#i think i like to complain and pretend i think all of those little things are annoying cause theyre inconvenient but i actually love it all

[icewindandboringhorror]

Lineup of all of the characters that appear long enough to need a visual representation of them in the game lol

[silverislander]

have discovered a new enemy while doing research for the honours essay. why are you pretending to understand psychology and BLATANTLY misinterpreting actual terms and concepts in order to tear down a movie aimed at teenage girls, my good bitch. i'm going to start biting

[lunarsapphism]

.

[strwberri-milk]

Can i request LND boys with someone who has so much cuteness aggression toward them, like biting or nibbling their arms or squishing their cheeks (being careful not to hurt them ofc) or making random noises not knowing what to do with all the love for them even though the boys are just being themselves?

i LOVE cute aggression

Zayne has no idea what you're doing until one day he forces it out of you. You're too embarrassed to admit that it's because you find this outwardly stoic and analytical man to be the most adorable thing you've ever seen. He's holding your face in his hand, squishing your cheeks together with a soft laugh as he pulls you further into his lap. He bares himself to you, raising a brow as though to gesture to you to have at it, not minding in the least as you start to cover his body in nips and bites.

Xavier just gives you a pathetic little look whenever you nip at him which just makes you want to bite him even more. You love him so much and this is just the best outlet you have to give him all of those emotions. He never says anything, just takes it all with a grin as you shower him with attention, simply amplifying your love for him to the nth degree. He does his best to make it easy for you to get at him, teasing you with a thank you whenever you leave him a mark.

Rafayel pretends he hates it, telling you that he's not some big piece of sushi for you to eat. He yelps and whines in pain, pushing you off playfully. However, the second you stop he complains even more about the fact that you've tossed him aside after having your fill of him. If he's not covered in bite marks he doesn't want it.

Sylus doesn't understand what you're doing but he doesn't tell you off for it. Instead, he just gives you a questioning look as he tries to understand what you're doing. Once he puts the pieces together he'll tease you for finding him cute, telling you in between interspersed kisses how adorable you are thinking something like him can be called cute.

[headspace-hotel]

I hate a lot of trends in climate-change-aware nature writing, but this is one I particularly detest: works insisting that we live in a "post-natural" world.

The lostness, bewilderment, aching, and searching in this piece is understood by the author to be an all-consuming and universal dysphoria, when it is actually a highly specific predicament that the author put himself into: He tried to understand the universe exclusively through the point of view of white people.

I mean that Purdy takes the colonizer point of view without realizing that it is a colonizer point of view. He thinks the colonizer point of view is a universal document of the authentic, naive encounter of "humanity" with "nature," instead of burning wreckage left over from the apocalyptic destruction of a rainbow of ideas and cultures.

It feels weird to be talking about this as a white person, but it shouldn't, any more than it should feel weird to say (as a white person) that aliens didn't build the pyramids.

Very little of what he's writing about would exist or make sense without European colonization of the world. Purdy constantly says "we" and "our" in reference to things that are very restricted to a particular cultural point of view, as if totally oblivious to the idea that other cultures and other perspectives even exist. When he searches for historical references to chart "human" relationship with nature, history goes like this: Pre-Christian religion in the British Isles->British monarchy-> George Washington-> Industrial Revolution->Thoreau.

He manages to repeatedly stumble over giant hunks of colonialism embedded in every concept he's thinking about, like boulders obstructing a pathway, and pretends so hard that they don't exist that his points are janky and meandering. For example, his discussion of Helen Macdonald's book H for Hawk, touching upon human identification with the landscape and with non-human "nature," blunders into this:

Those who love (certain parts of) nature are often making a point of preferring it to (certain kinds of) human beings. The problem is not only literary. Macdonald describes an encounter with a retired couple who join her in admiring a valley full of deer, then remark how good it is to see “a real bit of Old England still left, despite all these immigrants coming in.” She does not reply, but is miserable afterward. The meaning of landscapes is always someone’s meaning in particular. Confronted with all of this, Macdonald tries to shake off the complicities of her own identification with the terrain: “I wish that we would not fight for landscapes that remind us of who we think we are. I wish we would fight, instead, for landscapes buzzing and glowing with life in all its variousness.” The alternative that Macdonald wishes for is, of course, not an escape from political-cultural projection onto landscape, but another approach to that same practice — really, the only one a 21st-century cosmopolitan is likely to feel comfortable embracing. 

