#made with love 💌

[cookiekissers]

can we please get a buring spice x fragile reader, like they want to help and fight/hunt but physical can't because they are that fragile, simply bumbing into another cookie could cause them to crack!

Do Not Go Gently

[Burning Spice Cookie x Fragile Reader]

I was inspired and tried something a little different with this so I hope you like it! and Burning Spice redemption anyone? B)

The life of a Wild Spice was fraught with constant struggle and danger. If you were weak, you would be ground into dust, either by one of the other tribes or by the Great Destroyer himself. And you happened to be one of the weaker spices.

Delicate and fragile by nature, your main ingredient was parsley. The harsh desert winds of your homeland often left your leaves and dough brittle. The stronger Wild Spices almost always belittled you and your small tribe as you barely etched out an existence. You weren't tough and built with natural armour, like the Pepper Pangolins, or strong like the Saffron Buffaloes. But if there was one thing you were, it was tenacious.

When the Great Destroyer returned, you feared that your inherent frailness only spelled ruin for you and your tribe, soon to join the scattered remains of your ancestors. Despite the risks, you boldly joined the other Wild Spice leaders and offered your loyalty and service to Burning Spice Cookie.

He had looked over you and laughed, calling you weak and pathetic. As you knelt there, showing your sincere devotion, you thought it was all over for you. Still, Burning Spice miraculously passed over you and left you be. The Great Destroyer was not known to spare those he thought weak, so you could only imagine that he saw something in you that you hadn't. Since that moment, you were inspired by the Great Destroyer, not out of fear but admiration. You knew he didn't care for you. With a sweep of his hand, he could wipe your existence from this earth in seconds. But still, you fought hard and trained harder until your dough was cracked and crumbling to show that you had a right to continue living. Burning Spice Cookie had spared you. Your life had to mean something to him.

The little thing kneeling at his feet was pathetic. A Cookie so fragile that their dough cracked at the mildest of strikes was not worthy to be in his presence. And yet, instead of hiding from his inevitable fury, here you were. Burning Spice had to admit, you had guts. He didn't want to waste his time crumbling you himself when he knew you wouldn't put up a good fight. It would be far more entertaining to watch you struggle, only for you to fall to your unavoidable fate.

And yet...

That moment never came. Regardless of how grievous your wounds or the crumbling of your dough, you threw yourself back into battle again and again. Unafraid of the death that awaited you. Burning Spice Cookie found himself almost... fascinated by you.

You were so fragile, doomed to fail. And yet... you fought to cling a little longer to your short, pathetic life.

It reminded him of a time long past.

One day, after Burning Spice had enough of the annoying thoughts of you buzzing around his head, he decided to pay your tribe a visit. All the inhabitants of your tribe weren't as tough as you, which was somewhat of a disappointment. They scurried into their homes, terrified of him, or fell to their knees, grovelling at his feet for mercy. But you... you remained standing, like a resolute warrior, poised as if death were coming to claim you. You were unafraid. You had accepted it, but that did not mean you would go without a grand fight.

He approached you, ignoring the rest of your tribe, and you bowed your head in respect to the Great Destroyer. You didn't bow as deeply as you used to, but Burning Spice let it slide.

You had changed. Your eyes held a solemn understanding, and your dough was now riddled with scars, honourable rewards of fighting to see another day.

Burning Spice Cookie watched you, realizing he had no words. Why had curiosity brought him here to see you? He couldn't come up with an answer. His previous excuse of being amused by your antics had faded into something... else.

You broke the silence and invited Burning Spice Cookie into your humble home, and he accepted. Your tribe was astonished at their leader, who stood fearlessly in front of the Great Destroyer, and he had not razed their village to the ground in retaliation.

"Well, this is a surprise." Burning Spice Cookie mused. It was still surprising to him. Destruction was the end of all things, whether by his hand or not. But you stood in the face of it and fought it. Refusing to meet it on its terms.

"That I'm still here?" You replied bluntly, an amused smile on your face. Burning Spice Cookie would usually have felt excitement upon discovering a Cookie like you - someone who could ignite his passion and provide a worthy challenge now that you had grown stronger against all odds. However, that’s not how he felt at this moment. It wasn't even boredom. Instead, he felt the same solemness reflected in your eyes.

Burning Spice Cookie asked you to be his right hand. The request came so suddenly that it left you momentarily stunned. All the strife and gruelling work you had endured had finally paid off in a way you never could have imagined.

"Yes, I would be honored, my lord. Thank you." You said, quickly bowing your head deeply in gratitude.

Burning Spice Cookie knew that your luck was going to eventually run out and your fragile dough would crumble, slipping through his fingers like the sands of time. Like with all things, it was inevitable, regardless of how hard you fought to cling to your pitiful life.

But he would be there when it happened, he would watch you. He would burn your rage into his mind as you descended into the endless night, fighting and spitting for just one more day.

Once you joined your ancestors, he would remember you. Always.

[lcs-scar]

PLEAS PLEAS PLLEEEEAASSSS

Can you draw some pete content?? 🙌🙌🙏🙏🙏🙇🙇🙇

THAK YOU IF ITS YES

sure!!

[yuwuta]

yuuji has suuuuuuuch weighted blanket boyfriend energy. just lays down on top of you and it feels so good he’s so warm and soft and heavy in a way that’s comforting and compressing and he nuzzles his head into your tummy and giggles when you tell him his nose is cold and hums like a little cat when you play with his hair

[scoutofmymind]

your anora au fic had my jaw hanging. at first i couldn’t picture it all from the prompt but once i started reading your writing……ma’am you truly are the luigi fic whisperer

Losing Dogs Pt. 2 — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: SFW, kissing, meeting-parents-for-the-first-time-anxiety, big emphasis on Luigi being Italian, familial secrets, reader is a sex worker, fluff, sorry for any inconsistencies I got too stoned writing this

Wc: 7,010 (woah)

Notes: Click here to read part one.

It’s not the condo in Manhattan that the dinner would be held — instead, the Mangione’s main homestead in Sagaponack, which after googling, you’d realized was the second wealthiest zip code in the United States.

Right behind Atherton, California, of which the Mangione’s own a vacation house.

You sit with Luigi in the back of the Flying Spur, driven by a man you’d met only a few times before, Paulo.

He drove for both Luigi and his sister whenever she was in the city, and since Luigi much preferred driving himself, Paulo had been sitting pretty on his salary with very little to do for the Mangione’s, except as of late.

"Your sister is making me loco," Paulo says, catching Luigi's reflection in the rearview mirror, though Luigi seems more focused on your tense posture beside him. "She wants to go here and there, bringing this boy and that in the car." He gestures at the interior with a sort of wounded pride, as if each scuff mark on the premium leather is a personal affront. "They all are dirty Brooklyn boys."

You massage your temples with two fingers, fighting back a wave of irritation.

The irony isn't lost on you — how Paulo, who fled Almeria with nothing but a threadbare suitcase and desperate dreams, now speaks with the practiced disdain of old money.

Twenty years of opening doors for the Mangiones has made him forget the taste of struggle.

"Nothing's wrong with Brooklyn," Luigi mumbles, making a dismissive gesture toward the front — a subtle but clear command for Paulo to hold his tongue. You can't help but think that without Mr. Mangione's intervention years ago, Paulo might well be hustling in those same Brooklyn streets he now sneers at.

