#a decent enough defence

[flyhighisco]

that is a nice line up

[pegasusknightsonly]

Olivias class set is always weird to me bc it feels like the devs were trying to compensate for her horrible stats growths and modifiers by giving her everything she would need to make her the best dancer ever in the franchise - she can get a kill and take another action with galeforce! she has access to the damage boosting skill for her dancer weapon! she has two additional procs to increase her damage one of which will instakill!! - and there is obvious planned synergy which, say, Cordelia does not have and dearly feels the lack. but even with all of that in her arsenal Olivia is still not very good

[son-of-lunadeyis]

*gripping sink* i will not make destiny's blade a run of the mill magical twink i will not make destiny's blade a run of the mill magical twink i will not make destiny's blade a run of the mill magical twink i will not--

[sweetstrawberrysky]

Prompt; The LADS accidentally walk in on you changing.

Caleb - The quick knock at your bedroom door hardly allows you time to respond before the handle turns. “Hey pipsqueak, I know you care about matching, but are you almost d--” He gets exactly one step past the doorway, one quick glance, and he’s frozen in place.

You’re quick to cover yourself and instinctively whip the nearest item, a pillow, at him. “Caleb! Get out!��� The pillow hits his leg and snaps him out of his daze, and he hastily removes himself from your space. He can’t even bring himself to apologize.

His back presses to the outside of your door and his knees give out. His breathing is shaky. A hand runs down his warm face and stops at his chest, clutching the area above his racing heart. “Dummy! Jerk!” He hears you cussing him out from within your room, but he doesn’t care, not after witnessing such a beautiful image that’s bound to play in his head over and over again.

Rafayel - In his defence, he wasn’t expecting you to be changing midday, let alone in his own house. “Cutie, do you-- uh…” And just like that he’s rooted to the spot. Are you… glowing? Is that something humans can do, or are you simply so stunning even the sunlight is on your side?

“Cute…” He mumbled under his breath. His eyes trail all over you until landing on your beautiful face. The tense set of your jaw and pretty tint of red filling your cheeks is enough to snap him back to reality. “Ah! Uh… s-sorry, sorry!” He awkwardly fumbles out of his own room while keeping his gaze down, ears bright red.

Once you’re dressed he doesn’t hold up much better considering you’re flaunting around in one of his painting shirts, radiating like an absolute vision.

Zayne - He’s gotten too comfortable with you. In no other universe with anyone else would he dare to welcome himself into a room when the door is closed shut. “I apologize for returning late,” His sentence is cut short at the sight of you. Vulnerable, soft, delectable.

However, just as quickly as he entered, he exits equally as fast. Not a word is uttered, a sneaky glance isn’t taken, he’s just gone. As soon as you’re decent you open the door and poke your head out. He didn’t go far. His back is pressed against the wall across from you and he’s looking down. Dark green eyes shoot up, scan your face, and dart off to the side. He clears his throat, “I… Sorry. I should have knocked.”

Your head tilts to the side. “…Zayne, are your ears red?” He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to.

Sylus - It was your own fault. Sylus wouldn’t slip up like that, because beneath the surface he’s surprisingly strict about respecting your privacy and boundaries. Mephisto is for your safety, not for being a creep. So, when he accidentally stumbles upon you in a state of undress, in his own bedroom, he’s unsure how to react. Is this a seductive teasing attempt on your end? Or perhaps you’re simply comfortable around him?

His eyes widen a fraction. You’re so ethereal. Though he cocks his head at the freeze response you’re giving. “Sorry.” He places a hand over his eyes while leaving. A few minutes pass when you hear a knock at the door followed by a tender, “Can I come in now?” When you tell him ‘yes’, he exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. You’re still willing to accept him into your space and that’s more than enough for him.

Xavier - He just wanted to sleep with you, and no, not in that way. He’s tired, he had a long day, and you promised to rest with him. Snuggle, hold each other close, watch something on your laptop while your eyes grow heavy… yet you’re taking so long in your bedroom. He’s aware he should have been more considerate, even in his groggy state, but he doesn’t think twice when calling your name while pushing your door open. It was already ajar, so he wasn’t expecting you to be changing.

He lets out a breath at the sight of you. “You’re… luminous.” His pale features gradually redden. He shakes his head and steps back, clicking the door shut. You hear his muffled voice from the other side, “I’m sorry. The door was cracked open, so I thought you were making your bed.” Despite the heat raising to your own cheeks you sheepishly tell him, “You’re… It’s okay. I should’ve made sure it was shut.” Silence, then a quiet, “…You’re beautiful.” You chuckle, “Thank you, Xavier.” He goes on, “So beautiful.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

DENIM DAY

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (part of my fake!fiancee series, but can be read as a standalone) summary: its denim day at work and you opt for the shortest miniskirt you own, but not before snapping a pic and sending it to your boyfriend who is not a happy bunny. warnings | an: suggestive, lots of teasing, allusions to a footjob LOL, hotch puts on tights for reader, hotch is whipped we all say in unison, yall this was going to go in a complete smutfest direction but i decided to behave... for now, established relationship word count: 2.3k

✧ masterlist

Hotch should’ve been relieved to not be out on a field case. To know that he’d be getting out of the office at a decent time, that there wouldn’t be extra forms or reports that needed to be completed because he was behind his desk all day. It should’ve been a pleasant reprieve – except that it wasn’t. Not in the slightest.

Not since he stupidly opened the picture you sent him.

Apparently, it was Denim Day at your office, and instead of opting for a pair of jeans like any reasonable person might, you’d decided on a skirt – if he could even call it that. He wasn’t sure there was enough fabric to qualify.

He wished, with everything in him, that your workplace had a strict dress code. But even if it did, it wouldn’t apply to you. You were in charge, after all. Hell, Denim Day was probably your idea.

And he vaguely remembered you mentioning shoots scheduled all week, which meant people. Lots of them. Models, makeup artists, photographers – all of them walking around while you were dressed in that ridiculously short skirt. All of them seeing what he was still trying to unsee.

He managed to make it through the rest of the morning with some semblance of focus, though his attention span had taken a noticeable hit. He read the same report three times, signed a form he wasn’t supposed to, and snapped at Anderson for no real reason – though in his defence, Anderson had knocked over his coffee.

By the time noon rolled around, his jaw was tight, his tie felt too constricting, and he’d definitely spent more time than necessary staring at the clock. He was just about to stand when Rossi strolled into his office, holding a printed menu like he was offering a peace treaty.

“We’re ordering from that little Italian place you like. You want your usual?”

Hotch shook his head, already reaching for his coat. “No, actually. I’m stepping out for lunch.”

Rossi’s brows lifted. “Stepping out? You?”

“Yes, Rossi. I do occasionally eat outside the building.”

“Of course you do,” Rossi said, clearly humouring him. Then came the smirk – that smirk. “Seeing your fiancée?”

Hotch exhaled slowly, fingers pausing on the lapel of his jacket. “She’s not my fiancée.”

“Eh. Technicalities.”

Hotch didn’t respond, mostly because the longer he stood there, the more obvious it became that yes – he was going to see you. That the whole morning had been a slow, agonising burn of frustration and that if he didn’t get in his car and head to your office soon, he might actually lose his mind.

By the time he slid behind the wheel of his SUV, Hotch had managed to convince himself – for exactly three blocks – that this wasn’t a bad idea. He told himself he was just going to check in, maybe have a quick lunch. A normal, professional, not-at-all unhinged visit to the woman who had sent him a photo in a skirt that had no business being worn in public.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

This was ridiculous.

You’d done this on purpose. He knew it. You’d chosen that skirt knowing exactly what it would do to him, knowing how tightly wound he was, how much of your games he could barely tolerate when you were in sweatpants, let alone when you looked like that.

He tried to talk himself down, told himself that he should just turn around and go back to the office. Eat the damn Italian food. But as he pulled into the parking lot outside your building, he was already unbuckling his seatbelt.

And getting out of the car anyway.

The one small mercy was that your office was on the ground floor – no need for stairs. Not that anyone needed to take the stairs, not with perfectly functioning elevators in the building. But of course, you were the exception.

He’d learned the hard way that you sometimes insisted on taking the stairs “to get your steps in.” You’d even lectured him about it once, accusing him of being “alarmingly sedentary for someone who tackles serial killers for a living.”

He really, really hoped today wasn’t one of those days.

The front doors slid open as he stepped inside, the cool blast of air conditioning doing nothing to steady him. The office was its usual burst chaos. Racks of clothing being wheeled around, someone shouting about a missing pair of heels and a latte order gone wrong, but all of it blurred in the background as he spotted Bella at her desk near the entrance.

She looked up from her laptop, blinked once, and then grinned. “Agent Hotchner, didn’t expect to see you here today.”

He nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “Is she in?”

Bella didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing how much trouble she wanted to cause. “She’s in her office,” she revealed, casually reaching for her phone. “Door’s closed, but I’m sure she’ll make an exception for you.”

Hotch ignored the insinuation. Or tried to. “Thanks.”

He started down the hallway, taking long strides to your door. When he reached the frosted matte glass, he could make out the faint outline of your silhouette behind it.

He raised a hand and knocked twice.

 “Come in,” you called out.

So he did just that.

And did he get there just in time.

You were bent over your desk, heels planted, back arched slightly as you read whatever was in front of you. At the sound of the door slamming shut behind him, you straightened immediately, nearly jumping out of your heels.

“Aaron!” you gasped, hand flying to your chest as you turned around. “You scared me.”

“Good.”

You circled behind your desk, all faux professionalism. “Did we have something in the calendar? Did I forget lunch?”

“You forgot pants.”

You laughed, pulling the measuring tape from around your neck and tossing it aside. “I’ll have you know I’m absolutely wearing pants. Under this one-of-a-kind denim skirt, thank you very much.”

He didn’t respond, just stared.

“Is that why you came all the way over here? To conduct a pants investigation? I’ll let you guess the colour if you’re so curious.”

“They’re red. And I got a full view of them the moment I walked in.”

You grinned, entirely unbothered, grabbing a stack of images from your desk before striding over to the whiteboard. “And?” you tossed over your shoulder. “Do you like them?”

He liked not seeing them anywhere but your apartment. Or his.

“You’re very quiet today, Hotch Hotchner. Something on your mind?” You pinned one photo up, then glanced back at him. “Have you had enough water?” you added sweetly. “And no – coffee doesn’t count.”