AND THEN HE JUST SEGUES INTO THE NEXT POINT LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED. Like don't worry about it :) We will simply project onto landscapes in a non-racist way :) because we aren't racist anymore in the 21st century :)

The next book he discusses is Landmarks by Robert MacFarlane, which is basically about how the vocabulary of landscape in English is sterilized and monoculturized, and contrasts that with Scots Gaelic. This is how Purdy explains the thesis of the book:

 Our sense of what lies outside ourselves has been blunted by “capital, apathy, and urbanization” — enemies likely to draw a range of friends, from cultural Marxists to Little Englanders to those who would like to see a bit more effort, please. But behind this scholarly sketch, Macfarlane’s work is testament to a pretheoretical obsession with unfamiliar ways of encountering places. We disenchanted and distracted (post)moderns describe terrain, he complains, in terms of “large, generic units” such as “field,” “hill,” “valley,” and “wood." (...) Many people who have lived intimately with landscapes have had words for nuances of form, texture, and use. Macfarlane’s purpose in Landmarksis to gather these words as proof of how precisely it is possible to name a place, and so, perforce, to know it.

Why is Gaelic endangered? Because of an effort to extinguish its speakers' culture. This article I found on it talks about the history of the language's decline, and it's strikingly similar to what happened to indigenous people in the Americas and Australia, with children being put in schools where they were beaten with sticks for speaking their native language.

This whole essay is about Purdy's general disappointment with nature writing, his craving for an ineffable Something, some sort of magical, primitive identification with the natural world. In the very first paragraph he claims that the pictures of animals on nursery walls are "totemic" and quotes a guy saying that zoos are an "epitaph" to the relationship between people and animals. It's never very clear what he means, but he uses the term "animism" repeatedly, such as when he says this about MacFarlane's goal in writing Landmarks:

His quarry is an animistic sense that Barry Lopez once identified in “the moment when the thing — the hill, the tarn . . . ceases to be a thing, and becomes something that knows we are there."

Given that ambition, Landmarks, which Macfarlane calls a “counter-desecration phrasebook,” can be disappointingly thin as a lexicon. Too many of the terms are simply dialect or Gaelic for some generic form, such as “slope,” “hilltop,” “stream,” or “tuft of grass.” The effect is less pointing out how many things there are to see than cataloguing how many names there are for the same thing.

This is Purdy missing the point, perfectly crystallized as though frozen in amber. He is oblivious to the clear subtext of a language showing a culture's connection to its home, and of the violence against that culture. The Gaelic language doesn't make him feel primal and mystical the way he wants it to, therefore it doesn't mean anything to him. MacFarlane doesn't make him feel a magic animistic connection to nature, therefore his book must have failed at its task.

Who gives a shit? Gaelic isn't FOR you.

He discusses another book about a guy that hikes a bunch of Cherokee trails, but I don't know what to say about that one, observing it through the sludge of the reviewer's unwillingness to recognize that historical context exists. He summarizes his disappointment in a confusing way, using the Gaelic language as a symbol for an obscure and inaccessible place where the answer to your personal emotional cravings lives (???) Then he talks about a kind of epistemicide, or extinction of knowing, of nature, but again, totally oblivious to any relationship to colonization.

Every inhabited continent has been denuded of ecosystems and species. Most North American places have shed wolves, elk, moose, brown bears, panthers, bison, and a variety of fish and wild plants, which were all abundant four hundred years ago. 

Wow, I wonder what happened four hundred years ago?

This writing acts like the dominant Eurocentric attitude towards the world is universal, but the author is haunted by this nameless specter of the possibility of a different way of thinking, which he treats as some kind of mystical, primordial state hidden in the past instead of just a different cultural perspective.

Not only does he not recognize that his own cultural perspective of Nature is dysfunctional and unsatisfying because it was created by exploitation and genocide of other cultures and their symbiotic relationships, he acts like other perspectives don't exist. Take his perspective on forests and the mycorrhizal network:

Wohlleben’s emphasis on interdependence and mutual aid is part of a recent tendency to recast nature in an egalitarian fashion — as cooperative, nonindividualist, and, often enough, hybrid and queer, in contrast to the oaks of generals and kings. Nature does answer faithfully to the imaginative imperatives and limitations of its observers, so it was inevitable that after centuries of viewing forests as kingdoms, then as factories (and, along the way, as cathedrals for Romantic sentiment), the 21st century would discover a networked information system under the leaves and humus, what Wohlleben calls, with an impressive lack of embarrassment, a “wood wide web.”