The same ones you grew up in.

"Yeah, if you like murderers," Paulo snorts, his Spanish accent thickening with each syllable of his obnoxious laugh.

Usually, long drives soothe your nerves — the world outside becoming a peaceful blur through tinted windows.

But now you're trapped here for two hours, gnawing anxiously at your thumbnail while trying not to chip the pristine red French manicure that matches your dress perfectly.

"Paulo," Luigi's voice drops dangerously low, his dark eyes drilling into the back of the driver's head. "Do you ever think about going back to Almeria?"

"No," Paulo stammers, his knuckles blanching against the leather steering wheel. "America is my home now, Lui. I do not wish to ever go back to Spain — not for as long as I live."

Luigi reclines, arching one perfect brow as a cold smile plays at his lips. "Ah," he clicks his tongue, catching Paulo's nervous glance in the rearview mirror. His voice takes on that silky quality you've only heard whispered about — the tone that makes even hardened men remember their mortality. "Then perhaps we should ensure you remain grateful for that arrangement. Wouldn't want circumstances to change."

Paulo swallows hard, as he returns his full attention to the road. The remaining tension in the car feels like a coiled spring, and you notice his hands have begun to tremble slightly against the wheel.

"Mi dispiace, Luigi," he mutters, his accent thickening with anxiety as he slips into practiced Italian instead of his native Spanish. "I spoke out of turn. Your sister, she is a wonderful woman. The boys she dates — they are fine young men."

Luigi's smile doesn't warm, but he settles back into the plush leather seat, seemingly satisfied with Paulo's discomfort.

He isn’t a monster.

Paulo wasn’t an illegal immigrant, and Luigi wasn’t threatening deportation — rather, Paulo was a felon on borrowed time, one toe over the line of last warning.

It wasn’t often Luigi had to use this advantage, but when he did, he made sure not to drag it out for longer than need be. He wasn’t much a fighter as he was a silencer — arguing took up too much time, and Luigi had never initiated a fight he knew he couldn’t win.

So, that does it.

The privacy divider glides up with a soft hum — Paulo's preemptive gesture of self-preservation.

You've been lost in the blur of passing scenery, mind wandering through the early summer landscape, when Luigi's touch anchors you back to reality. His hand finds your thigh, warm through the fabric, and his chin comes to rest on your shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"

You turn your head slightly, meeting dark eyes that seem to catch every flicker of emotion crossing your face. "Nothing important," Luigi's fingers tighten fractionally on your thigh — a gentle reminder that he can always tell when you're deflecting.

The passing shadows from the trees dance across his features as he studies you, patient and unrelenting.

It's that same quiet intensity that made you first notice him across a crowded room at Sapphire.

The kind of presence that doesn't need to announce itself to get attention.

"Try again.”

You're not sure you want to dig into it before you face it — the scrutiny of his parents.

It hits you then, a realization that makes your stomach twist; you've crafted a world where adoration comes to you as naturally as breathing.

At Sapphire, your regulars wait in their shadowy booths like devoted disciples, wallets ready and eyes hungry for your attention — you know exactly how to move, what to say, how to make them feel.

Even at the bars, you've carved out your own kind of sovereignty. Whether it's hustling pool from cocky frat boys who underestimate you, or standing up for the pretty bartender when some drunk gets too aggressive.

You know how to command those spaces, how to make them yours.

But this? A sprawling mansion you’ve only seen on Google with its manicured hedges and courtyards decorated with fountains? This is different.

You can't dance your way through this dinner.

Can't rely on the carefully constructed persona that makes men weak in the knees and keeps you safe behind its glittering facade; here, in this world of pride and predjudice you'll have to be raw, real, like Luigi’s sister says you are — the girl beneath the eyeliner and confident winks into the crowd.

While Luigi has seen all sides of you — the dancer who owns the stage and the girl who snorts when she laughs too hard, his parents will be looking for cracks in your armor, for signs that you're not quite what they imagined for their son.

And the first time in years, you're not sure how to make someone love you.

Your mind wanders to another conversation with Julia last Thursday in the dressing room.

She snaps her gum, the sound echoing against the tall ceilings as you wage war once again with your liquid eyeliner. Your reflection grimaces back at you — fourth attempt at the wing and still not quite right.

"I saw him again at Paradiso," she says, tugging at her glittery, sheer periwinkle tights before adjusting her sparkly top with practiced precision. Your hand stills for a moment — yes, that Paradiso Casino — where old money goes to play and new money goes to be seen.

Where the minimum bet could cover your Brooklyn rent.

Your eyes meet hers in the mirror briefly before returning to your careful strokes.

"He's totally workin' for his Pops, babe," Julia continues, leaning closer to the mirror to check her contour. "I saw him for like twenty minutes just watchin’ tables." She pauses for a second. Applies more of her newly gifted Dior lipgloss. “Dean says they call people who just like to watch Railbirds.” She smacks her lips together, “I said I call them cucks.”

You tried then to picture it — Luigi in Paradiso's opulent interior, reducing hundred-thousand-dollar bets to patterns and probabilities, while wearing what was probably another one of those cashmere sweaters that hung down to his thighs — just an unassuming spectator.

"What am I walking into?" Your voice shakes in the middle, uncertain of yourself for the first time in a long time — you realize here and now that you've surrounded yourself with constant familiars, hardly pushing many of the boundaries of comfort zones until this very moment.

You'd figure once you begin dancing, bare from the bellybutton up, that there must be very little in this world that would frighten you — but that's devastatingly far from the truth.

Facing Luigi's parents over dinner suddenly seems more daunting than any stage you've ever graced.

Luigi presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, nipping at it gently. "Hmm," he hums, pretending to think. His voice is soft and soothing, gentle as it wraps around your throbbing heart. "You're walking into my childhood home, where my mom's probably stress-making her third batch of Maritozzi, and my dad's pretending to work while actually practicing what he thinks are casual conversation topics."

He trails his fingers down your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"You're walking into the place where I first learned to code, where I have embarrassing high school photos hanging in the hallway, and where, after tonight, they're going to love you almost as much as I do.” Luigi doesn’t stumble over his words, doesn’t stutter — he says what he says, and he means it.

Following his confession, there is no apology — no stuttering of clarification that he didn't mean to say love, no awkward cough to cover the weight of those words.

You even give him a minute to backtrack, but he doesn't, his fingers just continue their lazy dance across your skin, as if he hasn't just tilted your world on its axis.

You try to imagine the scene he's painted for you, but it's so far from the image you've already created — ballgowns, flashy diamonds, crystal champagne flutes, designer everything.

Your mind has conjured a palace where apparently there's just a home, transformed his mother into some intimidating socialite instead of a woman who stress-bakes desserts.

It almost feels royal in a way, this mental image you can't scrub away despite Luigi's depiction of it seeming so wonderfully, terrifyingly normal.

“Your mother doesn’t just have it catered?” You quirk a brow, surveying what looks like shock washing over him, or perhaps disgust at such an idea.

