Your hands may have been filled with new appointments, you aren't blind. You've seen that lazy excuse for an officer waltz gleefully out of that accursed candy store, twiddling suckers between his lips.

Hard candy and bite sized balls of chocolate spill out onto the floor of your lobby as the confectioner urges the candy bowl from their hands into yours.

"Gumdrop...." That awful nickname... It's almost more annoying than their crocodile tears when you call out their behavior in public. "Just one little nibble, that's all I'm askin'. Let's start with something simple. Butterscotch? How about a peppermint? A gumdrop for my sweet, compassionate gumdrop?"

Your foot taps impatiently against the carpeted floor. Must you go through this same song and dance every day? Sucrose lets out a nervous chuckle, placing the bowl on your desk as they hop to their feet.

"If you won't have any for yourself, at the very least your patients might enjoy a sweet treat after everything you put them through. Dental work can be scary business- A smile every now and then would help too."

"Alright. Fine- I've got too much paperwork to deal with to argue with. If you had any sense, you'd be behind the counter- At. Your. Shop."

"Feisty~" Sucrose purrs, tapping your nose with a giggle. "That's what I love about you. I'll drop by during your lunch break to check on you. Don't miss me too much, Gumdrop!"

Grabbing the tails of their apron, Sucrose bows before turning on their heals - practically skipping their way out of your office. With them out of your hair, your focus redirects to the bowl of candy sitting on your desk. Lollipops and hard candies were one thing, but some of the mix would only cause more harm than good. Caramels, jelly beans, taffy.

Your fingernails clench around the edge of the table- the roar of an engine scaring you off before you dare to go further. Fearing being caught, you brisky march over to the windows; shutting the blinds without a second thought. Returning to the desk, you make certain your chair faces the window as you take your seat - snatching the first brightly colored wrapper that catches your eye.

You make quick work of pealing the candy free, folding the wrapper into a neat folder and tucking it into your pocket. You've never seen taffy shaped quite like what they've done before- Maybe someday you'd swallow your pride and ask Sucrose how they they sliced their candy into perfect miniature hearts. Easing back in your chair, you pop the candy into your mouth - chewing as all your fears from the past melt on your tongue along with the rich, cherry flavor.

"Knock, Knooooock~ Hey, Gumdrop. I think I forgot my....."

Hand deep in the candy bowl, the taffy hits your stomach like a brick as you swallow - the confectioner's eyes growing wider by the second.

"G.....Gumdrop?!? You're eating me sweets?! Out of your own free will? Eeeek! I knew you'd come around someday! I'm so happy! Let me lick the sweetness from your lips, my angel!"

You keep from your chair as Sucrose pounces- keeping them at distance with your foot as they make wild grabs for your face with their hands.

"Don't deny our love any longer, my sweet! You love my candy yet you claim to despise it so you must feel the same way about me- You're too cruel! Kiss me, you beautiful heart-breaker!"

[strawbeerossi]

Smarty Pants

Pairing: Gender Neutral!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: After you and your boyfriend get into an argument over some trivia questions at work and he acts high and mighty when proven right, you have just the way to set him straight.

Content/Warnings: Mentions of an argument, not too explicit smut, dumbification, sub!spencer, dom!reader.

Word Count: 0.6K

Kinktober Day Seven: Dumbification

Navigation || Kinktober Masterlist || AO3

You were in the middle of neglecting your work while doing trivia with the others who were crowded around your desk. “Which country consumes the chocolate per capita?” Emily asked, looking over the index card in her hand. You didn’t even know what prompted this little game but you and Derek were going up against one another and so far, you were killing it. That’s made you so confident about your answer.

“Easy. Germany.” You responded while leaning back against your chair, only rolling your eyes as you heard a soft scoff from the desk across from yours. “It’s right!” You huffed while causing Spencer to look up. “Actually Switzerland is the country that consumes the most chocolate. How did you not know that? Chocolate is literally something they are known for.” The male asked, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Switzerland is actually  renowned for its milk chocolate, the most consumed type of chocolate. Did you know that in 1875, a Swiss confectioner, Daniel Peter, developed the first solid milk chocolate using condensed milk, which had been invented by Henri Nestlé, who was Peter's neighbour in Vevey?” 