Listen, I don't think this is accurate to how Europeans thought of forests throughout time, let alone "humanity" in general. The emphasis of power and competition in ecosystems emerged after Darwin, in collusion with capitalism and "race science." Trees have been symbols of life, wisdom and selflessness, and regarded as sacred or even sentient, for centuries before that. But on top of that, this is just blatantly pretending that only white people's ideas count as ideas.

It's the same dreck as all the other "literary" writing about climate change: self-pityingly and unproductively mourning "Nature" and a fantasized "wild" state of the Earth, ignoring colonialism, treating human influence of any kind on other life forms as something that either destroys them or makes them soft and "tame."

I'm tired of reading nature writing from people that obviously do not go outside, or if they do, they do it in such a suffocatingly regimented, goal-oriented way that they can't just sit outside and relax.

Maybe I shouldn't be such a hater if I want to do nature writing. But my love of nature is WHY I am a hater.

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Drabble List #8

75 prompts to write drabbles or longer stories.

"Just one of those days, I guess."

"This makes it easier to identify them."

"Have you ever had friendship bracelets?"

"Feel free to walk all over me."

"You're the one stirring the pot."

"I feel like you don't actually believe me."

"What a tragedy this is."

"This will be permanent."

"Oh well, nothing I can do about it now."

"The media is lying to you - and so is everyone else."

"Just gonna pretend I didn't hear that."

"Silly me to assume you would care."

"You should clean the mess you make."

"My life is amazing, it really is."

"Nothing to complain here."

"I can't believe that we finally made it."

"Thank you so much for this opportunity."

"Mark my words, this will not end cute."

"Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

"You look hot, mama."

"Can you bail me out? Please?"

"What a silly thing to say."

"So, this is it? Really?"

"It will never be truly over."

"That is a fascinating tattoo that you have."

"You're going to jail for this."

"What a dramatic exit."

"I know your friends."

"A seat will be assigned to you shortly."

"Here is a list of all the ways you are wrong."

"We should talk about what happened."

"Do you have your ticket ready?"

"I'm sorry, but our personal goals just don't match up."

"The boxes are all labeled incorrectly."

"Well, you should've listened to me."

"Tragic. That outfit is a disaster."

"I'm sitting front row. I always do."

"Oh you silly little thing."

"What is your star sign?"

"I'm not who you think I am."

"Can't say I'm that surprised."

"Truly legendary."

"Please, sing for me!"

"You are a true party pooper."

"No means don't even try."

"I want to find my soulmate."

"Just forget what you heard."

"Why does this always happen to me?"

"Let's go out for a cheap dinner."

"I don't want to hear about it."

"This must be a joke. Not very good one."

"A list of all the times I was right."

"I can't control my dreams."

"Finally, some common sense."

"Throw me under the bus while you're at it."

"What a wonderful surprise."

"Poor judgement is what it is."

"I was just defending myself."

"Fine, but this will be the last time."

"Oh, that's too bad."

"I will take that as a yes."

"Did we meet before?"

"Sell me your story."

"What's the point in all of this?"

"I couldn't see what actually happened."

"Can you lend me some money?"

"So start from the beginning."

"Truly, a flawless plan."

"I haven't done this in forever."

"Let's have some fun."

"What an icon."

"Make me believe it."

"It's an investment."

"There will be an extra fee included."

"Let's go back. Nothing to do here anymore."

Drabble List #1|List #3|List#4|List #5|List #6|List #7

Have fun creating and writing!

If you like my blog and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee! And check out my Instagram! 🥰

[nothorses]

I think one of the ways that tranandrophobia seems to distinguish itself from the other forms of oppression it is connected to is in the way it attempts to convince you it is indistinguishable and that transmascs are always just collateral damage to everyone else's "real" problems.

One example is the very blatent tirf claim that transphobia on its own isn't real, that it is all misdirected transmisogyny, and that transmascs only experience oppression due to our association with transfemmes.