“Oh, wait till you try it. Can’t cater a Mangione Maritozzi.” He shook his head, holding your chin while he pressed a kiss to your cheek, your sudden turn toward him to catch his lips much needed on both ends, finding some sort of tension release in panting into each others mouths for a few minutes until Paulo slowly rolled down the partition separating the front seats from the back.

"Lui, your Papa wants to know—" Paulo nods as if he could be seen on the other line, stumbling through the conversation with the endearing awkwardness of someone trying to be both chauffeur and messenger. "Okay— si —I'll ask—uh—" He catches your eye in the rear-view mirror, his crow's feet deepening with genuine warmth, sunlight catching the silver at his temples. "Sweetheart, what kind of wine do you like? Signore Mangione said it's important there's a bottle for you tonight."

You eye Luigi, and then Paulo.

Oh.

You’re sweetheart.

You think of all the wines Luigi has shared with you — those expensive bottles from the club brought home on quiet nights, the careful pairings at Eleven Madison Park where he taught you to roll each sip across your tongue before you swallow; your mind particularly lingers on the Italian wines, as if some part of you had always known this knowledge would be currency one day.

Though, you never imagined it would be spent trying to impress parents rather than clients.

"I like a Gavi," you offer, aiming for casual while your heart drums an unsteady rhythm. The wine brings back one of Luigi's stories — him describing it as 'beach wine' while tracing patterns on your bare shoulder, telling you about sun-drenched afternoons in Sicily where his mother would polish off a bottle before their lazy walks back to whichever summer villa they were occupying that season. "Chianti, Nebbiolo, Brunello, I like all of it."

Paulo's lips curl into what can only be described as a knowing smirk, giving one deliberate nod before sealing the partition between you once again, the mechanical whir of the window leaving behind a weighted silence and the distinct feeling that you've just passed something you didn't know you were taking.

"Good job," Luigi says softly, trying and failing to contain his pride, as if you'd done more than simply answer a question the way you always do — with careful honesty.

You like what you like, but there's always room for something new.

"Good job?" The words echo back, puzzled.

You're not sure when wine preferences became an achievement worth celebrating.

Luigi's hand finds your thigh, giving it an affectionate pat followed by those gentle squeezes that usually comfort, but now feel like morse code tapping out a message you're just beginning to decode.

And then you remember.

Everything is a test.

•

Everything blurs into a soft-focus haze, your body operating on pure instinct — that same autopilot that kicked in during your first night at Sapphire.

Back then, the stage lights had felt like interrogation beams, the music a distant thunder, until your survival instincts took over and carried you through. Now, your senses are simultaneously dulled and heightened, catching fragments of reality like a camera taking random snapshots.

What pierces through the fog is the moment the door swings open; the air hits you with a wave of sweet almond and fresh bread, so rich and warm it feels almost tangible. Children's laughter echoes down the corridors, their small feet pattering against hardwood as they weave through the hallways like ribbons of joy.

The space unfolds before you — a carefully curated gallery of moments and memories. Family photographs share wall space with original paintings, scenes of rolling Italian countryside and explosive flower gardens.

And suddenly, you begin to realize that this is a wealth that whispers rather than shouts; the kind that's been around long enough to feel comfortable in its own skin.

You're eventually greeted by a woman in the kitchen who embodies casual elegance in a way that makes you realize where Luigi gets it from.

Her white sleeves are rolled to her elbows with the kind of precise messiness that takes years to perfect, the fabric expensive but lived-in, flowing just so. The pinstriped shorts, cuffed and high-waisted, cinched with a statement leather belt, speak of Milan runway shows adapted for a day of baking.

"Don't mind my clothes," she says, leaning in to brush your cheek with a kiss that smells of vanilla and Tom Ford. "I've fallen so behind, I've been fussing over Maritozzo for hours." There's a theatrical exhaustion in her voice, but her eyes dance with the satisfaction of someone in their element, a slight smile playing at lips that look just like her son's.

"And I continue to tell her that one-hundred is enough." A voice rolls through the room like summer thunder, thick with an Italian accent that hasn't softened despite what must be decades in America. The hand that extends toward you belongs to a man who fills the doorway with both his physical presence and his personality, and you accept his handshake, noting how it's firm but careful —another test, perhaps, but one you've had plenty of practice passing.

"Oh, it's so good to finally meet you Mr. And Mrs. Mangione, I - I'm—"

"Please call me Marco." He interrupts with a smile that seems gentle but doesn't quite reach his eyes — the kind of smile you've seen Luigi use with his professors. "That's Val." He gestures to his wife with a casual authority that suggests he's used to making introductions for her. Despite the warmth in the air and the Italian bakery-scented welcome, your guard remains firmly in place, each sense fine-tuned to the subtleties floating beneath the surface. "We've heard plenty about you."

A chorus of pleasantries swirl in your direction, 'it's lovely to meet you' tangling with 'so good to have you' — but before you can choose the right response, Luigi's fingers find yours, index and middle, tugging you deeper into the Mangione mansion where it all surprises you.

Not in its grandeur, which you'd expected, but in its soul.

It's not the cold showpiece you'd imagined, but something more nuanced — generations of memories wrapped in the warmth of early summertime Sunday dinners and children's laughter, comforts in tradition.

"This is—" Your voice trails off as you pause in one of the hallways, eyes drawn to the carefully curated artwork. Here, in this section of the house, there's no room for casual family snapshots or children's artwork. These walls are a carefully composed love letter to artistry itself, each piece positioned with deliberate precision. "The closest I've felt to being in Italy."

Luigi releases a soft snort-laugh through his nose, the sound both amused and knowing. "Well, those two can't stand being away from home." He gives a slight shrug, his fingers still loosely tangled with yours. "Everything they touch turns to the Roman Empire, or something." There's affection in his mock exasperation, the tone of someone who's grown up watching his parents transform every space they inhabit into a piece of the country they leave behind during the summers.

Luigi's style runs a different current.

Modern, eclectic, with just enough echoes of his heritage to show he knows where he comes from but isn't bound by it. The condo in Manhattan speaks of someone who studied the rules before choosing which ones to break.

Where his parents fill their walls with Renaissance masterpieces and classical scenes, Luigi's space (which, is owned by his parents, of course) breathes with contemporary Italian designers and abstract art.

No dramatic death of Caesar there, no Venus emerging from her shell, no tragic Dido — his rebellion is subtle but distinct.

The thought trails off as you follow him further down a hall that curves like a question mark, through what appears to be some unspoken threshold between the house's public face and its private memories.

He slows at a door, his hand hesitating on the handle for just a fraction of a second. "My old room," he says, pushing the door open with a mix of pride and something almost like embarrassment.

It's a time capsule of teenage Luigi, preserved with the kind of maternal devotion that makes you wonder if Val dusts in here weekly — trophies catching light on shelves, vintage Ferrari posters carefully framed rather than taped, and what looks suspiciously like a perfectly made bed that hasn't been slept in for quite awhile.

"God, she hasn't changed anything," Luigi mutters, running his fingers along the edge of his old desk — sleek, dark wood that seems too grown-up for the teenage bedroom around it. "Pretty sure these are the same physics notes from high school."

You drift toward his bookshelf, finding an unexpected mix of Eco and Calvino alongside car magazines and engineering textbooks. The room tells its own story —of a boy caught between tradition and ambition, between his parents' world and the one he wanted to build for himself.