You pinned another image to the board, like you hadn’t just called him Hotch Hotchner and asked about his hydration levels while wearing a skirt that should not be allowed in a professional setting.

“Water,” he echoed finally. “That’s what we’re talking about now?”

“Well, we could talk about the real reason you’re here… if you’d prefer.”

His eyes moved down to your skirt and then back you to your face – your smug face because you knew exactly what you were doing. “I came here to see if you’d like to grab lunch.”

You turned back to the board, smoothing an image with a soft gradient of colours. "Lunch," you repeated thoughtfully. "Hmm. That sounds suspiciously wholesome for someone who's been undressing me with his eyes for the last five minutes."

Hotch sighed through his nose. "It's just lunch."

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes sparkling. "Right. Just lunch. And what if I said yes?"

"Then we go," he said, folding his arms. "I open the door for you. You roll your eyes at me. You make fun of my order. We eat."

"And then?"

“And then I bring you back here.”

You turned around slowly, lips quirking. "All very gentlemanly of you, Agent Hotchner.” You let a breath out, dramatic as ever. “Alright, I’ll bite. You can take me to lunch as long as I'm back before two. I have a very important meeting with Milan."

His eyes tracked you as you moved to a drawer on the far side of the room.

And bent over - again.

His jaw tightened, his hands slipping into his pockets, like that would somehow stop his mind from going straight to hell. You were still talking, something about calendar holds and fabric samples, but he couldn't hear a single word. 

Because that skirt? It should be classified as a weapon. 

Then you turned, holding out a small bundle of black fabric like it was nothing. "Could you give me a hand?"

He eyed it warily, already suspicious. Tights.

Of course it was tights.

Still, he took them without hesitation, because you could've handed him a live grenade with that expression, and he would've thanked you for it.

"My hands are super dry and the fabric always snags when I put them on. Honestly, it's a sensory nightmare. Could you do the honours?"

"Your hands are super dry?" he repeated, just as you reached for his jacket and started tugging him towards you, walking backwards until you perched on the edge of your desk, like it was the most reasonable place in the world to stage a wardrobe adjustment.

"Yes, it's gross, really. Skin's peeling off and everything. I'd usually slather them in hand cream, but l've been touching samples all day and I don't want to leave greasy fingerprints all over couture, so now I'm suffering."

That sounded almost half logical. Right up until you kicked off your heels, lifted one leg, and rested your foot just shy of his crotch. He tensed just as you pressed your heel the slightest bit closer. “Pretty please? You know I have delicate hands.”

He should've walked away. Should've told you to put them on yourself. Hell, he could've offered to go grab lunch and save you the trouble entirely. But what did he do instead? He lifted the tights – the ones made of delicately-thin fabric that somehow felt heavier than his gun – and began to bunch them up in his hands.

His eyes dropped to your legs, still resting against him like an invitation. All he had to do was take your ankle, lift it just a little higher, and he'd have a full view of the red lace panties he already couldn't stop thinking about.

If Rossi ever found out what he’d gotten himself into the one time he decided to step out for lunch, Hotch would never hear the end of it.

Before you could get him off with nothing but the arch of your foot, he forced himself to move, sliding the tights up your leg. “This is absurd.”

“You’re doing great,” you encouraged delightfully. “Though, should I be worried that you’re good at this?”

He didn’t look up. “Good at what?”

“Doing what you’re told.”

He could’ve argued, told you you’re wrong, but his mother raised him to be an honest man. You said things – ridiculous, flirty, completely inappropriate things – and he listened. You smiled at him, and suddenly, everything seemed negotiable. Boundaries, logic, professionalism, the whole lot of it.

Because it was you.

Because you could ask him to kneel in a room full of fire and he'd probably say yes, ma'am on the way down.

“I’m banning you from sending me photos while I’m at work,” he muttered, fingers dragging the fabric slowly up your calf.

“Oh yeah?”

His grip tightened a fraction. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to make a point. “You think I’m kidding?”

“I think,” you said, drawing the word out like it was your favourite accessory, right alongside lip-gloss and claw clips. “I should’ve sent you the one I took of me from behind.”

He froze. Just for a second. Then his hands moved again, dragging the tights up your thigh, and even he was a little surprised he hadn't torn them yet. You were smiling again, clearly enjoying your second-nature ability to make him weak in his fragile knees.

He shouldn't be taking you to lunch.

He wanted to – wanted to open the door for you, order your favourite, sit across the table while you made snide, flirty remarks and shamelessly stole the croutons off his salad like they were yours by right.

But the other part of him, the one you were clearly trying to provoke, had no interest in lunch at all. That side wanted to take you home and teach you a filthy, thorough lesson that had nothing to do with menus or linen napkins...and everything to do with that damn attitude that skirt had given you.

But you were at work. He was due back at work soon. And he figured there was no better way to get back at you – to beat you at your own game – than to make you wait. Make you squirm. Make you regret every single syllable that had left your pretty mouth since he walked in and caught you bent over, ass on display like it wasn't completely deliberate. Like he hadn't seen the phone in your hand. Like he hadn't noticed Bella reach for hers just before he walked in.

Because if you thought you were good at teasing, you had no idea what it looked like when he decided to play.

So, instead of acting on the thousand things running through his head, he let his touch soften, fingers smoothing out the tights and moving on to the other leg like his thoughts weren't indecent and laser-focused on exactly what he planned to do the second he had you alone.

He stepped back once he was finished. "I'll be at the front when you're ready.”

You blinked, lips parted like you were waiting for him to do anything but walk away.

And that was the best part. He didn't even look back as he adjusted his tie and headed for the door, fully aware of the way your eyes followed him.

Now?

You were the one with your composure slipping. 

And when he decided you'd waited long enough... he was going to make sure you remembered every second of it.

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords

nanny!reader with a choking kink coming up next to an alina-blog near you!🌟

dividers by cafekitsune

[realcube]

can't stop thinking about quirk marriage au! with tenya iida.

with villains becoming stonger as the years go on, the iida family realise they will need to toughen up if they want their future generations to stand a chance at becoming decent heroes. especially after what happened to tensei.

to preserve their prestigious lineage, they arrange a quirk marriage for tenya, with a reader whose quirk is related to stamina or durability, in hopes to bear offspring who are both fast and hardy. reader comes from a poor background so they agree in exchange for money to support their family.

at first the marriage feels very much like business and tenya treats it as such; respecting you as much as he would a co-worker. which, albeit, is a lot but he doesn't care about you the way a husband should. he opens doors for you and will help you with household chores and is generally nurturing during your pregnancy, but he has no interest in sharing a bedroom or even eating dinner together. because he may be the father to your child, but he's not your friend.

it goes on like that for a while, until one day he hears you crying in your room. he's not monster, so of course he checks on you to see what the issue is, and you explain to him that you're afraid of what will happen if your child doesn't inherit a composite quirk. if you would be replaced and left to care for it on your own. he reassures you that he'd never abandon you or his child, and that the two of you could always try again. success doesn't come easy.

however, the moment of vulnerablitiy he shared with you was exactly that — a moment. afterwards, he immediately went back to being stern and distant, which contributed you putting up walls to protect your feeling from if he were to ever disappoint you again in the future. like a mantra that repeated in your mind constantly, he doesn't love you and you don't love him.

he never picked up on your increased resistance though, not until three years after the birth of your child and they began displaying signs of a fusion quirk. he turned to you, delighted, and you appeared relieved too, but he was left gawking incredulously after you said, "how lucky. thank the lord we don't need to have another child. one was hard enough."

hearing that caused his heart to drop, as he realised who he had become and the cumulative impact his behaviour has had on you. how could his own wife depise him to that extent? this question haunted him because he knew the answer, he just never had the strength to confront it before.

he had to do something to fix it, now. loving him wasn't necessary, but he needed to prove to you his worth as a father and a husband. he did his best to attend every single one of your kid's baseball games with you, he'd buy you a new bouquet of flowers every week, he'd kiss you on the cheek as a show of affection, whenever you needed a self-care day he'd arrange time-off work, he'd take the family out to the aquarium and the zoo and disneyland and wherever you pleased.

but none of it was ever enough to penetrate your rigid defences. despite his best efforts, he was left with a wife that hates him and child that may grow up to resent him. what a legecy he has paved.

one night, he is sat in bed, doing some light reading before he goes to sleep, when his child sulks into the room. they explain they had a nightmare and want to sleep in their dad's bed tonight. of course tenya agrees and usually there isn't any problems, but tonight the child continued to stir, until they requested, "can mommy sleep here too?"

tenya blinked. usually he would bend over backwards to cheer up his kid, especially as they are having sleep troubles, but this is a bit more complicated as you might be opposed to the idea. however, there was no harm in trying, so tenya sent the kid to your room to ask if it was okay with you.

and of course, you adore your child with everything you have, so if sleeping with your useless husband is what it takes to help them rest soundly, then so be it. you trudge into tenya's room and plop down on the queen-sized bed, with your beloved baby nuzzled between you two. it actually wasn't as awkward as you initially thought, and all three of you are lulled off into the serene night.

tenya woke up before you, so he was the first to realise that your child had snuck off in the middle of the night, while the two of you subconciously cuddled each other. hence, he had you wrapped in his strong arms, with your face nuzzled into his chest.

even with bedhead and a bit drool smudged on your cheek, he thought, you were still so beautiful. so much so, he couldn't help but smile and protectively tighten his grip on you. so funny too. sarcastic yet sickeningly sweet and caring.

had things been different, he wondered if the two of you would've truly been in love. he reckons so; you really are his type, and the perfect girl, which is something he's realising all too late. he blames the circumstances and wishes more than anything that the two of you could've met organically, because although he isn't the best husband, he would give anything to have been your boyfriend.

[beenbaanbuun]

I saw this pic of Twitter and immediately thought of Morticia Hwa and Gomez Joong 😭😭😭

OH THIS IS… HOLY MOLY

(this is not proof read and is very short)

——————————————————————————

the sitting room is quiet, a heavy haze resting over the four members of the household as they recover from the ungodly amount of food that san had prepared for dinner. in the butler’s defence, there were meant to be more of you, but a disaster at the sanctuary meant mingi couldn’t come, and yunho had gotten caught up in some artistic daze so deep that he’d been unable to draw himself away from his canvas, let alone leave his house. a meal for six became a meal for four, and not a crumb was left to spare.