But there is also the insistence that anti abortion laws and similar things are targeted at cis women and therefore are "women's issues" - transmascs shouldn't complain about being excluded because it "isn't about us". Same with homophobia and butchphobia. Even the terf talking point that they are just protecting "little cis girls" from making irreversible mistakes pretends that actual the transmascs being harmed is just an accident and not the goal.

Trying to talk about transandrophobia is a constant stream of "It's just transphobia. It's just misogyny. No, you can't call your experiences misogyny because that isn't about you. You can't call yourself a lesbian or a butch or compare your oppression to lesbophobia. It isn't about you. Yes, terfs hurt you, but you aren't their main target. This isn't about you. Yes, you need abortions and experience medical misogyny, but you can't talk about it because this isn't about you. You were sexually assaulted because of misdirecred misogyny. Don't make it about you. You've never contributed to the history of gay men, or lesbians, or the trans community. It isn't about you. Those cross dressers weren't trans. Stop trying to make women's history about you. You can't reclaim cunt or faggot or dyke because those words aren't about you. I don't care how many times you've been called a tranny. That word isn't about you. Why must you make everything about you?"

Because sure, transmascs exist, and we might be impacted by everyone else's oppression, but it is always thought of as a theoretical consequence of what is really going on, if it is thought of at all. Transmascs are not considered to be oppressed in our own right.

This idea gives the lawmakers plausible deniability, allies an excuse to ignore us, and feeds into transmasc erasure. If we are never the actual target to begin with, then clearly, we can't be uniquely targeted. The law makers don't need to be held accountable for their transandrophobia because it isn't like they are trying to hurt transmascs, right? We need to let the real victims speak, the ones being targeted on purpose.

Nobody ever sees the way it all piles up, and even if they do, they think "well it's just an accident, right? If we fix the main problem, then this fringe issue will go away on its own" without ever considering that transandrophobia isn't as rare, fringe, or accidental as society wants it to appear and that actual effort needs to be put into dismantling it.

It isn't that they actually believe that transandrophobia isn't real. It's that they just don't believe it is about transmascs. Because even if we are the common denominator, we are still just collateral damage and could not possibly have anything of value to say. Because as collateral damage, our issues are never our own and thus never need to be discussed on our own terms.

100%. And I think this is exactly what this sort of cycle of erasure depends on.

We are erased, our problems are erased, and our oppression is erased, which means it's easy for people to ignore us, our problems, and our oppression. There's so little evidence, so few people talking about it, and they never really see or hear anyone name us in this violence, so surely, it isn't about us at all! It must be about the people they know about already, the problems they know about, and the ones who are always readily named in these conversations.

If we're speaking up, there's no reason to believe us; if anything, we come under scrutiny for trying to talk about these issues nobody else can see. We must be crazy, hysterical, whiny and overdramatic, or perhaps malicious. We're stealing attention, stealing space, and stealing help. We might be victims, but we are incidental and unworthy victims.

And ignoring us, our problems, and our oppression means we continue to be erased. Which makes it easier to ignore us, and erase us, and easier to perpetuate violence against us. And so on.

It's understandable, in a way, for people to ignore us; most people don't know about any of this in the first place, and when they do, they're not inclined to take any of it seriously. Even if they do see convincing evidence that our problems are real and worth talking about, it's easy for that to be a one-off that they eventually forget about. Everyone else is talking about everything else, so we sort of fade away.

It's not their fault; they're not trying to ignore us. They just haven't learned to recognize violence against us, and they just don't seek us out, and can they really be blamed for that? Can they really be blamed for the violence that continues because they and others don't see or try to stop it? We're so hard to find in the first place. You know, because we've been so thoroughly erased.

There are a lot of people who've been fighting this for a long time, and even more we don't-- and probably won't-- ever know about, who've been fighting for even longer. I think it's getting better; the organized backlash against us is, imo, a sign that our reach is getting stronger and wider. But it's a hard cycle to break.

[eufezco]

joel miller x fem!reader

c/w - fingering, begging

sarah was in her room with a friend, they both left you alone in the living room a while ago. even though they invited you to join them, you knew that you'd be a bother to the two girls.

you could hear the giggles coming out of her room from there. you were curled up on the couch, your favorite show playing on the tv, and wrapped in a blanket that had joel's scent.

you got up once you hear the keys turn in the door.