"All those years of them pushing me to be a doctor," he says with a quiet laugh, coming up behind you. His breath warms your neck as he reaches past to pull something from the shelf — a small trophy, its golden shine dulled by time. "And here I was, taking apart every electronic device in the house just to see how it worked."

It seems to come in handy now, your mind wandering to Julia's words in the dressing room again, her voice carrying that particular tone she uses when she thinks she's stumbled onto something significant.

He's workin' for his Pops.

And here you are, standing in the carefully preserved shrine to his engineering curiosity, wondering if maybe his teenage rebellion and his father's expectations had found some unexpected middle ground.

Through the window, you can see the garden where dinner will be served later — string lights already hanging in anticipation of sunset, white tablecloths rippling in the breeze like sails. But for now, you're in this preserved pocket of Luigi's past, watching him navigate the space between who he was and who he's become.

"Were there any more tests I wasn't aware of?" You ask softly, sinking onto Luigi's old teenage bed, your fingers tracing absent patterns on the duvet. Every inch of this room holds echoes – first dreams, last goodbyes, all the moments that shaped him into who he is now.

"No," he laughs, but it's gentle, almost protective as he steps closer. His fingers thread through your hair with a tenderness that makes your chest tight. "You know how he operates now — he'll come out of the woodwork when we least expect it." There's something bittersweet in how well Luigi understands his father's choreography.

Though, that much would make sense.

Luigi has spent his entire life studying Marco Mangione like a cipher to be cracked — mapping his father's habits, his patterns, calculating the precise atmospheric conditions needed for a 'yes' versus a 'no.' He'd tested theories over the years, debunked some while others proved as reliable as sunrise.

Each interaction a data point, each response carefully cataloged and cross-referenced.

Luigi had learned to read code before he ever knew what it was, picking apart the binary beneath every casual gesture, every loaded silence.

Now he does it reflexively, automatically translating the language of human behavior — a skill born from necessity that's become as natural as breathing. Even now, you can see it in the way his eyes track every micro-expression, every shift in body language, processing information most people never notice is there.

"They're much nicer than I thought." You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, fingers circling his wrists, thumbs tracing the ridges of his knuckles. "They looked nothing how I imagined."

"How do they look?" His voice is soft, curious.

"Exactly how I should have imagined them." Your laugh is self-deprecating, but it fades when you catch the look in his eyes. There's something tender and almost nostalgic there — like he's standing in two realms at once, the successful young man he's become sharing a silent understanding with the dreaming boy who once pressed engineering diagrams to the walls.

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, and you wonder if he's thinking about all the times he imagined bringing someone he loved into this room, someone who could see past the carefully curated family narrative to the truth of him.

“I love you.” You say, hushed and whispered, but he hears you crystal clear; you try to recall the last time you’d said those words to someone who wasn’t a friend or relative, but you draw a blank.

That might just explain the heaviness in your chest.

"I love you." The words slip out in a whisper, but they ring with the clarity of a bell. You try to remember the last time you said those words to someone who wasn't bound to you by blood or years of friendship. The memory refuses to surface, and maybe that's why your chest feels so full it might burst.

"I love you." Luigi echoes, and his smile – god, his smile. It's the look of a man who's found something he didn't even know he was searching for, contentment settling into the lines of his face like it's finally found its home.

You press your lips to his palms, trailing kisses down to the pulse point at his wrists, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin.

In his touch, you find an anchor, even as everything else feels like it's shifting beneath your feet. This mansion in its previously feared hallways couldn't be further from your cozy Brooklyn studio or the vibrant streets of the Bronx where you visiting your grandmother growing up. Those pieces of yourself — they're treasures you'll always carry.

But here, wrapped in the warmth of Luigi's hands, you realize something profound; this isn't just another world you're stepping into. This is the life that's been waiting for you all along, patient as a prayer, faithful as the tide.

It's the kind of fairy tale the other girls at the club whisper about between sets — finding their Prince Charming, their golden ticket, their happily ever after.

Like Julia and countless others who dance with stars in their eyes, hoping each night might grant their wish. But you — you had started dancing with both feet planted firmly in reality. Each shift was simple mathematics; rent, textbooks, tuition. Bills that needed paying, dreams that needed funding.

Love wasn't even a footnote in your business plan.

“Lui!” A girls voice rings from down the hall.

Luuuuuui!

The door bursts open with the force of an incoming tide.

"Hello!" Her accent sits lighter than her mother's, a ghost of Italy rather than its beating heart. You find yourself wondering when Luigi chose to plant his roots here in American soil — a detail that somehow slipped through the cracks of all your late-night conversations.

Her hair cascades past her ribcage in twin braids, artfully disheveled in that way that takes hours to perfect. Those distinctive Mangione eyebrows — perfectly sculpted arches — frame eyes that mirror her brother's. Identical marks dot her cheeks like constellations, an echo of Luigi's own that make you smile, a nod at nature's persistent genetics.

Then it hits you — that nagging sense of familiarity crystallizing into recognition.

You've traced these features before, fingertips skimming glossy magazine pages in the dressing room between sets. Amelia Mangione, the sister Luigi speaks of with such fondness, whose career soared while keeping her family name carefully hidden from the headlines.

“Oh, tesoro," she clasps your hands with the reverence of answered prayers, her rings cool against your skin. "I'm so glad I won't have to spend another summer drowning in testosterone." The relief in her voice is genuine — you can hear years of being the sole daughter amongst sons, of finding solace only in her mother's company and the fleeting visits of her fashion-world friends from Paris and Milan.

Unlike Luigi, who wove himself seamlessly into the American lifestyle, Amelia kept one foot firmly planted in European soil, treating America more like a vacation home than native ground.

Your smile mirrors hers. "Lui, I'm taking the boat out. I wanted to invite the two of—"

"They're letting you drive the boat again?" Luigi's eyebrow arches skyward, his gaze drifting to the tree line where you imagine water glinting beyond it.

"Well, yeah, obviously—" She rolls her eyes with practiced elegance, her hands tightening around yours like you're co-conspirators. "I already lugged the wine up there." The shimmer on her cheekbones makes sense now, summer's heat having painted her in its golden light. "Andiamo!"

You glance down at your carefully chosen dress – the one you'd agonized over this morning, imagining a formal dining room and judging eyes – then back to Luigi, uncertainty blooming. "I don't have—"

"You will borrow one from me." Giulia waves away your protest before it can fully form, already three steps ahead in that way that speaks of years orchestrating fashion shoots and runaways.

"But —dinner — I'll look awful."

"It's just dinner." Her playful scoff punctures your bubble of worry, and suddenly you're seeing everything through new eyes. All your expectations of stuffed shirts and starched napkins dissolve in the face of her casual radiance. It's just dinner.

Not an inquisition, but an invitation to simply be.

The transformation was quick and painless.

In Amelia's room, she helped you select a bikini from her collection, each piece chosen with a model's eye for detail. The white Prada coverup whispered against your thighs as you padded barefoot across the grounds, all pretense of formality abandoned in favor of simple summer freedom.

It reminds you of visiting your mother in California.