“we should fire him,” hongjoong groans as he allows his body to become slack against his husband’s. it’s hardly like him to lounge so casually, and yet you find yourself unable to judge from your position, lay on the back of your favourite bear rug. it’s music to your ears when seonghwa lets out a quiet chuckle at the sudden appearance of a torso on his lap, and you give them both a lazy smile.

“on what grounds?” seonghwa purrs with so much sickly sweet affection in his tone that you’re sure his teeth must be rotting, “we can hardly fire the best butler we’ve ever had on the basis that his cooking is too good.” lithe fingers come to rest atop hongjoong’s head, sweeping through his curls to separate them. you watch as his eyes flutter closed under the touch, too full of food and love to resist the sweet call of total relaxation for much longer.

“i suppose no one else would be able to put up with our darling dove as well as san does.” you throw a mumbled complaint in hongjoong’s direction at that. unsurprisingly, it falls upon deaf ears. “anyone else would be running for the hills the moment she decides it’s time for her week long baking phase.”

visions of flour clouds and a red faces butler fill your mind, and you can’t help but grin. not one decent cake had come from your few attempts, but the fond memories are enough to make up for it. after that first messy attempt, which saw san standing over you as you meticulously wiped down his kitchen, you had to keep your baking a secret. san had decided rather swiftly that he’d rather suffer through your complaining than see you try to whip up a cake batter again, but he didn’t live in the kitchen, and there were plenty of times you had the place to yourself.

you have no doubt that he knew, though. after all, ingredients don’t just vanish into thin air, and the smell of burnt food is one that tends to linger. it’s been months since your short-term hobby came to a head though, and he’s never once brought it up.

yeosang’s theory is that he doesn’t want to stir up any further interest in you. as far as you’re concerned, he’s just being his usual, polite self. after all, mentioning a ladies failures is quite high up on the list of faux pas’ that you’ve created in your head.

“you make it seem worse than it was,” you complain from the floor, face squished rather unceremoniously against jongho’s back, your words muffled by his fur. the rug itself is warm with the spirit that runs through it like blood, and it lulls you into a sleepy state of which there is no escape. not that you necessarily want to escape it; perhaps if you fall asleep down here, seonghwa might carry you to bed instead of you having to walk it…

the chorus of laughter from the two men is enough to keep you awake for now, though.

“perhaps we’re remembering it wrong, but i seem to recall a rather continuous stream of inedible goods coming from that kitchen,” hongjoong says, “and whilst i adore you, dove, no amount of love could ever make me want to repeat that experience.”

“yeosang liked them!” it’s a bare faced lie, but with the werewolf having already taken to his bed, you have no one to dispute your claim. a perfect crime, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re such a bad liar.

“if we say we believe you will you promise never to set foot in there again?” seonghwa asks with a lilt of laughter laced through his words. it’s such a pretty sound, and you can’t help but find yourself nodding along to his offer. he smiles down at you, honest and kind as though you hold the world in your hands. “good girl.”

[adragonsfriend]

Hey serious talk for a second ok? some of you do this thing where you go “and yeah so the Jedi often take in kids from parents who are too poor to take care of them” as some kind of trump card against antis and I think your need to “defend” the Jedi has outweighed your good sense. Like I fully understand the urge, but you need to take a step back from that argument and think about what you are saying.

“They don’t kidnap kids they take in kids from parents in vulnerable, desperate situations” is not the argument you think it is.

Presenting a strategy and/or habit of taking in kids from desperate people in desperate situations as like some super high charitable trump card thing is some incredibly Christian missionary logic there ok. It is taking advantage of desperation and fear in order to acquire child.

There are so many alternative ways to write the Jedi dealing with situations of finding Force sensitive kids in desperate situations that do not suck!

Jedi who work with communities for an extended period of time, coming to know and be trusted by those communities before being offered a child born after their arrival

Jedi who encounter families with Force sensitive children work to improve the entire families’ circumstances to provide stability before offering to take in the children

Jedi encountering a desperate parent who was already trying to find a way to get a child out of their care before the Jedi arrived for some specific reason (maybe someone who always planned to give up the child for adoption but can’t trust either their family members or the system?)

Jedi actively delaying the guardians giving up a child to make sure they’ve fully considered why they’re doing it, if they’re really sure, to varying final results

In The Living Force, it’s emphasised that upon encountering a force sensitive child in a neglectful orphanage situation, a Jedi should have assessed the whole situation and helped all the children there, rather than just whisking away the Force-sensitive one (and thereby created a situation where the child had a reasonable choice about whether to go or not)

And if you’re thinking “but those seem soo lucky and too good to be true often enough to sustain the order’s population...” then it’s possible that what you actually belive is that the Jedi need to prey on desperation to acquire sufficient children, and if so, you should not be defending that as moral. That is the opposite of a defence of the Jedi.

Personally, I think the Jedi just stumble across and/or work to create the types of situations above—where the guardians actually do enter circumstances where they can consent out of something other than desperation—with greater than average frequency. It’s the will of the Force, destiny, whatever. Simple as that.

Even in the prequels with Anakin, while I do not think it goes far enough in the direction I’m pushing for here, we see Shmi be the one to ask if Qui-Gon can help Anakin after Qui-Gon leaves a conversational opening for it, and then we see Qui-Gon attempt to free Shmi at the same time as Anakin. Even after she implies she might accept Anakin becoming a Jedi if it will save him from the life in slavery, it is still important that she be helped and freed. In her language when Shmi finally sees Anakin again as she’s dying, “now I am complete,” I think it’s reasonable to assume she’s stating that she’s glad the gamble she took letting him go paid off—ergo, she knew she was taking a gamble, not that she was some pathetically grateful recipient of Jedi aid.

If Star Wars were capable of having scenes that intentionally did more than one thing at a time, maybe we could’ve had a scene that did a half decent job of making the improvement of Shmi’s situation essential to the whole interaction on a cultural level (literally just move the “Qui-Gon gave her a valuable object to sell with the understanding she would know what to do from there” plot line someone invented in a comic into the movie itself—use one of Padmé’s dresses lol) rather than using it as something to raise up Qui-Gon’s individual moral status without actually helping Shmi at all.

Helping everyone in the situation so they can actually consent to giving away care of a child has to be essential to the Jedi on a cultural level—not just individual—in order for this to work. I think it is essential to them, and so I try to write that into my stories.

Do you think about what Jedi could actually be, or do you just respond to antis’ talking points with the first idea you can grasp onto? Because the latter can apparently make you say shit like “poor people should give up their kids to other cultures when they can’t take care of them” rather than “everyone should have the resources to be able to take good care of their children.”

And that’s important.

(And just to get ahead of the curve, yes I know that what I’m saying is “some variation of Star Wars would be so good if it was good.” Star Wars fanfic/discourse would also be good if it was good, and unlike the movies, fandom is always in the process of remaking itself. So maybe we could make it good, sometime)

[sleeepybeary]

☆ 𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 ☆

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓: Babysitting your brother's daughter, Agatha can't help but find herself biting her as a warning for the secrets told.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: biting (gentle bites)

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 820

It wasn't often that you heard from your family, even less so from your brother. However, with your brother's upcoming travel to the town just over and a babysitter cancelling, you were dumped with the responsibility of babysitting instead, unfortunately.

So, kneeling down on the floor of your house with a small smile spreading across your face, you coo with a gentle tone of voice.

“Look at you, being so smart” you had commented, watching with a tamed unamusement as the baby had picked up the small horse statue carved from pine wood. Her small fingers wrapped around the throat of the animal, hands not developed enough for form a tight squeeze, but strong enough to hold in a soft clasp.

“Talking to the imaginary friend again?” Agatha’s voice rang out from behind you as she stood, balancing most of her weight upon her right leg, arms crossed and her hair messily thrown up in some excuse of a “fashionable” style.

“I beg your pardon?” You let out a choke of disbelief, your eyes narrowing as you glance at the woman who can only stare back with a daring smirk. “I'm not talking to an imaginary friend, I'll have you know”

“Then who is of our company?”

You flick your head slightly, motioning for her to step closer as your fingers wrap around the underarms of the infant. “Look at me!” You speak through a tightening tone, a smile threatening to break way. “I'm a baby, I need your attention!”

“Ahh…” Agatha clicks her tongue, kneeling down slightly as her hands remain almost limp beside her. “You're babysitting today… that totally slipped my mind”

“Yeah, well, no one else was available” you pause, letting your fingers slowly slip from the smaller girl's arms. “Besides, this may put you on good terms with my family too”

Laughing dryly, Agatha almost slaps your shoulder, “we're already on semi-decent terms. I fret to think they'll find out I'm a witch someday, though. That's when I'll need those accommodations”

You tch, eyeing your girlfriend slightly. “They'd probably disown me before I could ever breathe your name again”

“Or sell us out for ransom”

“That's not very nice, Agatha” you warn, your eyes going almost lazy as you throw her an odd look.

Though, despite your slight defence in protecting your family's name, in the lime light, what Agatha was speaking of was certainly of a possibility - one you'd wish to avoid.

So, in turn, telling your parents of your girlfriend's stance in witchcraft was out of the picture. For now, at least.

“You didn't hear anything, okay, little one?” Agatha had ignored your look, turning to hold the tinier humans' hands, watching the way her young fingers wrapped around the length of just one of her fingers. “If you did, and you tell anyone, we're gonna have a real serious problem”

“She's three, Agatha. She can barely even say Mama and Dada.” You laugh teasingly at her seriousness, noting the way her eyes crinkle at the edges from the narrowing of her eyes.

“At the age of three, I was already running around, causing my ‘Mama’ some awfully inconvenient hassle” she grins, blue eyes shining in a haze of mischief. “Stealing food, drawing on the walls, biting the furniture once my first tooth came in-”

“A real devil in disguise”

“Exactly” she chuckles, leaning down till her face was just a rulers length away from the infants face. “Do you know what we do to snitches?”

“Agatha…” you groan slightly, having gained the exact same treatment during the first night of finding out about her supernatural abilities.

She waits, watching as the baby lets out a small squeal, smiling at her impaired ability to yet talk. “We eat them all up like this-”

You observe the way Agatha brings the infants' hand to her mouth, her teeth gently sinking into the vulnerable of her flesh just enough to leave a small indentation.

Your lips purse slightly, watching at the way Agatha lets out small “nom nom” sounds to the slow rhythm of which she scatters the smaller hand in gentle bites - never going far enough to actually hurt her - but enough to leave her confused.

“If this were anyone else, I'd almost be jealous” you tut, shaking your head.