"oh my god, hi. i haven't made you any dinner yet–"

"it's fine, i'm not hungry."

"i thought you said you were going to be late tonight-"

"yeah, but we've finished earlier."

joel had been thinking about you the whole day.

you arrived a few minutes before he had to leave so the only thing he had time to give you was a quick kiss hiding in the bathroom. one of his arms was wrapped around your waist to help him pull you closer and both of you hoped that tommy could distract sarah for at least a couple of minutes more so that you could enjoy those few seconds you had. but the girl bursted into the bathroom. you quickly leaned into the mirror, pretending you were checking if there was something between your teeth and joel ran his fingers through his hair, pretending to be fixing it.

"you'll have to tell her one day." tommy reminded joel once he got into the car.

"shut up." as if he didn't know.

joel squeezed both of your cheeks and went in for a kiss. you threw your head back before your lips could even brush against each other. he arched his eyebrows at you and you arched yours at him. seconds after that, sarah appeared behind you. he used to be more careful when you both started this, making sure that sarah wasn't around before spanking your ass, checking several times that she was in her room before helping you to jump on the kitchen counter and encircle your legs around his body, even a little kiss on your cheek had him checking that sarah was still busy... but now he'd grown more confident, even though you were caught by tommy, joel truly believed that you were doing a great job of hiding it from sarah.

his daughter ran into his arms but his eyes were still on you. you hit him where it hurt the most. his ego. and he wasn't going to let this go just like that.

sarah accompanied you two to the kitchen, telling her dad about her day and asking about his. you insisted on making dinner for him but joel assured you that he wasn't hungry and that a glass of water would do the work.

sarah left to her room to call her friend so she could say hi to joel before they both asked if she could stay over. you stood on your tiptoes, trying to reach a glass for him when he approached from behind. his chest pressed against your back as he grabbed the glass himself, his mouth was really close to your ear, your ass against his crotch and his free hand held your hips in place.

"next time you're gonna have to beg for it." he murmured in your ear. his words sent shivers down your spine. before the two girls got to the kitchen, joel was already away from you, drinking peacefully his glass of water like nothing happened.

you sat next to him on the couch, your legs on his lap as you asked how his day went and he asked you about how you and sarah did. joel's hand was on one of your thighs, softly drawing patterns on the fabric of your jeans. his voice was deep as he complained about this new client, showing how tired and long his day had been. your foot started to massage his crotch, and joel had to fix his posture on the couch, less tense and leaving you more access to that area for what your dirty mind was planning.

he kept talking about his day, needing to take small breaks to gasp or to bite his lip down holding back his moans. you crawled your way up to his lap, his hands quickly finding your hips and yours on the back of his head, running them through his hair there.

"and i've been thinking about you all day."

"is that so?" you teased him. you know he wanted to hear that you've been thinking about him as well.

"oh, yeah." his hands moved to unbutton your jeans. he took his time unzipping them, wondering what panties you were wearing and how ruined they should be by now. joel sneaked his hand inside your jeans, making you take a deep breath at the sudden contact of his rough hand against your pussy through the thin and drenched fabric of your underwear. he smirked proud of that reaction. you might not have said what he wanted to hear but your body couldn't hide it. his fingers skilfully moved your panties aside, enough for his middle finger to go inside you and his thumb to press your clit.

"all day thinking about you..."

he kept talking. you inevitably curled your fingers and tugged his hair at the root. he added another finger and began to pump them in and out of you at a slow pace while his thumb drew circles on your clit.

"...and when i get home..."

your mouth opened in a perfect "o" form as you tried to keep your moans as quiet as you could. you hid your face in the crook of his neck, your lips sucked on the sensitive skin, creating a beautiful red mark under them. your wet kisses moved to his ear where you let out a few moans with his name, knowing how that turned him on. your breath against his ear spiked goosebumps on his skin and his erection grew painfully inside his pants, he had to focus to not stop moving his fingers. meanwhile, your lips kissed from his jaw and his cheek to the corner of his lips, and when you finally were gonna kiss his mouth, joel threw his head back all of a sudden, just like you did when he got home.

"... you don't even want to kiss me."

your lips tried to find his again but joel kept rejecting your kisses. you whined and shook your head.