The garage housed three mud-splattered Jeeps of which you piled in among the Mangione siblings — Luigi, Amelia, and a teenaged Luca — as well as a golden retriever that seemed to materialize from thin air, claiming his usual spot with the entitled ease of a family member.

"This place is fucking beautiful," you breathed over some Charli XCX song you recognize from pop nights at the club, watching the world transform through the window.

Luigi caught your eye, a smile playing at his lips as Amelia navigated the gravel paths — paths that, as Luigi couldn't resist pointing out, he and Luca had laid one sweltering summer.

Well, mostly him, while Luca performed his specialty..

Supervisory work from the shade.

The landscape unfolded like a secret forest, all rolling hills, wildflowers, and dappled shadows. It was hard to believe this was still New York — but then again, the Hamptons had always existed in its own ethereal pocket of reality.

The Jeep comes to rest atop a gentle rise, and like a cork popping from champagne, everyone spills out.

Enzo — the golden retriever/ Fourth Mangione sibling — leads the exodus, a streak of gold against green as he bounds down the slope toward the waiting water.

The pontoon boat rocks lazily in the quarry lake, its surface shifting between sea glass and cobalt blue as bright white clouds drift overhead.

"Enzo!" Luca's voice carries across the water as he chases after the dog who's already making abstract art in the shoreline sand, transforming his golden coat into a masterpiece of wet fur and grit.

You stand transfixed, and Luigi reads the questions in your expression without needing to be asked for an explanation.

"They were digging for limestone and hit a spring," he explains, tying the drawstring on his swim shorts. You’ve already drooled over his thighs before piling into the Jeep. "If you can believe it, it'd cost more money to stop the water from filling up the quarry than they'd be making from the mined limestone, so they just said fuck it."

He’s info-dumping now, something you’d grown accustomed to, and you accept his offered hand as you step onto the boat. "I guess that's one way the universe can eat the rich," he muses, both of you watching sunlight fracture across the water's surface, turning the quarry into a sparking kaleidoscope of light.

Amelia claims her position at the helm with the easy confidence of someone who's spent countless summers in that very spot.

For better or for worse.

Her playlist fills the air as she calls out commands, “Everyone to the back!” the authority in her voice earned through experience rather than inheritance.

Still, the boat stubbornly clings to its sandy berth until Luigi drops into the shallows with practiced grace.

You watch as he pushes against the hull, sun-soaked muscles straining before vaulting back aboard in one fluid motion, “You’re welcome, captain!”

It's here, in this unguarded moment, that you see past the polished veneer of wealth and a computer science degree — you see him as simply a brother, a son, a young man shaped not just by privilege but by the genuine bonds of family love.

Water drips from his soft skin, and his laughter mingles with Amelia's music, and somehow this feels more valuable than all the limestone they never mined.

The Luigi you know moves through life like a metronome — the way he times his coffee to brew exactly as he finishes his morning shower, how he highlights textbooks in perfect diagonal strokes, the precise rhythm of his knife against the cutting board.

But here, those patterns dissolve into something wonderfully unpredictable. Something you’ve always feared suddenly being embraced.

"I've heard sooo much about you," Amelia whispers gently, her words nearly carried away by the gentle breeze.

You're both stretched out on the pontoon's cushioned stern, sharing the patch of shade, a secret hideaway from the blazing sun. Her tone carries no judgment or scrutiny — just the warm curiosity of someone finally meeting a character from stories they've grown to love.

You watch the brothers from where you lie, their athletic forms silhouetted against the sparkling water as they compete in increasingly elaborate flips off the boat's edge. "I'm hoping all good things," a laugh escapes you, but there’s an unspoken understanding in Amelia's presence — the careful way she's welcomed you into their world shows her trust in Luigi’s judgment.

"Never a bad word from that boy," Amelia responds, clicking her tongue with knowing affection. "You know him." And you do — you know how Luigi moves through life with a studied grace, how even his frustrations with difficult professors or unsettling clients at Sapphire remain carefully contained, expressed in subtle shifts of posture or the briefest tightening around his eyes rather than outright complaint.

"Has he always been that way?" You push your sunglasses up, surrendering your carefully styled curls to the inevitability of lake water and summer air, gathering them into a ponytail that's more practicality than style.

Amelia considers the question over the rim of her glass, the rosé painting sunset colors across her cheeks. "Yes. Papa hates it." Her lips curve into something too complex to be a grimace, the beauty mark above them emphasizing every nuance of the expression. "But found a way to work with what he was given."

The implications ripple outward — a father playing a long game of chess with his children as pieces.

Luca's youthful charm deployed like a pawn, Amelia's beauty advanced like a queen, Luigi's intellect positioned like a knight, each move calculated for maximum advantage. "Oh, with work?" Your voice emerges cautious and knowing, channeling Julia's ability to navigate delicate waters while gathering information.

"Mhm." Amelia clinks her wine glass against yours. "Lui is Papa's cash cow. Without him, his business would be somewhere in the bottom of this quarry." Her gesture sweeps toward the water where her brothers have hoisted themselves onto a dock floating out in the distance. "Luca is too young to make money for him like that just yet, and there's only so many of Papa's friends who will agree to business matters from the mouth of a twenty-two year old with a degree in fashion design." She gestures toward herself.

"Do you think he likes the work he does with your father?" The question catches in your throat, followed by a softer admission: "We don't talk much about it."

You watch realization cross Amelia's face like a cloud passing over the sun — the sudden awareness that she might have ventured into forbidden territory.

Still, she answers with a stark simplicity, "No," as she shields herself behind designer frames. "But Lui loves Papa, and has become too much of an asset to back out now." She reclines onto her back, empty wine glass balanced perfectly in manicured fingers, adding with quiet finality, “At least without any consequences."

•

The sun has left its mark in the pleasant heaviness of your limbs as you settle at the dinner table. Your arrival dress, that careful splash of red, feels like it belonged to a different day entirely.

Now you're draped in white cotton that catches the evening breeze, a piece of Amelia's artistry that she'd gifted with casual grace, claiming it found its true home in your wearing of it.

The moment you've been bracing for arrives with the setting sun, and you can feel the weight of possibilities — both wonderful and terrible — hovering over the set table.

If this is where your fairy tale shatters, at least you'll have the memory of Luigi's laughter echoing across the quarry, of Luca's backflips, of Amelia's conspiratorial wine-warmed confidences.

A perfect day to cushion whatever comes next.

"So," Luigi's mother begins, her attention settling on you with the precision of a gallery curator examining a new acquisition, "Luigi told me you're studying philosophy."

The conversation unfolds with an easy grace that belies your earlier anxiety. Under the table, Luigi's hand finds your thigh — an anchor point of warmth and reassurance. His thumb traces lazy circles against skin still holding the day's sunshine, while above the crisp white tablecloth, you weave your way through dinner conversation with an effortless charisma.

The harsh spotlight fades as conversations bloom around you like night flowers, a blessed reprieve.

Luca leans across the table, gesturing with his fork as he tells you about Italian high school trends, while Amelia's tales of Parisian fashion houses paint pictures of silk and scandal. Little cousins squabble over the last Maritozzi, their faces smeared with cream as they declare Zia Val the best baker in all the universe, while aunts and uncles trade stories of the Mangione siblings’ childhood, each memory polished smooth from repeated telling.