“Oh? Do you want to be bitten, too?” Agatha looks to you, smirking slightly as she takes your hand in her own.

You laugh lightly, scrunching your nose as you pull your hand back. “No… I think I'm okay for now”

Agatha can only let out a gentle hum, licking her drying lips slightly as she adjusts her… your T-shirt as it hangs loosely upon her shoulders and around her throat. “You know where to find me if you ever change your mind”

“In my house…? In my clothes…?”

“Exactly” Agatha lets out a simple laugh, her eyes closing as her head tilts back slightly. “And don't you forget it”

[g1rld1ary]

sex on the beach - spencer reid x bartender!reader

next

wc: 1134

cw: swearing, alcohol, i am a beer hater to my core!!!!!!!

working in a bar right near quantico was never dull. certainly not the most interesting job in the world, but you supposed you would rather be a bartender there than in some rinky-dink town in bumfuck nowhere. plus, most of the FBI agents tipped pretty decently.

you'd only been working for an hour or two when the agents started filing in, all eager to let off steam on a friday night. sometimes the job made them disagreeable but mostly it just made them want to drink, and who were you to deny them? so you were kept busy refilling glasses and mixing drinks, making small talk when you could over the pumping music.

just as a kesha song came to an end you watched the bau walk in, all serious expressions and purposeful strides. you guessed from their demeanours they'd probably just returned from a case, looking to destress together -- not that you were a profiler. ssa derek morgan sent you a nod; both a greeting and a request to get started on their drinks for him to collect once they were all settled at a table. you returned the gesture, quickly counting how many of them had made it. your eyes flew across all the usual suspects, landing on an unfamiliar face.

he was definitely younger than the others, easily able to pass for a college student if he tried -- not much older than you. he must be a new recruit, you figured, turning back to your job.

as expected, morgan was over a few minutes later, handing you his card as he collected the beer bottles between his fingers.

"who's the kid?" you looked towards the skinny brown-haired boy. morgan laughed.

"doctor spencer reid, our very own kid genius," he explained and you hummed in approval.

"his first time at a bar?" in your defence, he looked like a wolf in sheep's clothing. or more accurately, a sheep in fbi clothing. his brown sweater vest and thick brown glasses made him look adorably dorky, even in a room full of agents. morgan shrugged.

"not sure. first time with us at least, after heavy convincing from the girls." you looked as doctor reid was squished between penelope and elle, who looked to be teasing him about something or other. "he's only 23, joined the team last year so we don't know too much about him outside of work, but the kid clearly doesn't have much life experience yet."

"he's cute. send him to get the next round." derek raised an eyebrow.

"crushing on pretty boy? didn't peg him as your type." you laughed.

"as opposed to what, you and your rippling muscles?" you pretended to swoon as he scoffed good-naturedly, stepping away from the bar.

"just play nice with him or he'll never come back!" he called and you shook your head, laughing to yourself as you attended another customer.

you couldn't help glancing over to the bau's table more than was strictly necessary, unexpectedly fascinated with the young doctor. he was clearly the youngest of the group, not just by appearance, but you could tell the others teased him relentlessly without needing to hear any of the specifics. you watched him take it, but you were most interested in his drink.

you were by no means a profiler, but as someone who was frequently in charge of creating other's drinks, you were pretty in tune with their reactions. it was abundantly clear that doctor reid hated his beer. you weren't offended, it was just a bottle the bar kept stocked and you thought it tasted like ass anyway, but it was a little funny watching him struggle to make it through the bottle.

sure enough though, he was meandering awkwardly up to the bar where you stood, looking a little like he wished the ground would swallow him up. you rushed through the drink you were mixing to attend to him, much to the dismay of the other patrons waiting to order.

"the famous doctor reid," you greeted, "what can I getcha?" he looked a little alarmed that you knew his name and you smiled, explaining that morgan had pointed him out before.

"right." he swallowed awkwardly, "can i just get, uh... whatever we were just having?" you held back a laugh, figuring it would probably just make him more anxious.

"of course," you hesitated, "you don't like beer do you?" he tried to put up a fight, stammering out that he did in fact like beer, but seemed to give up before you could even start to be convinced.

"it doesn't matter though, it's just one night."

"you know it doesn't matter what you drink, right? your team isn't gonna stop inviting you because you drink something that actually tastes digestible. i mean, look at penelope," you stage whispered the last part, gesturing over to garcia's electric blue sugar rush in a glass you learnt to make specially for her. reid looked at you for a moment, clearly trying to decode something.

"what would i even have?" he asked, clearly self-conscious.

"not much of a partier? we could start you with sex on the beach--"

"what!" he blurted before you could finish, then slapped a hand over his mouth, immediately regretting it. you answered patiently,

"it's a cocktail i like; fruity and actually tastes good, like peach and cranberry so super tasty!"

"uh yeah, ok, i can try that." you nodded with a smile you hoped was friendly as you got set on making the drink for him. he watched you closely, and you found yourself uncharacteristically nervous under his gaze, despite it having no clear judgement. rather, he seemed intensely curious, eager to learn the proper procedure at a bar.

"let me know if this isn't the one for you and next time we can try something else!" you handed him the glass and he thanked you profusely, leaving you a generous tip on top of the round of beers and his cocktail.

"please come again soon," you joked, glancing down at the bill in your hand, "but doctor reid?" spencer came back toward you, "if morgan gives you any shit for what you're drinking, just tell him we all know that he drinks cosmopolitans." you chanced a wink and reid blushed, nodding. he stuttered out an affirmation, tucking a stray piece of hair behind his ear as he rushed back to the table.

as you watched morgan tease him about the drink reid must have taken your advice, because in a second the table was all looking at you, morgan with a particularly scandalised expression. you waved coyly, concealing the excitement you felt after your interaction with the young doctor. you thought garcia might've seen through you and avoided eye contact, busying yourself with whatever was in your sight.

this is so not what i thought I was gonna write when I started this so if u see me write another bartender one shot just close ur eyes...

[corviiids]

omg what are your thoughts on the phantom thieves becoming adults and getting jobs :0 i'd love to hear them!

thank you so much for asking. here is one billion words. i will remove my bumper sticker from your car

i am also working on a project which nudges on some of these ideas so shhh! shhhhhhhhhh

ryuji

successfully gets through rehab and recovers enough to launch into a pretty decent competitive track career, which he does for a while, but i think he retires early after deciding he doesn't want that to be his life forever. while spending time with ren doing volunteering, he realises he really enjoys working with kids, so he picks up some qualifications and becomes a gym teacher and track coach for kids. i think for ryuji when he gets older he gets more and more disgusted with the person kamoshida was when ryuji starts working with kids and struggles to understand how anyone could treat them so poorly when ryuji just loves them and wants to help them thrive. anyway he becomes a deeply beloved teacher and coach, basically what someone like kamoshida could have been if he'd been good instead of shit, and spends the rest of his life doing that. he and ren are roommates for a while but he eventually moves out to pursue his career.

ann

she finishes out the game pretty ambitious so i do think she launches into a successful international modelling career. after gaining some notoriety in that space and building up a ton of experience and good contacts i think she starts branching out into launching her own fashion and beauty lines. eventually i think she should become the editor of her own fashion publication too... the others see her on billboards and in magazines and on buses all the time. briefly dips her toe into an acting career after being invited to a film but her performance is so poor she wins an equivalent to the golden razzie which she shows up to accept in person laughing and gushing about what an honour it is so everyone loves her even more for it although she decides not to continue acting after that. important to me is that she gets new cool haircuts. imagining her with close-cropped hair. like not exactly a buzzcut but getting there. she's an icon. she splits her time between LA and tokyo and has apartments in both places but usually prefers to crash at ren or makoto's place in tokyo and be a loving nuisance to them for a while

yusuke

i feel very strongly that yusuke needs to experience the world and branch out because the game kind of goes "yusuke's personality is art" which frustrates me as 1) to be a good artist i think breadth of life experience is valuable and 2) i want yusuke to do fun things. so i think yusuke postcanon tries to immerse himself fully in art for a while but then has kind of an existential crisis about his work feeling superficial to him despite his successes and so he ends up going on extensive sabbatical backpacking around the world and meeting lots of people and experiencing new things and then returning to pour his newfound knowledge of life and wisdom into his art and reaching new depths and takes the art world by storm. and also he always has money for food forever. starts out with an art foundation but eventually gets his own studio apartment which lies abandoned while he's gallivanting. haru furnished it

makoto

to me makoto is one of the characters who finishes the game with the most growing left to do, which makes her really fun to explore postcanon, personally. anyway i think she does become a cop and does it for quite a few years but before long starts to get extremely disillusioned about the work she's doing until she eventually hits quite a severe depressive spiral about the direction her life has taken. then sae and her friends talk her out of her crisis by convincing her that it's never too late to change your life. so she quits her job and in her late 30s/early 40s she goes back to school and gets her law degree and eventually becomes a criminal defence attorney. she also figures out that she is gay. i think this takes her less time than the cop thing but still like probably longer than she'd care to admit. lives alone with a pet. i want to say she either has a dog or some kind of cool reptile like a bearded dragon.

futaba

i have a running joke with myself that akechi puts her onto r/overemployed and so futaba has like six or seven remote IT jobs at major companies around the world, none of which know about each other, all of which she does from the comfort of her house. anyway she gets loaded off a series of extremely good and mysterious investments that she refuses to explain so she's mostly just working for fun. gets back into hacktivism also mostly just for fun. sometimes she anonymously drops entire indie games for free online which go viral without fail. moves out on her own in adulthood but still spends most weekends and days at sojiro's and has a WFH office set-up in his house which he complains about and doesn't mind at all.

haru

so i think haru spends a long time working to restore okumura foods to the vision that her grandfather originally had for it and does succeed to a good extent in the sense that it becomes a more ethically-run company with an improved reputation, but okumura foods is a major global corporation and by nature it just cannot attain that local mom-and-pop vibe that her and her grandfather wanted. so i think after a while she retains her shareholding in the company but gives up her directorship to other trusted board members and uses okumura foods as a launching off point to branch out into starting her own much smaller company, which she keeps local and runs herself, and it does become the well-loved community hub she always wanted it to be. doesn't live in tokyo directly because she prefers quieter areas on the outskirts but commutes there merrily all the time to work and see her friends.