"it wasn't- it wasn't like that." your hands moved to press down his abdomen. your eyes closed shut after feeling his fingers go harder in you. "she was gonna see us, joel, it wasn't like that, i promise..." you breathed out. your hips rolled against his hand, seeking even more friction on your clit if possible.

"well, it seemed like it." joel answered and you shook your head at his words again. you rested your forehead against his, his calm breathing mixing with your agitated one. "you know what you gotta do, baby. now, beg-"

"please, joel- please, i need you, please." you cried out before he could finish his sentence.

joel clicked his tongue. "oh, come on. you know you can do better than that."

you were desperate. you needed his lips on yours, you needed his tongue in your mouth, you needed joel biting your lip, you needed your moans to die in his mouth. your walls clenched around his fingers, that familiar knot and warm sensation forming in your lower abdomen.

"fuck- baby, please. i'm sorry, i'm so sorry but please, i need you, joel." and when his fingers hit that sweet spot inside you and your legs involuntarily closed around his hand, his lips collided with yours, quieting your moans as you came and finally giving you what you so badly desired.

you rested your forehead on his shoulder, exhausted and trying to catch your breath. you appreciated his soothing words on your ear as you recovered as well as his free hand caressing your hair.

"if i have to beg again for a kiss, we're done, joel miller."

[moonstruckme]

hi lovely!! i just had the most amazing 7 hrs of my life just scrolling through your page and reading all of your marauders work!! i never even thought about poly!marauders being a possibility until i found your page and i think you’ve altered my brain chemistry forever???

that being said, i would absolutely be so grateful if you could write a gn!reader with poly!marauders at the start of their relationship, where reader’s a much shorter than average person and the boys (who would be so, so tall) have to learn how to walk slower to make sure they don’t leave them behind. i’m so much shorter than my friends and what i do most of the times is run forward in advance and be in front of the group so i don’t get left behind. i’m totally used to it by now, but it’d be nice to have ppl recognize not everyone can go at the same pace, you know? that was so long, so sorry!! and no worries at all if you don’t wanna write it, totally understand! love u so much 🫶🏽🫶🏽

Hi love!! Omg, 7 hours??? Were your eyes okay after that? Sorry it took me so long to get to this, but thanks a ton for requesting and I hope you like it <3

poly!marauders x gn!reader ♡ 644 words

It’s mainly James and Sirius that are the problem. Remus has learned to hold your hand to temper his own long-legged pace, but much like with talking, when James and Sirius get together they start moving at double the speed. 

“Should we call them?” he asks. 

You consider it. “Let’s see how far they get before they notice.” 

A couple more minutes go by, and Remus can barely see the tops of their heads through the crowded sidewalk. 

“Still no idea?” He searches for notes of dejection in your tone, but finds only amusement. 

“None.” 

“Let’s hide.”

He blinks. “What? No, love…” He sighs reluctantly, but lets you tug him into a nearby coffee shop. 

You buy them each a hot chocolate, and it’s five more minutes before Sirius and James go by in the shop’s window, appearing slightly bemused but otherwise unconcerned. You make to go outside, but this time it’s Remus who holds you back. 

“No, let them stew a minute.” 

The next time they come by, the pair looks noticeably more troubled. Remus knocks on the window, and you both wave when they turn to you, gawping. 

The bell jingles as they come inside. 

“Hey, we’ve been looking for you.” James rubs his hands together, blowing warmth into them. Remus feels a tiny bit guilty and takes them between his. He pretends not to see the toothy grin James shoots him. 

“Oh?” Remus makes his tone casual, and you sip at your hot chocolate to hide your smile. “For how long?” 

“Like, five minutes. You just disappeared,” Sirius complains, scooching into your chair so that you have to share it with him. He peers at your hot chocolate, then Remus’. “Oi, you didn’t get any for us?” 

“Interesting,” Remus goes on, ignoring the question, “because we’ve been in here for nearly fifteen.” 

Sirius blinks, and James cocks his head. “Really?” James asks. 

You nudge Remus’ leg playfully under the table. “No,” you tell them, rolling your eyes. “We just wanted to see how long it would take you guys to notice we weren’t behind you.” 

“You could stand to be a little more considerate,” Remus says primly, sipping his hot chocolate. 

“Aw, baby.” Sirius nestles his freezing nose into your cheek, grinning when you squirm away. “Did those little legs of yours separate us?” 