As sunset bleeds into dusk, fireflies begin their dance over the lawn.

The younger cousins and Luca — still bound by the unspoken hierarchy of family duties — clear plates from the long garden table with practiced efficiency.

Around you, the family disperses into familiar patterns; teenagers float on oversized loungers in the soft-lit pool once they’ve finished cleaning up, their phones glowing like stars; the older generation gravitates toward the stone fire pit where flames paint their faces in flickering gold; others drift between conversations, moving from plush patio seats to gently swaying porch swings with glasses of wine and limoncello.

"I'm gonna be right back." Luigi bends down, his cologne wrapping around you like an expensive promise as he interrupts your debate with Luca about Machiavelli's modern relevance in American universities. His hand brushes your shoulder — casual, proprietary — you catch something tense in the set of his jaw that doesn't match his easy smile.

You wave him off, drawn back into Luca's passionate defense of Italian philosophical traditions. It's only when you're thirty minutes deep into comparing Gramsci interpretations that you realize Luigi's "right back" has stretched into a conspicuous absence.

"Which door will take me to the closest bathroom?" You nudge Amelia, who's sprawled beside you on the oversized porch swing, both of your phones glowing with newly exchanged social media profiles. She's already added you to her close friends Instagram list and declared your birth charts "literally perfect" – Leo moon to your Scorpio rising, whatever that means.

The wine has made her affectionate; she giggles into your shoulder, her Cartier bracelet catching the garden lights.

"Oh — hm," she pauses, wine glass tilted thoughtfully against her lower lip. Her eyes scan the villa's facade until they land on a set of French doors, their elegant frame nearly hidden beneath cascading ivy that glows emerald in the garden lighting. Through the glass, you glimpse the lush interior of what appears to be a greenhouse. "That one. Go in and turn left. Just before Papa's study."

The last words seem to sober her slightly, though you can't tell if it's the mention of her father or just the wine catching up to her.

You fortify yourself with another generous sip of wine before crossing the starlit lawn.

The greenhouse welcomes you with a wall of perfumed air, and you pause despite your mission, admiring how Val has transformed this space into a jungle of orchids and climbing vines that seem to glow in the orchestrated lighting.

Through the leaves, crystal wind chimes catch the evening breeze, their soft music following you as you transition from the humid warmth into the estates air-conditioned interior, where maplewood floors and elaborate crown molding remind you exactly whose house you're in.

The wine has softened the edges of Amelia's directions. Left at the-or was it right after the — You pause, orienting yourself in the maze of hallways, when voices drift down the corridor.

Making an executive decision that human sounds are better than wandering lost all night, you follow them.

But three steps in, something in those voices. Their pitch, their intensity, turns your wine-warmed blood to ice.

You freeze mid-step, suddenly aware that you're hearing something you shouldn't.

Again.

The plush runner beneath your feet muffles any sound of your presence as the conversation from behind the study door grows clearer, more distinct.

"I can't keep doing this," Luigi's voice, stripped of its usual warm humor, carries a rare edge of desperation. "The risks are getting-“

"Non dire stronzate." Don’t talk nonsense. His father's reply cracks like a whip through the air. "The Paradiso matter needs handling. Their whale is getting too lucky, and you will take care of it. Tomorrow."

"He's not lucky — he's skilled. And I won't-“

"Do not dare to tell me no." The subtle shift in his father's tone makes you shiver despite the lingering warmth of the summer evening. Crystal clinks against crystal as ice cubes settle in what you imagine is his ever-present scotch. "Everything you are, everything you have. Who gave you all of it? Have you forgotten who paid for that degree you still haven’t finished?"

"I know." Luigi's voice sounds suddenly tired, hollowed out. "You never let me forget."

"The casino crumbles without these controls. You think Luca's art school in Florence, Amelia's little fashion dreams in Milan — you think any of this exists without sacrifice?" A pause, then softer, "La ragazza... She is lovely. Charming. But what does she bring to our name besides pretty smiles and trouble? Tell me, figlio mio, what does a sex working philosophy student offer the Mangiones except distraction?"

Another clink of ice, the creak of expensive leather, a sharp exhale.

"I'll watch the tables tomorrow." Luigi's submission comes quietly, defeat threading through each syllable. "But I beg you to remember that you cannot do this without me.” You hear him stand, and you can tell his jaw is clenched when he says, “And you will leave her the fuck out of it.”

[baekhyunsbestie]

Are your requests open ? If so can you do What it's like having baekhyun as your husband ?

hubsand!baekhyun is the absolute sweeeeetest 😭🥹💘💞💓💖💗 (these r all facts btw bc it’s me i'm his wife n can confirm everything below is true) — gets nsfw under the cut!!!

✶ a menace, but he's your menace – baekhyun is the type of husband who makes life feel like a never ending sleepover. he teases you endlessly, whether it’s stealing your food mid bite, tickling your sides when you’re focused on something, or singing exaggerated love songs about you in the most ridiculous voices just to see you roll your eyes. but you can always tell—it’s adoration disguised as mischief.

✶ clingy, always touching you – always finding a way to touch you no matter what you’re doing. cooking? expect a back hug with his chin resting on your shoulder, swaying you side to side like a lovesick puppy. movie night? forget personal space—he’s pulling you straight into his lap, arms wrapped tight like you might float away. even the tiniest moments don’t escape him. passing each other in the hallway? forehead kiss, no second thought. like this man just needs to be touching you, even if it’s something as small as hooking his pinky around yours. it's like you’re his personal source of oxygen, and ofc he wouldn’t have it any other way.

✶ insists on a goodnight ritual – no ifs, ands, or buts. it’s something sweet and silly, maybe a very specific order of forehead, cheek, and nose kisses or a whispered “i love you even more than yesterday” before bed. and if you ever try to skip it? oh, he’s pouting. full on, arms crossed, huffing dramatically until you give in and make it right. he swears he just can’t sleep without it. and honestly? neither can you.

✶ the most competitive lil shit alive – you really thought just cus you're married, he'd mellow out? LMAAAOOOO nope. board games? video games? who can finish their drink first? it’s all a competition, and he has to win. and if he doesn’t? suddenly, you cheated. somehow. even if you’re playing something as foolproof as rock-paper-scissors. and don’t even think about beating him at mario kart unless you’re ready for war.

✶ loves when you wear his clothes – like actually forgets how to function for a second. his oversized hoodies? his t shirts drowning you? yeeeaaah, he’s obsessed. he’ll pause whatever he’s doing just to admire you, eyes shining with pure smugness before he pulls you into his arms, all warm and satisfied. “jeeeeez. you just love smelling like me, don’t you?” he teases, grinning because he knows he’s being insufferable. (and yes, he’s definitely smirking. yes, he’s eating this shit up.)

✶ has made it his personal mission to find you the cutest, most random little trinkets – ever since you mentioned liking them, he’s been on the lookout everywhere he goes. he could be out running errands and spot a tiny keychain shaped like a strawberry and immediately think, yep, that’s for my baby. now you have a growing collection of the most useless but ridiculously adorable knick knacks, all because he saw them and thought of you.