Like most info dumps Spencer had been known to give, this just made everyone stare at him with blank stares, besides you.. You were fucking livid. There was no way he was right. Just this once, he was wrong. There was no way.

“If you don’t believe me then you can look it up online.” He stated in a simple tone. He more than likely wasn’t meaning to but he agitated the hell out of you. So bad that you decided to quickly type up the trivia question in the search bar. Sure enough, he was fucking right. The look on your face made him smirk from being triumphant, turning back to the stack of files on his desk. “I told you so.” He stated, proud of himself.

The rest of the day, you were annoyed. You wanted to break his glasses, make hi blind until he could get his hands on contacts. You kept your composure through the work day.

Until you got home.

That’s why you were here now, perched on his cock while he was a blubbering mess on your living room couch. “You really felt so smart earlier but now you can't even form a coherent sentence. What happened to Dr. Spencer Reid, the genius who knows everything?” You’d taunted, hand having his hair tugged back to make him face you. His eyes were glossed over, the amount of edging you’d been doing for the past hour making him desperate. 

He’d been reduced to whines and begs of more, unable to even process the words that were being spoken by you. “Look at you, smart little Spencer Reid being fucked dumb. You don't have another statistic?” You taunted, now it being your turn to be satisfied as he was unable to respond. That IQ 187 had dropped to a staggering two as he had his glasses fogged up, sweat dripping from his forehead from all the stimulation.

“My beautiful, dumb baby boy.” You cooed, moving to cup his cheek with one hand. “Can’t even form the words to speak because I��ve turned that pretty brain to mush.” It was like the words went in one of his ears and out the other. “If only the office could see you now. Fucked to the point you can’t even process what I’m saying. Then again, they don’t deserve to see you like this..” You let your hand slide to his neck now, wrapping it so gently around his throat before giving it a squeeze.

“I like when my big and cocky smart boy is nothing but a little dumb fuck toy.”

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

IVE MADE HISTORY IN THE MOST ADORABLY DELICOUS WAY POSSIBLE!!! O`w'O

#those werewolf fearing Germans found you out...#okay all that aside- I realise my handwriting is uh... difficult to read#so I'll offer a translation:#Be warned dear fellow citizens; in our midst is a beast! It steals your flour; your Milk; your Butter and eggs!#In the discreet form of a wolf it lurks in the forest; in our alleys; pretends to be innocent.#But in the middle of the night it sneaks into your chicken coop; your kitchen; takes your ingredients with greedy claws!#To produce something truly satanic- Schmarrn!#The fear inducing creature is no other than the dauntless daffodil; it is true; your neighbour is a werewolf!#(the little arrow says “the perpetrator”)

the Täter was MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

'm scratching at your door at 3 in the morning with a bowl of scrambled pancakes but shhh don't tell the neighbors~

Saw "Schmähbrief" in the werewolf article header and my hungry brain went "Schmarrn??" and I had to remind myself that no one is going to get accused of being a werewolf over how they scramble their pancakes. That really would be a Schmarrenbrief XD

For a moment, I wondered what Schmarrn had to do with being hungry- because I constantly use it in the context of its colloquial definition: "nonsense"

Was für ein Schmarrn, that I completely forgot about the beauty that is Kaiserschmarrn. May we both get to have some soon, and hope we don't get accused of having a wolfish nature due to it...

That being said, I've found something rather curious today. I think it may be about you.

The accusations have already begun... A Schmarrenbrief.

[bibisparlkequeenfairybiboca]

dream jobs

❀ being avril lavigne's evil substitute

❀ Pinterest board organizer

❀ take care of baby deer

❀ be a princess at Disney parks

❀ Barbie and Monster High game creator

❀ Lana Del Rey slave

❀ be a Lana Del Rey dancer

❀ to be the girl in the band / rockstar girlfriend

❀ thrift store owner

❀ Aphrodite worshipper

❀ silly little human who helps vampires and let them suck her blood

❀ be a witch's black cat

❀ insect taxedermy

❀ be a little girl's favorite doll

❀ confectioner of sweets (I don't know how to cook anything)

❀ model

❀ be a fairy of flowers