You roll your eyes, but once again Remus comes to your defense. “Their legs aren’t the problem, yours are. Until you two can learn to be considerate of the less…height privileged” —he pretends not to see the aghast look you send him, and goes on with faux dispassion— “there will be no hot chocolate for either of you.” 

Sirius scoffs, but James is nodding slowly, seeming to mull things over. “Sounds fair,” he says. “However, have you considered that we could simply purchase our own hot chocolate?” 

“Not,” says Remus, “on ethical grounds.” 

James pulls his hands kindly from Remus’ grasp, giving him an almost consoling pat on the shoulder. “C’mon, Pads, let’s go order.” Sirius hops up, and James stops by your chair on his way past to drop a kiss on your head. “We’ll try to keep to your speed from now on, lovie. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, having forgiven them long before they even knew they wanted to be forgiven. 

“Honestly, who should you really be mad at?” Sirius gives you a conspiratorial look. “Your knight in shining armor over there just called you ‘the less height privileged.’” 

“Don’t let him turn us against each other,” Remus says, reaching across the table to clasp your hand firmly. “It’s how he gets his way.” 

“I know,” you stage-whisper back. Then to Sirius, “Go get your hot chocolate, and I’ll decide who I’m mad at depending on whether there’s a slice of pumpkin bread with you when you come back.” 

He scurries towards the counter.

[dodgeirs]

⊹ ᳝ ࣪ hotch helping to take off your makeup.

cw. bf!aaron, confirmed whiney!reader, established relationship, fluff, whipped aaron

wc. 622

a/n. just a little small, small snack while the poll finishes up 🫶 resonating a little hard with this one bc i was so sleepy taking off my makeup today. need me a hotchy rn 😞

"you've gotta stay still f'me, honey." aaron urged.

"'m tired. let me sleep, please." you whined. resting your head onto aaron's abdomen, and wrapping your arms around his waist. finding comfort in his soft stomach.

"i know, but just let me finish this up. then you can sleep all you'd like." he proposed sweetly. you groaned at his words, and his actions as he holds your face in his hands so you'd look up at him. you instead concentrated on how his thumbs were rubbing you cheeks and the fact that he looked like an angel from the bright bathroom lights and his tall stature. maybe you really were that drunk.

"i don't even care." that was a lie and he knew it.

"you don't? the last time you went out and slept in your makeup you complained, and then went on to blame me for not performing boyfriend duties by taking your makeup off." he explains. giving your forehead one more swipe of the cotton pad drowned in micellar water before throwing it in the trash.

you reluctantly removed your arms from his waist so he could get a facial rag wet, he was going to wash your face for you too.

you feel bad now. and despite the pout displayed on your face he was right, as much as you'd hate to admit, those words were very much yours. looking down at your hands, now in your lap you pick at your fingernails. aaron is being nice by helping you out, and you're being whiney.

"what's going on in that head, hm?"

picking you head head up to look at him, to really take him in. he's in his pj pants and a grey shirt. he was no where near sleeping, but he had stayed up for you to return home, being dropped off by a friend. compared to when aaron had to come pick you up the last time you went out with friends and got drunk, that was fairly early in your relationship and you were thankful he wasn't still in his office or on a case.

"'m sorry." you're sure your pout looks more so looks like a frown now.

“what for?”

“i’m being inconsiderate.”

aaron instantly hangs the damp rag onto the rag bar, moving to stand in front of you.

“and why do you think that?” he questions. eye brows doing his signature hotchner furrow.

“because you’re so nice. and i did say i wanted you to do those things, yet i’m whining about it now.”

“oh, honey.” aaron begins. crouching down so he'd be on your level as he spoke to you, his knees cracking in the process. causing you to bite down on the smile that formed from the noise.

“y’know i don't mind doing any of this, right? and that i enjoy being able to take care of you. in any state that you're in, even when you get whiney.”

his words help reassure you. “yes. but, don't you ever get annoyed when i whine?”

“honey, i could never get annoyed by you. you're also drunk so it makes sense that you're more whinier than normal.”

“hey!” you gasped. hitting at his shoulder, pretending to be offending at aaron’s jab and the fact that he's finding it amusing.”

“okay, okay. not funny, noted.”

there's a moment of calm where the two of you look at each other smiling.