✶ dramatic when he misses you - gone for two days and acting like he’s been stranded on a deserted island for years. sends you voice messages full of exaggerated sighs, texts “i miss you” every hour on the dot, and makes you pinky promise you won’t forget about him while he’s away. but the second he’s home? he’s tackling you onto the couch, clinging onto you like a koala, whining about how unbelievably heartless you were for making him suffer this long.

✶ marriage does not mean he’s letting up – in fact, it’s only made him worse. if you thought slipping a ring on your finger would slow him down, think again. baekhyun still flirts like he’s trying to seduce you for the first time, still backs you up against the counter just to murmur the filthiest things in your ear, his breath warm, his voice all silk and sin. and then he just walks away, leaving you flushed, thighs pressed together, and completely at his mercy.

✶ has no shame about needing you – when he wants you, you’ll know. doesn’t matter if you’re busy, he’s sliding in next to you, fingers already tracing slow, lazy patterns up your thighs. his head rests heavy on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “baby, i’m so fucking hard it hurts… fix it for me, yeah?” and if you even think about ignoring him? oh, he only gets bolder—hands wandering, voice dropping, teasing you until you give in just the way he likes.

✶ teases you just to see you get impatient – drags it out just to watch you squirm—he loves making you unravel. slow, so agonizingly slow, barely touching, just enough to make you whine, to make you crave. his lips brush your ear, voice dripping with amusement as he whispers, “hmm? what's wrong, baby? not enough for you?” like he doesn't already know the answer, like he isn't enjoying every second of your frustration.

✶ talks you through it – bc if there’s one thing this fucker loves, it’s running his mouth. and in bed? oh, he’s even worse. he keeps his eyes locked on you while he ruins you, voice all low and smooth as he murmurs, “you feel so good, baby,” “love watching you like this,” “yeah? you like that?” he’s greedy for every little sound you make, chasing your reactions like they’re his lifeline. and if you try to bite back your moans, try to stay quiet? yeah, good luck with that—he’ll just push deeper, go harder, until you have no choice but to give him what he wants.

✶ gets so smug when you’re needy for him – cocky grin, slow, lazy touches that never quite give you what you want. the second you’re the one reaching for him first? oh, he’s fucking insufferable. lips brushing against yours, teasing, barely there, his head tilting like he’s amused. “hmm? what’s this?” he murmurs, voice dripping with satisfaction. “couldn’t wait for me?” and then he just—stalls. watches you squirm, drinks in every little impatient sigh like it fuels him. “say it, baby,” he demands, voice low, lips ghosting over your skin. “tell me how bad you need me.”

✶ possessive, but in a devotional way – he doesn’t give a damn about anyone else looking, bc he knows you’re his. but when he’s got you to himself, when he’s showing you exactly what that means, that’s when it gets dangerous. his grip on your waist turns bruising, his breath hot against your ear as he drags you closer, voice thick with need as he mutters, “mine. every inch of you. every fucking part of you—mine.”

✶ fucks you like he’s obsessed, like he can’t believe you’re real – like he’d drop to his knees just to taste you if you asked. he never shuts up, either, murmuring filthy praise between ragged breaths, telling you how fucking gorgeous you are, how tight, how warm, how you were made for him. even when he’s fucking you rough, when his fingers dig in hard enough to leave bruises, there’s that same reverence in his voice—like he’s been aching for this all day, like he exists just to make you cum, like nothing else in the world matters except the way you fall apart for him.

✶ lives for aftercare just as much as he lives for wrecking you – bc as much as he teases, as much as he pushes, he’s even softer when it’s over. he gathers you up in his arms, pressing slow, lazy kisses all over your face, whispering sweet nothings like he didn’t just have you trembling beneath him. “aw, was i too rough, baby?” he murmurs, fingers tracing over every mark he’s left. “lemme make it better, yeah?” and he does—tending to you with warm hands and soft words, like he’s making up for every filthy thing he just did to you.

[offorestsongs]

i know the discussion in the fandom is kind of over now BUT i have brain worms so. anyways. i think what a lot of people miss in the whole "oh but Vil made Rook do x thing—" is that Vil WISHES he could make Rook do anything. yes, Rook is obsessed with Vil and would follow him into hell (i mean, he did kind of do that) but at any given moment he's also too focused on how pretty Vil's lips are to actually listen to what he's saying. that man has the worst case of selecitve hearing ever seen in a human being. Vil said "don't transfer to Pomefiore it's a stupid idea" and Rook only heard "transfer to Pomefiore". Vil cannot even get Rook to shut up and y'all think he could force Rook to cut his hair if he didn't already want to. lmao

[gengernoway]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀limerencial

limerencial ;; a neogender umbrella term based on " Limerence ", a state of mind which is an overwhelming longing for emotional reciprocation from somebody else. limerencine beings might also feel connected to the following concepts: obsessive love, stalkers/stalking, obsession in general, erotomania, overwhelming and unexpected feelings and a devastating distance between oneself and the object of their affection.

general terminology :

limerencity – equivalent of femininity/masculinity. limerencine – the equivalent of feminine/masculine. translimere – term for transitioning to limerencial without any other identity involved. LIMIN – limerencial in nature. stalker – man/woman equivalent of limerencial.

attraction terms :

LIM4LIM / distancian – limerencial loving limerencial. stalkee – a limerencial crush. farfriend – the equivalent of girlfriend/boyfriend. obsesonaire – limerencial partner. stalkmate – limerencial spouse.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀tagging : @radiomogai @telephone-blights

ids in alt. :^) link to iwc in question.

[starlos-soulmate]

Two versions of a lovecore Starcake moodboard I made over the break. I love the lovecore aesthetic and I've made a lotta things over the break. So. Yeehaw!!

Love a cowboy <3

[b1mbodoll]

heeseung size kink.... oh my god please elaborate im foaming at the mouth rn i cannot function knowing he's 6 foot

pairings: lee heeseung x f! reader

warnings: size kink + creampies + oral + throat fucking

💌: im literally going to be sick i need him so bad i stopped doing my eyeliner to answer this

heeseung loves the fact that he towers over you. loves to pin you against the wall n lean into you, a smirk plastered on his face just inches away from ur own as he cups your jaw with one hand makin you look up at him while tellin’ you all the dirty things he’s gna do to u 🥺 in bed he likes to fuck you doggystyle n when he cums he drapes himself over you, grunting in your ear as he presses his fat cock even deeper inside, the tip slipping past your cervix making you cry 😣

his cock is unbelievably long and thick, fills you up so well it’s almost too big for your pretty lil pussy but you take it like a champ every time n it turns him on so much, precum dribbling from his slit, leaking down his length.

“fuckin’ take it, princess” he grunts, using his full body weight to crush you into the mattress, hips thrusting shallowly causing soft moans spill out of you.

he fucks into you one last time before his thick seed floods your womb n your little cunt squeezes him so tight it forces him out while he’s still cumming, ropes landing on your arched back n spilling out of your gaping hole.

😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 seungie’s so impressed with how you work ur mouth over his length too. fucks your throat n pushes the tip of his girthy dick into your cheek, stroking his thumb along ur cheek n over the bulge 😵‍💫 makes him cum so fast when you deepthroat him n gag harshly, sputtering around him when his semen violates your throat n makes you choke

[leonsliga]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMBDTfcyw/ Who is this diva? And what was Jamal thinking?