sumire

i personally don't think sumire ever achieves her and kasumi's dream of being number one in the world. i think she competes at an international level and comes very close many many times before she eventually comes to peace with that, decides that that's enough for her, and retires from competition. for a while she follows a similar path to ryuji and becomes a children's gymnastics coach, but after a while of other people encouraging her that she could be applying her skills to more competitive pursuits just in a different way, she eventually becomes an olympic-level professional coach and ends up helping many of her students achieve her and kasumi's dream in their stead. also doesn't live in tokyo but visits frequently and has an active whatsapp chat running with ren and akechi on top of the thieves chat.

akechi

decides he's had enough of being dead after a minute. takes a gap year and starts college at the same time as ren. studies law and goes into criminal practice, but bounces between defence and prosecution before getting fucking sick of it and deciding to quit law. he starts his own small private detective agency instead. years later he writes a book and eventually re-enters the media world with a significantly different image to his detective prince years. is surly the ENTIRE time. somehow this doesn't hurt his popularity. no longer has a food blog. moves in with ren after ryuji moves out but not initially romantically, just as roommates with a Tension that makes everyone else extremely uncomfortable

ren

i think ren struggles for a while to work out what his career should be before he eventually figures out he is not the type to get fulfilment from his professional life, and wants to focus more on what he's doing in his personal life, which is helping people. basically after graduation he moves back to tokyo and goes to college and changes his mind a whole bunch of times before eventually settling on some kind of psychology/sociology degree, but then mostly just continues doing a lot of part-time jobs to keep himself afloat while he figures out his life plan. during this time he starts getting into volunteering and social work and spends more of his time working with vulnerable and at-risk youth, basically whatever will put him in most contact with people who need him in a non-paid capacity. eventually when sojiro is set to retire ren takes over leblanc and runs it peacefully as his day job, and the rest of his time is spent on non-profit work. living with akechi.

morgana

the damn cat lives forever. the sakuras and ren's parents have a shared custody agreement. he disregards this and spends most of his time with ren. he and akechi are fine with each other but do not get along vis a vis homemaking decisions mostly because morgana has opinions about their lifestyle choices and akechi doesn't take well to being told where to keep his dishes by a small creature without thumbs.

[elainsgirl]

Hello. Feysand stan here. And elriels are like my younger siblings so I'm coming to the defence. Antis just don't understand writing, it's really that simple. They don't understand writing as a craft. Writing isn't vibes on paper. It's a narrative told through themes, symbolism, character arcs etc. And, most often, it's not even difficult to pick up on. Because, most often, it isn't supposed to be a mystery to unravel. You're supposed to be able to follow along. Its not a TikTok jump scare for brains whose attention spans have been fried and need constant plot twists to even keep their eyes open.

When antis say "previous books don't matter" and "anything could happen! We dont know what sjm will write!" Then all there is to say is "no". Elriels are just way too kind about this (to no one's surprise, because it's really no surprise that the fans of the most gentle characters of the series would be too reasonable for their own good). You know you have the whole narrative on your side.

Writing isn't "anything goes". Its not about what is theoretically possible. Theoretically, SJM could write acotar 6 from the POV of Andras in the afterlife. But that is an uninteresting argument. Because it's not about what's theoretically possible but about what has been set up through all the literary devices at a writer's disposal. And you actually don't even have to know a single thing about writing, and you still will pick up on it. That's how it goes. That's why little kids read Harry Potter and aren't surprised by the general direction of the story. That's why people read Fourth Wing without going all shocked pikachu face when Violet and Xaden end up together.

How insulting is it to say that sjm is so incompetent she spent a decade working on acotar and yet never was there a coherent narrative she built? All is vibes and plot twist taken from a random plot twist generator. That's what they sound like they think writing is. Just no. Its not "anything can happen". Its "what's been set up to happen will happen". And that is so obviously Elriel. And FINALLY. They've been stuck in that basement getting hot and heavy in silence for too long (that's hot though).

So, from one Feyre to all the Elains out there, the next time someone says "we don't know what sjm will write, anything could happen!" The answer should simply be "NO".

awe 💞

and I couldn’t agree more. Antis either read too depply into things missing the point or dont read deel enough, again, missing the point. They dont understand foreshadowing, build up, parallels, patterns etc. They don’t understand that with certain books especially fantasy series - things are layered. Plot, relationships and characters themselves all have multiple layers that are building up towards something. For antis it feels like all their takes are surface level and they try to come up with all these messed up, wrong, interpretations to sound clever and pretend they know what they’re talking about - but anyone with decent reading comprehension and understanding of writing as a craft can see right through their bs.

Everything about acotar is obvious. Elriel is meant to be obvious. Its right there in your face. Yes it is cliche but its meant to be. Mass has been so clear with the direction of the series - had laid it all out as clear as day it’s genuinely so shocking to see antis miss it every single time.

Im sorry, unless an author wants to be known as fickle or hasn’t foreshadowed it enough - they would never switch up 180 all of a sudden with no warning in the text. Mass has foreshadowed multiple things throughout the series and its all coming together book by book. We do know what will happen, Mass clearly states it in the books. Her foreshadowing in acowar, especially romantic pairings has been consistent for 3 books. She’s not going to throw all that away for a couple that - in comparison…has no foreshadowing to be together. Nothing tangible holding them together. Az can leave training and thats it. No more gwynriel interactions and it doesn’t disrupt the current flow of the series.

exactly, most books are predictable. You should be able to pick up on where the story is going, whose ending up together and the effect literary devices have. “Elain and Az are too obvious!” Yes they’re meant to be, you’re literally picking up the clues Mass is putting down. Obvious and predictability isnt bad writing and I wish more people understood this.

Mass has spent the past decade crafting this narrative of fate and destiny coming together. 3 sisters, each perfectly matching with 3 brothers isn’t some random coincidence Mass came up with. Its an intentional choice, its significant- it shows they where always meant to find each other and help each other fix whatever issues are present in the series. Not anything can happen. What happens in the next book has to flow and make sense with the previous book/series - as each book carries an overall plot. Very specific set of events that Mass has left clues for will happen in each book leading upto the big moment/event.

Elriel IS very obvious. Its in your face. By acosf, its no longer a subtle thing. Mass wants you to notice Elain and Azriel. She wants you to pair them together. The next couple isnt some mystery. Mass has kept elriel in the basement for so long but that just means a lot of thought went into their book and hopefully its one of the best books Mass has ever written.

so yh. When someone says “anything can happen” - its valid to disagree with them bcs no. Not anything can happen.

[fanaticsnail]

Mitski - My love mine all mine

Comfort fic with Mihawk?

Pretty plz oh my sister of mine

(Add smut if you must-but you’re really pulling my arm)

Comfort fic, you say? You get some angst too, sis.

Masterlist here.

Word Count: 1,178

Warnings: angst, longing, fluff, sleeping, embracing (no smut)

Song Suggestion: Mitsuki - My Love Mine all Mine.

Nothing in the world belongs to me // But my love mine, all mine // Nothing in the world is mine for free // But my love mine, all mine, all mine

The halls in the great castle had naught a sound resounding in the chasms. The polished cobblestone lay bare and cold, the warm light of the crystalline chandelier reflecting its small flames atop the surfaces. The darkness from nightfall glistened starlight through the stained glass windows; the moon cascading it’s crescent shape on one of the many portraits that hung high and out of sight within the room.

He had been gone for two weeks, his presence not gracing the ornate floorboards with his silhouette for nine days longer than he promised. He thought the contract would be over swiftly, the great blade Yoru able to cut through anything with one fell, booming swipe. His cloak was dishevelled, his cross was laying slightly askew atop his bare chest. The large, fluffed, white feather in his broad hat was slightly singed around the edges, tanning under the scorch marks to tint it a smoked yellow. It did not go at all according to his plan: get in, get it done, get it over with, and get back to you.

The individual he was stalking had managed to raise an army, something the world government did not anticipate him having such sway nor ability to execute. He was to be brought in alive for questioning, his bounty nullified should he perish below a blade. Dracule Mihawk was tasked with not only capturing this person alive, but also ridding the amassment of pirates that had so readily come to his defence. It took him nine days of combat; never resting, always pushing to get to his target. He was exhausted, his energy resources depleted completely.

As he stalked slowly along the grounds, his staff would turn and halt their movements and chores; offering a swift stoop at acknowledgement of his presence. Mihawk’s shoulders were slumped, hunching down from his great posture as he reached your shared bedroom. Turning the circular handle, he lifted the small latch from its brace against the door and slowly allowed the hall light to break through the darkness.

Atop his large four-poster bed lay his love, his hidden treasure known only to his staff and a handful of others he trusted enough with his secret. His eyes softened, leaning his towering form against the post of the doorframe slightly to take you in. Allowing a soft smile to rise to the corner of his lips, he raked his amber-eyes over you to take in your sleeping form.

You lay in a white silken bed-robe, the fabric of the many layers pooling at your wrists in their lengthy decline. Laying on your side, facing the door, your hair lay gracefully cascading atop his pillowcase. Your right leg bent at the knee, the duvet laying beneath it as to mimic your embrace with your lover; as you would most commonly be cradled against the chest of the warlord as you both slept soundly. Your hand was clutching a single red rose, laying wilting and dried over the mattress alongside his promise to return to you before the cut, thorny rose should ever require water. A single petal fell to the floor as you took a deep breath to indicate your slumber had become interrupted.

Mihawk quickly stepped inside and shut the door behind him, the softest click of the latch could be heard as he attempted to silence his decent. He took his hat off, placing it on the desk beside his armchair, alongside removing Yoru and laying the great blade on it’s wooden, decorative resting hilt. He sighed in relief as the weight had been removed from his shoulders, rotating them to remind his muscles how to behave without harnessing such a weapon. Slowly, he drew his arms out of his cloak, wincing as his biceps contracted beneath the material.

He had overexerted himself, went too hard for too long; something you would chastise him for, he’s sure of it. Placing the cloak on the back of his armchair, he removed his boots and socks from his feet and slotted them beneath the bed. His fingers halted their retract as you let a slow, sleepy moan fall from your lips. Your brows began to furrow as your lucidity continued to propel you within haunted dreams of your love’s demise. Mihawk hastily unclasped the buckle on his belt, pulling in one swift movement to rid it from its place within his pants and tucked the object in one of his boots.

Kneeling his right knee on the bed, he began a stumbled and exhausted crawl to fall his body next to your own. He laced his left arm beneath your right and flattened his forehead against your chest, listening to the slow, rhythmic thump of your heartbeat. The remainder of petals fell to rest atop his curled, darkened locks as he closed his honey-coloured eyes tightly shut. He lifted his right arm to rest over your manubrium, focussing more on his concentration listening to the rhythm of your heartbeat and the rise and fall of your breathing.