I was an atheist until I saw Jesus in my living room

And then you’ve just got Jamal fully dissociating right next to him 😭

[cookiekissers]

Genuinely and desperately ask for Crunchy Chip cookie x male reader! Crunchy Chip always puts up a front of not wanting/caring for sweet stuff but deep down loves it. Imagine him like that but with people, he acts tough around others but completely melts when he's around reader. Thank you for existing and doing the Lord's work 🙏 lmao

[Crunchy Chip x Male Reader]

I haven't written or posted that much yet, but thank you!! It's an honour <3

Crunchy Chip Cookie works diligently to keep up his image as a hardened warrior. But like the sweets he pretends to despise, he can barely hide his feelings around you, Y/N Cookie. If he had a tail, it would be wagging whenever he sees you! He can't help it!

Around others, he acts like his usual prideful self, but as soon as he spots you, he gets quiet and flustered. Crunchy Chip believes he's good at concealing his feelings for you, but it's apparent to everyone what's really going on. Even if you're the oblivious type, you'll eventually notice because it's so obvious. Crunchy Chip isn't exactly subtle. But this only makes him all the more charming!

If you pretend you haven't caught on to his feelings yet, and decide to start teasing him, it will make him melt. He tries hard to deny the intense feelings you "inflict" on him, how his heart pounds when you get a little too close to him and tease him, and how you have all but taken over his thoughts. He constantly scolds himself for how mushy he's acting! You have turned him into a lovestruck puppy and he hates it. Acting this way is unbecoming of a great Dark Cacao warrior! Yet… ask a favour of him or call for him and he will run to you without hesitation.

If you're waiting for Crunchy Chip Cookie to make the first move you will have to wait for a while, so you will probably have to take initiative on this one. But once you two do get together officially, expect to see his softer side much more often. He only does this in private and around you. No one else gets to see Crunchy Chip like this but you. <3

It's a little different in private. When you're alone with him, he relaxes a little bit, but not by much. His code of pride and rigorous discipline has been drilled into his head, so its a tough habit to break. If you gently remind him that he does deserve to relax a little and have care and softness, he will indulge somewhat guiltily. But he is still afraid of being "caught in the act," so his relaxation with you will be restrained. But afterwards, he will dream of it. Being in your arms, having you stroke his hair lovingly while he rests in your lap. Crunchy Chip will wake up in his tent amidst the snow on a frozen mountain and daydream about looking up at your handsome face and yearn to experience such tenderness and warmth again.

But don't try to bring up your affectionate sessions in public, Crunchy Chip will panic and try to play dumb and pretend that it didn't happen. It's not that he didn't enjoy being with you! Honestly, the guy is yearning and pining so hard he thinks he's physically ill.

[lcs-scar]

More of that silly thing

[miupow]

hehe secret perv!tyun staying with his roommate's family over winter break because his family is too far. you're excited to meet the boy you've heard so much about from your son but you're shocked with how handsome and flirtatious tyun is. he's staying in your house for the next four weeks and it's driving you crazy.

the way he always seems to subtly touch you, leaving you guessing if it was intentional or not. the way he sits closest to you whenever he can. the way he walks out of the bathroom after a shower with his hair dripping and his towel slung low on his waist, toned chest and abs shining with water droplets. the way you swear the dryer is eating your panties because they seem to suddenly be missing and then turn up again.

secret perv tyun who has the biggest crush on his best friend's hot mom and is trying to fuck her before he goes back to school

-ari

god ari jesus christ

[simswoon]

If Lennon hadn’t lost her first baby, how differently do you think her life would have gone so far?

I yapped under the cut, so i don't bother peoples timelines :3

She 100% would’ve had an abortion. No hesitation. She was like… barely holding it together in college, had just broken up with her high school sweetheart because she kissed another guy, and she was deep in her hot mess era. No version of her would’ve tried to be a mom then.

Honestly, if that pregnancy had gone differently, she'd probably still be living her noncommittal, situationship-filled, “I’m fine, I swear” lifestyle. She definitely wouldn’t be in her green house with her best friend, raising twins she accidentally had with a married man. She probably would’ve pushed her mom away. Done more with music. Gotten famous faster. Maybe even spiraled into harder drugs. She probably would’ve achieved her musical dreams by now. (I'm gonna do music stuff soon, I'm just uncreative and not diverse with my own music taste.)

I think losing the baby kinda grounded her. It was the first time life really reminded her that bad things can and will happen to her. She’s still self-destructive and making bad choices, but it would’ve been ten times worse if she hadn’t gone through that. That loss didn’t "fix" her, but it changed her.

Out of control, Lenny would be so fun though! Also, keep in mind she was in her early young adulthood when she lost that pregnancy, and now she's near the end of it with twins; she's had time to grow and experience life.

[lovelyjuju]

K is so fucking tall it’s not funny… he seems like the type to give really good back hugs…….. maki too. and jujuuu omllll (also jo! But i think he’d get flustered)

oh my god YES pls i want a back hug from them😞

i just know that it'd immediately make you feel so warm and safe. and like, when you're having a bad day, a hug from them would just feel like the pieces of everything that went wrong are being put back together:(

they'd wrap their arms around your waist tightly and would just easily kiss the top of your hair or rest their chin on your head and softly tell you how much you mean to them, how well you're doing or whatever it is that you'd need to hear the most – they'd always find just the right words.

i honestly think both euijoo and jo would be a little shy about it at first but once they realize how much you like it (and how much they love having you close, too), they'd just backhug you every chance possible:(

[moraxsthrone]

good timezone. i come bearing a humble gift to my fellow sister wife. have a good day <3

i saw this while brushing my teeth this morning and wanted to punch my fucking sink. 💀

IJJKKNNKGHHHN SISTERWIFE RIN! And a good daypart to you as well! 🧡

just for meeee??? 🥹👉🏼👈🏼 uuugggghhhhh him pulling his glove off with his teeth PLEASE I'M SO WEAK FOR THIS??

But also 👀😩😮‍💨 GODS now I’m thinking about the fact that you and zhongli have regular marking sessions. and i love how he's such a gentleman about it when he's still in full human form and composed.

(NSFW BTC. MDNI. MARKING. SCENTING.)

but once he starts moving inside you, what began as sweet little licks and nudges at your collarbone soon devolves into him flipping you onto your belly, pinning you beneath him as he mounts you. by the time his sweat-sheened chest is pressed to your back, he's got you by the nape of your neck, growling and drooling against your skin, his fangs holding you in place while he ruts into you with abandon.

you've already creamed his cock so many times, your body has gone limp at this point, perfectly content to let him have his way with you. to claim you. to mark you in whatever ways he sees fit. zhongli is your everything - just like you are his - and you trust him with your life. so you let him chase his release, your eyes rolling back at the sounds of his desperate grunts and deep, guttural groans as he owns your whole body.

you know he's close when his hips stutter against you and he quickly pulls out, and you can hear your slick as he jerks his throbbing cock behind you. a deep, blissful groan escapes him and zhongli's warm, thick cum streaks across your back in long, powerful spurts as he milks himself of his musk to lay his fresh claim. there's always so much, but he has to be sure that you've been properly scented. he won't be satisfied until you reek of his rich and distinctly pungent pheromones.