In your subconsciousness, you drew down your right hand and laced it within Mihawk’s hair; body completing this soft and gentle embrace from muscle memory alone. The furrow in your brows completely fell from your face and softened in your slumber once more. Mihawk smiled into your embrace, relishing being in the arms of his hidden love once again – albeit nine days late.

He hoped you did not hold such tardiness against him, tracing low circles atop the small of your back before drawing his hand down to clutch the back of your right thigh to hook your knee over the bottom of his ribcage. Sighing into the embrace, he felt your body completely relax into him with a sigh of his own to follow in reaction. The two of you feeling the weight of the absence fleeing from your bodies in this gentle embrace, falling from you in waves of bittersweet reunification.

The gentle light of the crescent moon continued to follow into the room, its light illuminating your embrace through the small partition within the heavy charcoal curtains. Mihawk reopened his yellow eyes, tilting his head up and removing his hand from your chest in favour of brushing a single strand away from your face. Your lips were parted, eyelashes forming a small shadow atop the apples of your cheeks under the light of the moon. Mihawk felt his heart swell knowing you were safe in his castle, slumbering soundly while remaining hidden away from the world government.

Finally having something that was truly his own, not an ability to be used for exploit, nor his vast array of wealth in riches and land. You were his, something that was only for him.

“Sleep now, my love,” he sighed, pressing a lingering kiss against your throat with his eyelashes flickering against the bare skin as he leant in to your embrace. He withdrew his soft touch and whispered against your flesh: “May you forgive me when you wake. I love you, may you continue to be mine. Only mine.”

[woso-dreamzzz]

Big Boss

Hardersson x Child!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: You're the big boss

You know that you're a very important part of the Not-Wolfsburg team.

Momma and Morsa tell you that a lot but, more importantly, so does Coach Emma. Coach Emma is kind of like Momma and Morsa's boss. She tells them what to do at training and on the pitch too.

You're her assistant coach so you're kind of like Momma and Morsa's boss too.

Sometimes, when training is going to be very intense and you can't sit and watch, Coach Emma will take you to her special boss meetings. They're very boring sometimes when you have to sit and watch a match from a different team and pick them apart so you know what to tell the Not-Wolfsburg girls at the next meeting.

But you sit through them because you're an important part of the team and one of the big bosses.

"Coach y/n," Emma greets you in the morning as she brings you into her office.

"Hi, Coach Emma!" You say happily, letting her sit you on the spiny chair behind the desk. It's meant to be her seat but she always gives it to you, sitting on the other side of the desk in the not comfortable seat that naughty people sit in sometimes. "I made sure Momma and Morsa got a lot of sleep last night! We went to bed early!"

"Well done. I'll need you to make sure you get them to bed early tonight too. Our match is tomorrow."

"I can do that!"

"I know, because you're the big boss."

You giggle hysterically like every time Coach Emma reminds you. You spin around on her chair as she does paperwork before she collects you for the video reviews.

You sit in her special chair there too and give the girls your best Coach Emma look. "Be quiet!" You say firmly," This is very important!"

Morsa looks like she's about to start laughing so you wave a finger at her.

"I'm not joking!"

"Okay, princesse," Momma says," We'll all be quiet."

"Good! You have to open your listening ears and your watching eyes because this is very important," You lecture them, nodding firmly.

"Exactly right, Coach y/n," Coach Emma says as she stands at the front of the room.

●～●～●～●～

You help her out on the pitch too, during warmups and actual games.

"Run faster!" You yell, arms crossed over your chest as you wear your 'assistant coach' jersey.

The Not-Wolfsburg girls are doing their sprints. They're not doing them very well but they're doing them.

"Faster!" You yell again, stamping your foot in emphasis. "It means more fast!"

Momma breaks out of her sprint to swing you up onto her hip, kissing your cheek.

"Momma!" You whine," You can't hug me like that! I'm being the big boss!"

She laughs and Morsa comes over too, playing with the end of your braid and kissing your forehead.

"And what a good big boss you are," Morsa says," Any advice for us?"

"Play good," You say, patting them both on the cheek," And don't let them get goals."

"Excellent advice," Momma compliments, placing you down on the ground again. "Will we see you in the coaching box?"

You nod. "Uh-huh. You have to remember to do what me and Coach Emma say. 'Cause we're the big bosses."

"Yeah, you are the big boss."

Momma's right, of course. You are the big boss, something that is only proven over and over again as you stand in the coaching box, holding Coach Emma's hand tightly.

Not-Wolfsburg are doing pretty alright against...well, you didn't really know who they were playing against but they were still doing decent enough.

But Coach Emma didn't really look happy so you don't want to look happy either, crossing your arms over your chest and widening your stance to copy hers.

You could tell why though. Not-Wolfsburg would sometimes lose the ball when they didn't need to and then had to scramble to fall back into defence.

Coach Emma mutters angrily under her breath as she watches on.

"They gotta stop seventeen," You say. You don't really like her strange muttering so fill it with your own babble," She keeps running left and passing before people can get to here." You rock back and forth on the balls of your feet.

"You're right, kiddo," Coach Emma says.

"You gotta get them to stop her, Coach Emma," You say," Or she's gonna win. You can't let her win. Gotta focus on her."

She nods. "Absolutely. Come on, Coach y/n, let's tell them that at halftime."

Both you and Coach Emma wear angry looks as you head into the locker room.

You mimic her in everything you do and scramble to stand on the bench so you can at least be of a similar size to everyone else. You wobble a bit and steady yourself against Momma's shoulder.

"You gotta stop seventeen!" You say to the Not-Wolfsburg girls," 'Cause she's causin' problems and you need to stop her!" You're completely serious and would cross your arms over your chest to emphasise the point but you're holding onto Momma's shoulder to stay balanced while trying to squirm away from Morsa's tickling fingers.

Coach Emma takes over from where you stop and you're left with no defence as Momma swings you into her lap, cradling you like when you were a baby and allowing Morsa to pull up your top and tickle your stomach.

"Alright, big boss," Momma says as halftime comes to an end and she lifts you so you're sitting upright again," Anything you need to tell us?"

You think for a moment. "Play good," You say," And stop seventeen...And...And...Good luck kisses!"

You grab at Momma's cheeks to press a sloppy kiss to her forehead before repeating the action on Morsa.

"Thanks, princesse," Morsa says when you pull back.

You give her a disgruntled look. "I'm the big boss right now, Morsa! You can't call me that!"

Morsa chuckles and Momma runs a hand through your hair fondly.

"Sorry, boss. When can I call you princesse again?"

You think for a moment then nod in satisfaction at your answer," When you win."

"Well, Magda," Momma says with a laugh at the look of disbelief on Morsa's face," It looks like you've got to sort out that pesky number seventeen."

"It looks like you need to score some more goals."

You stamp your foot and point to the door. "Come on!"

"Okay, boss."

[princessbrunette]

okay but just imagine being popes sister and you’re sneaking around with jj and one day hes like talking to you through your bedroom door while jjs balls deep in you

CLOSE CALL!

a.n: this can def apply to regular siblings or just step-siblings with pope. some smut but nothin crazy !!

Closed doors at the Heyward house was allowed.

You were allowed privacy, your room was your space and there was a decent amount of trust between all of the house residents. However, locked doors was a no-no, especially now you and Pope were older and were spending an increasingly large amount of time with the opposite gender.

In your defence, you didn’t even know Pope was home. He was meant to be off with John B that day, looking into some old transcripts that could lead them to a map for some treasure you’d all been after for a while now. This was you and JJ’s day off, one might say — and you spent it straddling his lap on your bed, his cock bullying your insides as you grind down on it, his hips lifting beneath you to meet your bounces. One of his ringed hands clasped your waist, helping you with your movements whilst the other took a moment to run through his sun-bleached hair, slightly matted from the sweaty, balmy atmosphere in your room. “Fuck, that’s good huh?” He groans.

Your jaw dropped, a moan just about to rip from your throat as you drew closer to your orgasm— when the moment was interrupted by a swift, but unmistakable knock at your door, followed by the calling of your name. Pope.

JJ sat up so fast from his laid back position you nearly knocked heads, the blonde wincing and holding your lower back as you clenched hard in surprise. You looked at eachother, eyes wide — before Pope called your name once more.

“I gotta get in there, I hid the key to the safe in your room ‘cos I was paranoid and now—” The handle to your door turns.

“Don’t come in!” You yelp, JJ about 3 seconds from throwing you off him so he could swan dive naked out the window. “I’m naked!” Technically, not a lie.

“So put some clothes on, look I’ve got John B waiting outside and I don’t have time to—”

“I cant, I just got out the shower and I’m air drying. Just— just tell me where the key is and I’ll bring it to you.” You call out, hearing him sigh. JJ shifts a little inside your wet heat, and you both wince this time— both sensitive.

“I don’t really remember. I just know it’s in your dresser— Look if you just let me look it’ll be quicker I really gotta go!” He begs and you bite your lip. Pope wasnt dumb, if you tried to sneak JJ out the window or even off the bed he’d hear the extra set of feet and come bursting in like the protective big brother he was. You stare into JJ’s wide eyes, his expression reading ‘What the hell are you about to do?’ and speak again.

“If you come in you gotta keep your eyes closed, okay?” Your voice wavers unsurely, now if having JJ round during the day wasn’t a big enough risk, this sure was. JJ’s eyes widen, jaw gaping slightly as if you’d lost your mind.

“Obviously, I don’t wanna see you naked, dude.” Pope mutters before swinging the door open, eyes screwed shut as promised, even holding a hand over them for extra precaution.

“Just— take a few steps, and then a few to the left and then face the wall where the dresser is.” You direct him as he stumbles over, following your directions until his back his to you, the dresser now infront of him. The two of you watch Pope rummage through the drawers, searching for where he left the key— JJ practically holding his breath, putting statues to shame.

“You should really be coming to this. It could be pretty big.” He converses, digging around.

“Uh— yeah, maybe I’ll meet you there in a little.” You try and regulate your voice, trying to ignore how you can feel JJ throbbing inside of you, begging for release. You furrowed your brows at him briefly, in disbelief that he was still this hard with his close friend in the room. Must have been all the nerves, JJ was always the adrenaline junkie.

“JJ too. Lemme text him—” He mumbles, and you watch the back of him as he digs into his back pocket. The blonde boy beneath you comes to life, wilding shaking his head and waving at his phone sat proudly on your bedside table like a bomb ready to detonate, sure to make a loud and obnoxious noise if Pope was to text him, giving the game away.

“No!” You yell, a little too urgently, and you watch Popes back straighten a little suspiciously, like he wanted to turn around. “Let—” You clear your throat, attempting at a casual tone. “Let me text him. I’ve been looking for an excuse to text him anyway.”

“Gross, you can’t be crushing on my friends. They’re… dudes. They think with their dicks and it’ll just fuck everything up.” He scolds you, sticking his arm deep in the drawer until he jolted with recognition, finally finding the key amongst a wad of socks. “Ah, got it.”

‘Gross?’ JJ mouths to you, face screwed in offence and you lightly smack his arm, distracted by the conversation.

“Whatever, Pope. We’ll talk about this some other time. Now uh— see yourself out.” He stumbles blindly to the door and shuts it behind him again, the two of you staying rooted to your spot until you heard his feet descend away and out the front door.

JJ collapses onto his back once more, breathing out a loud sigh of relief and from the momentum you fall straight on top of him with an ‘Oof!’

“Jesu— my legs crampin’ up. You really just— invited him in here? Just like that?” He explodes, brows raised as you shuffle into a more comfortable spot, his cock still nestled inside of you.

“I had no choice!” You pout, hoping to win some cute points. “And we got away with it, didn’t we?” You add with a cheeky grin, rolling your hips as you grind him in and out of you once more. He lets out a jagged breath and then a chuckle, shaking his head.

“Oh you’re crazy. You know that right? That you’re crazy?”

“You like it.”

“I do but uh— don’t you have something you should be doing? Like texting me for example?” His smile grows as he speaks and you burst into giggles from his stupid joke and fingers digging into your waist. Not giving you a chance to retaliate, he flips you on your back and gets back to work.

[toomuchracket]

dancing like she way out (george daniel x reader smut)

shag the dj shag the dj shag the dj, or whatever the smiths said. basically - a night out takes a turn for the better when you hook up with the hot dj. won't lie, there's use of the d word in here. and choking, because we've all seen that man's hands. enjoy <3

all your friends are wasted, and you hate this club.

no, really - three of them are currently spewing their guts up in the toilets after going too hard on the tequila rose, while the rest flail wildly on the dancefloor in between queuing at the bar to buy yet another round of overpriced jagerbombs. meanwhile, you're doing your best to dodge the extremely persistent man you first swerved about an hour ago, some palm angels-clad twat with shit hair and an inability to take no for an answer, and also doing your best not to spill your vodka cranberry all over yourself in the process.

in short, you're having a shitter of a night.

at least the dj's fit, though. really fit. and, to be fair, he’s spinning some decent stuff. the one saving grace of the night, you'd say.

you watch him from the edge of the dancefloor, empty cup in hand. he's quite focused, more so than some of the wankers you've been dragged to see in this club in the past, only looking up to signal to the bar staff that he needs a refill and to check the vibe of the room. he has pretty eyes, you notice, sharp and dark and clear; eyes that could definitely get you to commit a multitude of sins, quite frankly.

and now? they're looking right at you.

looking isn't a strong enough word, actually. they drag slowly down your body - locking with your own, then travel to your pouty, brown-lined lips, and shamelessly over the curves of your body onto your legs - leaving a trail of thrill-induced goosebumps across your skin in their wake. suddenly, they flick back up to your face, and one closes in a wink. you smirk, and the dj does too.

interesting.

one of your more sober friends nudges you, handing you another vodka. you accept it without breaking eye contact with the dj, wrapping your lips around the straw and smiling with it between your teeth. he raises his eyebrows, still smirking, and you wink; your friend notices, and leans round so you can see her. “are you eye-fucking the dj?”

“maybe,” you reluctantly tear your eyes from him to look at her. “in my defence, he started eye-fucking me first.”

she laughs, tugging you onto the floor and motioning for you to dance. “i think we should keep him looking at you, then.”

“alright,” you down your drink and set down the cup. “let's dance.”

and so, you do, pulling out all the stops. your hair flows behind you as you swing your hips, body twisting and turning and stretching as you lose yourself under the lights and amidst the beat, and you laugh excitedly with your friend as she twirls you. the dancefloor is so empty that you can spin to your heart's content, but that doesn't bother you at all - it means there's less for the object of your efforts to be distracted by, more chance that his attention is on you.

it seems to be completely on you, actually; every time you catch a glimpse of him, his eyes are on you again, and your friend attests to that in your ear as she pulls you in for a hug. “he hasn't stopped looking at you, for even a second. that man wants you, babe.”

you angle your body towards the deck so you can see him. the club lighting is simultaneously sheering out his black shirt and throwing both his stubbled face and tattooed arms into focus - fuck, his arms. 

and he's still looking at you.

“i think you might be right,” you turn back to your friend so she can hear you, deliberately leaning forward and shaking your ass slightly in his direction. “and i want him too.”

she shoves you towards the deck. “go and get him, then.”

with a giggle, you set off, swinging your hips as you all but skip towards the extremely sexy man behind the music. unfortunately for you, some arsey man in too-tight chinos gets to the deck first; folding your arms, you stand behind him, miffed, and wait your turn to speak.

luckily, you only have to do that for a couple of seconds. the guy isn't particularly drunk, but he's annoying. “hey, bro,” he says to the dj, whose handsome face is set in an expression full of what can only be described as ennui. you assume he sees this kind of thing all the time. “can you play some, like, chainsmokers? that would be so sound of you.”

chainsmokers? christ.

clearly, your distaste is showing, because the dj's face slips into a tiny smirk as he looks at you out of the corner of his eye; it disappears, though, before he replies. “‘fraid not, mate…”

his fucking voice. dear god. who is this man, and where has he been all your life?

“...i don't take requests.”

you believe it. everything about the dj screams control, and with every passing second your want to submit to that control is growing. it's not want you have for him any more, but sheer fucking need.

the other guy shrugs and wanders off, and the attention is all on you again. leaning over the mixing board towards you, the dj smirks again. “you, however, can ask me for anything you like.”

fuck. keep it together, bitch.

“anything?” you smile, saccharine, carefully leaning on the side of the deck in such a way that it pushes your boobs up. “even cascada?”

he rolls his eyes. “and here i thought you had taste.”

“whatever made you think that?”

“you picked out that dress to wear tonight, yeah?”

christ. “yeah. you like it?”

he nods, taking a sip of his drink. “it's gorgeous on you. but i think most things would be.”

you blush, revelling in the compliment before shooting your shot. “present company included?”

“jesus,” he shakes his head, and for the briefest of moments you worry that you've lost him. but then he looks up, hunger in those fucking eyes of his, and smirks again. “is that what you want, angel? to go somewhere together and find out?”

the ease with which the pet name falls from his lips is staggering, so much so that you can merely nod. that's not good enough for him, though - “need you to talk to me, beautiful.”

“sorry, sorry,” you compose yourself (with great difficulty). “yes, that's what i want.”

“s'reciprocated,” he smiles, genuinely. “i’m george, by the way.”

you smile in response, and introduce yourself. george says your name, slowly, and you fear that your legs might give way. “pretty,” he replies. “i like how you feel on my tongue.”

the words practically shoot straight into the scrap of fabric you call panties, and your jaw drops. george giggles. “you're cute when you're flustered, angel.”

“shame. i don't tend to make a habit of that.”

“hmmm,”  he clicks his tongue. “i'll need to work on that, then.”

you smile, radiant. “promise?”

“promise,” george smiles. he checks his watch, and you try not to drool at the way his arms flex. or his hands - god, look at his hands! “s'almost closing time. meet me back here in half an hour?”

“looking forward to it,” you blow him a kiss, preening at the way he blushes. “see you in a bit, gorgeous.”

he winks again. you turn and walk back to your friends, who have gathered along the edge of the dancefloor to watch your exchange with the dj. they huddle around you like a rugby scrum when you near them, a cacophony of slurred voices asking what and where and who and when and how; you gesture for them to follow you to the smoking area, where - to much excitement - you relay the details to them in the breaks between nicotine hits, and hug them all goodnight before you have to go back inside, them to the cloakroom and you to the dj.

your wingwoman friend is the last one you bid farewell to - she links arms with you to walk back into the sweaty club, doing the pre-prepared spiel you give each other when you pull. “have fun, but don't be stupid. if it's his place you end up at, then send me your location. i'll phone you in the morning, alright?”

“yeah,” you kiss her cheek. “thanks for all your help.”

“no problem. stay safe, have the best time,” she grins. “and i want details at the pub quiz on tuesday.”

“noted,” you hug her again as you reach the place to part ways. “love you. goodnight.”

“get it, bitch!” she shouts after you; you turn to salute her and giggle, and then she's gone. with a deep breath and a shake of your hair, you dart past the people starting to head towards the cloakroom, butterflies starting to emerge again as you get closer to george.

he smiles when he sees you, eyes raking over your body once again. “you know,” he says, as you reach the deck. “you really are beautiful.”

“i'm already leaving with you, george, you can drop the flattery,” you roll your eyes, then beam at him. “thank you, though.”

“just stating facts,” george turns some sort of dial, and the music fades to silence. as the club staff usher everyone from the room, he sighs happily. “been waiting to do that since you came up to me earlier.”

“really?”

“yeah,” he unplugs his laptop from the deck, sliding it into a backpack. “you're very distracting, you know, looking so good and dancing like that.”

“well, i try,” you hold out a hand. “ready to go?”

george nods, stepping down beside you - you gawk at the the height of him, towering over you. “fuck me, you're tall.”

he laughs, taking your hand in his. again, the size difference is insane, and you find yourself momentarily nervous to get into bed with him; that soon passes in favour of excitement, though. “don't worry, i'll even out the height thing by getting on my knees soon enough.”

the speed with which you tug him toward the exit at that is almost comical. george only giggles and lets you drag him to the door - he stops when you’re out in the cold air, though. “hold on, angel, i need a cig.”

you nod, standing on the step beside the door while he moves down a few to light his cigarette in peace. his hands, so big, are surprisingly nimble as he pulls a fag from the packet and flicks the lighter on; again, it does something to your core, and you lean against the brick wall to keep yourself steady.

after a few (erotic) drags of the cig, george holds it out to you. wordlessly, you accept, holding eye contact as you take a drag and exhale it in his direction. george's eyes flick to your lips, then back to your own - suddenly, he's kissing you, a hand in your hair and one on the small of your back, your arms looped around his neck. it's not a polite kiss, by any means; george kisses like he’s trying to devour you in the best possible way, stealing all the air from your lungs and inhibitions from your brain, tongue and teeth working against your mouth to get you to give in to him.

like you need any convincing.

a trail of spit connects you as he breaks the sloppy kiss, forehead resting against yours as you both breathe deeply. “fuck, angel,” george sighs, kissing you quickly again. “your place or mine?”

“we can be at my flat in five minutes if we walk quickly.”

“shit. lead the way.”

***

your front door hasn't even fully closed behind you before george is pressing you up against it, grabbing handfuls of your ass and lifting you so he can kiss your lips and neck while he grinds into you. every time his hips meet yours, you feel your eyes roll back into your head and the need for him inside you growing. his teeth meet the skin of your collarbone, and you swear you see stars. “george.”

his head shoots up immediately. “no marks?”

“no, leave as many as you want. it's just,” you whimper as he sucks a bruise into your skin. “i really want you to take me to bed. please?”

he groans at that, peeling you off the wall as he turns. “where…?”

“second door on the left.”

no sooner than the words have left your lips, george is kicking your bedroom door open and all but throwing you onto your bed. hands shaking, you do your best to undo your heels and throw them into a corner as george rids himself of backpack and shirt; you mewl at the sight of him, muscles hardened in the moonlight, and sit up on your knees to clumsily undo his belt.

he shakes his head, moving your hands from him. “you first, angel. arms up, come on, let's get that pathetic excuse for a dress off you.”

“i thought you liked this dress?” you frown, even as you oblige and let him peel the dress up your body.

“i do, but - oh, fuck,” george moans as your almost-bare body is revealed to him. “it was doing an awful job of stopping me thinking about you like this.”

his gaze on you is almost predatory, so much so that it makes you sink back onto your knees in submission, legs slightly open and chest forward. “do i live up to your daydreams, sir? no, wait,” you squint, assessing george to see if you can figure him out. “do i live up to your daydreams, daddy?”

you've hit the nail on the head; george’s eyes close as he swears and undoes his belt, kicking his trousers and shoes off before climbing onto the bed, onto you. he pulls you slowly onto his lap, and rocks you back and forth even more slowly. “does this answer your question, baby?” he murmurs, the gravel in his voice liquifying your insides and sending them straight into your underwear. the friction against his hardness is incredible, and all you can do is whine as you look into those obsidian eyes - again, that's not good enough for george, who delivers a sharp smack to your ass. “words, angel. tell daddy what you think.”

“i - ooh,” you whimper, as george changes angle to one that manages to catch your clit with every grind. “i think i live up to them, yes, daddy. think you wanna fuck me, and - shit - i want that too.”

“my smart girl,” he kisses you again, another head-melter that has you moaning into his mouth. “what else do you want, hmmm? want me to go down on you?”

as tempting as having that mouth between your legs sounds… that isn’t what you want right now. “wake me up like that tomorrow, please,” you savour the way george whines into your neck at the thought. “but right now, i just need you to fill me up, daddy.”

“well, i did say you could ask me for anything you liked,” he grins against you, kissing you quickly before softly laying you down. “fuck, look at you, angel, so fucking beautiful. where have they been keeping you from me all this time?” 

your cheeks burn at the way he bites his lip, trailing his hands over your bare chest and all the way down to your panties. “i mean, seriously,” he hums. “i've never wanted to fuck someone more in my life.”

“so do it. please,” you open your legs, showing him the surely-visible wet patch on your silky underwear. “need you inside me, daddy.”

“alright, alright,” george huffs out a laugh, one of disbelief, as he trails a finger up your clothed slit. “jesus, you’re soaked already. can i take these off?”

“please.”

he smiles, dragging the material down your legs and his fingers through your wetness; evilly, he slides the same hand beneath his boxers to palm himself, groaning. when you protest, he laughs. “just making sure we're both ready, baby. speaking of… protection?”

you say nothing, and just reach across to grab your pill packet from the bedside table and wave it at him.

“noted,” he leans forward to kiss you, before moving back onto his knees to slide his boxers off. as the fabric drops, so does your jaw: you knew from the feeling of him under you that you weren't dealing with something compact, here, but george is fucking huge. like, slightly terror-inducing huge. that said, though, you begin to salivate at the sight of him - he notices this, and giggles. “like what you see?”

“yeah,” wide eyed, you look up at his face, your own breaking into an anticipated smile; tentatively, you reach out to touch his cock, both of you gasping in tandem when you wrap your hand (as best you can) around him, manicured thumb flicking over the pre-cum soaked tip. neither of you break eye contact as you pump him a few times, the sexual tension in the room too magnetic to do so, and when you speak it comes out in a whisper. “how do you want me?”

“how don’t i want you?” george smirks, tapping your wrist to make you let go of him. he shuffles forward, big hands meeting your chest and squeezing gently, and beams when you whine. “fucking love that sound. lie back for me, angel, wanna watch these tits while i make you feel good. that alright?”

“mhmm,” you do as asked, fanning your hair across the pillow and spreading your legs - george can't seem to decide where to look, eyes darting between your face and chest and glistening cunt, and it makes you feel incredible. “like this, daddy?”

he nods. “perfect,” his lips find yours again  as he settles above you, resting his weight on one hand while the other slides between your thighs again. two long fingers tentatively dip into your cunt, and george groans while you gasp at the fullness. christ, if this is how you react to his fingers, then what on earth will it be like when he's actually fucking you? “jesus, baby, you're so fucking tight,” he hisses, eyes heavy as he looks down into yours. “want me to get you off with my hand first, before you take my cock? i mean, you're wet enough that you should be alright, but… i want you to feel good. comfortable. s'all about you, angel.”

shit. you have a sneaking suspicion that this man might genuinely be the death of you. but at least you'll die happy, yeah?

smiling, slightly dazed, you shake your head. “just want you to fuck me, daddy. need it, needed your cock all night.”

“you're sure?” george caresses your cheek.

“i'm sure,” you nod, humming happily as you watch him pump himself and drag his length through your wetness. “put it in, please.”

“sweet girl,” he kisses you, deep and slow, and pushes into you, the same. “oh my god.”

you're speechless, breathless, completely fucking brainless - all you can think about is the utterly delicious way george is stretching you out. nobody you've ever fucked before has really made you relate to the metaphor “rearranging your guts”, but with him it's crystal clear; he's so gentle and you're so turned on that it isn't painful, but he's definitely ruined any other man for you already and he's - you look down to check - not even fully inside you yet.

you giggle, slightly delirious, at that realisation. george smiles at you, groaning as he bottoms out and stills inside you. “feeling good?”

“so fucking good,” you lean up to kiss him, whining against his lips at the slight change in angle. fuck, he’s deep. “fuck me, please.”

he smirks. “magic word?”

“fuck me, please,” you kiss him again, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip then pulling back and whispering. “daddy.”

“good girl,” george pulls your legs around his waist, slowly sliding out of you and back in; you both moan in harmony as he does. “jesus, you feel incredible.”

you preen, beaming up at him - the smile is knocked from your face as he speeds up, though, in favour of your jaw dropping in pleasure. “yeah, that's it. fucking me so good, don't stop, please.”

“not stopping until i get you off, angel, don't worry,” he shifts slightly again, his next thrust hitting a spot inside you that you didn't think existed; when he does, you whimper, the contact sending another gush to your core and shockwaves throughout your body. “oh, you liked that, didn't you, sweet girl? shall i do it again? yeah, i think i will.”

he does, ripping a cry from your throat in the process. your legs quiver around his waist, the repeated hits to the area sparking them into movement, and you clutch desperately at his forearm beside your head. “daddy…”

“what is it, angel?” george leans down to kiss you, still fucking you relentlessly. “tell me what you want.”

your brain is growing hazier by the second, dopamine and serotonin and god knows what else overpowering all your motor functions, but you still manage to oblige. “want - fuck - want you to choke me.”

“fuck,” george’s eyes roll back slightly. “you're sure?”

you nod, stomach contracting in ecstasy. “need it, need you.”

“you're so fucking cute,” he grins, incongruous with the way his big hand wraps around your neck and presses, just enough for you to sigh happily and clench around him. “think you really might be an angel, by the way,” he pants out, never letting the rhythm of his hips drop. “you feel like heaven. look like it, too. and trust me, later on,” he kisses your neck, dragging his tongue up so he can whisper in your ear. “i am going to get on my knees and worship you for hours.”

okay, it's settled - he's perfect. you can never fuck anyone else ever again. “please.”

“‘please’ what, sweet girl? please do that?” he coos, sucking another mark just under your jaw. “or please make you cum?”

“cum,” you choke out from under his hand, legs practically thrashing from how good you feel. “please, daddy.”

“gonna be a good girl and help me, then?” george looks you straight in the eye, his almost completely shut in pleasure. “touch yourself for me. show me what you're gonna do every time you think about this, about me.”

christ alive. you obey (you're not sure that you'd be unable to resist that voice even if you wanted to), grabbing one of your tits in one hand and sliding the other between your bodies to your clit. as soon as you touch the bundle of nerves, the shockwaves pulsing through your body increase tenfold; if not for george above you, grounding you, you reckon you'd have shot off the mattress by now. through a quivering jaw, you talk to him. “m'so close, so fucking close.”

“me too, angel,” george’s eyelids flutter as he talks. “don't fight it - cum for me, my good girl, cum on my fucking cock.”

your body does as it’s told, a final surge of pleasure flowing through your body so strongly that you actually black out for a second; your fuse is relit by george groaning, gravel and guttural, in your ear, imminent climax signalled by his hips falling out of rhythm for the first time so far and his hand slackening on your neck. “oh, fuck, i'm there. can i… inside?”

“yeah,” you breathe out. “fill me up, daddy.”

“shit!”

with a moan of your name, george buries himself to the hilt inside you one final time, thrusting shallow and kissing you fiercely as he paints your insides white. once he’s done, he carefully lies down on top of you and rests his head in the crook of your neck, still inside you as you both catch your breath. despite finishing last, he’s the first to speak, moving to hover over you and kiss you again. “i'm so glad you decided to go out tonight.”

“me too,” you giggle. “same again next week?”

“absolutely. i'll be the one waiting by the speakers.”