“y’know, i love you?” you question.

“you only tell me it a hundred times a day.” aaron responds with a wide smile. getting up from his spot and in the process giving you a quick peck on the lips.

“i love you more. let's wash your face so i can get you to bed.”

[screamforyani]

cariño

warnings ↠ dubcon-ish?, enemies with benefits, handjob, edging, implied intercouse towards the end

a/n ↠ i know this is very out of the blue but i watched atsv and i cant get miguel out of my head

wc. 1.1k

“untie me,” hissed miguel, fangs jutting as his blood-thirsty eyes followed you. 

you let out a hollow laugh the second those words escaped his mouth and met his penetrating stare. to say you and and miguel were enemies would be an understatement. there was something about this guy that irked you in the worst way, but could also turn you on like no other.

the feeling was mutual. you’d never admit a word of this if it wasn’t - not even to yourself. you and miguel had a weird thing going on, the sort of thing where the line between hate and lust grew thinner with each dark, loathing stare he shot you. 

maybe you’d had his cock in you a couple of times. twelve, to be exact, though not that you were counting (because you totally weren’t). not your proudest moments, but the sight of him on his knees, tangled in a weaving of webs made you forget it. his muscles bulged with every endeavor to free himself from your little trick. which was hilarious, because if they were any tighter, they’d burst right through his spandex. 

not that you were complaining. 

“hm, let me think about it,” you hummed, pretending to be deep in thought. “no.”

“i said - untie me. now,” miguel roared, as if it would make any difference. 

you crouched before him, pouting. “what’s the matter, spider-man? can’t handle other people telling you no? you don’t get to be the boss of everyone, cariño.”

you waved your finger in his face, to which miguel responded to with a lean forward as if he were going to bite your wrist off, but you were too quick. 

“woah there, bitey,” you taunted. “get it? that rhymes with spidey. hilarious, don’t you think?”

miguel spat, “you annoy me.”

“it’s a pleasure,” you said, merely grinning. then, you pointed to the extended talon behind his back where his hands were tied, asking, “can i borrow that? thanks.”

you used his talons to poke a hole in the lower half of his suit, promptly tearing at the spandex until the hole expanded. miguel wasn’t exactly pleased, not yet anyways, barking, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“more than you deserve,” you whispered, widening the gap until his half-hard cock was freed. that you inevitably already saw. for obvious reasons, it was difficult for spider-men to conceal their hard-ons. “you guys freeball under these suits? that’s crazy. i mean, not that you’re gonna catch a hard-on fighting the spot, but you never know. i mean, what if some really sexy villain just hits… the spot. get it? the-”

“the spot. yes, i get the joke. shut the hell up,” miguel grumbled, irritated.

you giggled. his annoyed face was too hot. of course, you were riling him up on purpose.

licking a line down your palm, you gently grabbed his cock, stroking him in your hands while looking him in his angry eyes. you saw his features tense, the part that didn’t want to be angry surfacing. the part that wanted to be relieved.

that was all that was wrong with this cranky guy. he just needed some relief in his life, and who better to provide it to him than you, the spider-person he never wanted on this team in the first place but took in because jess had insisted you could be useful. and you were, in more ways than one. not that miguel would ever admit that, though.

“fuck,” miguel grunted, writhing again, though not in an attempt to escape. you knew how to pleasure him and that was your saving grace, but you also knew how to tease. “could you be any slower with that?”

“i could, actually. watch this,” you retorted, now pumping him in no particular hurry. you had time to waste.

your leisure movements were killing miguel slowly. literally. he groaned, “well, could you go any faster?”

“i could,” you repeated with a lilt. “but you’d have to say the magic word.”

“go faster!”

you gave him a mocking frown. “i don’t think that’s it, o’hara.”

“do i have to?”

“do you want to cum?”

miguel winced his eyes closed, heaved a huge sigh, and huffed, “please, go faster.”

“wow, you hit the lottery,” you said, quickening your pace. you loved watching his brows furrow with pleasure, sweat beading at his face.

miguel bit his lip, wanting to be mad at how you satisfied him. it reminded you of when he was buried balls deep inside of you, his weight resting on top of your chest while his teeth clamped into your shoulder, not for the purpose of extracting blood but to smother the sounds of pleasure that escaped him when your cunt was squeezing his dick. almost like he would rather die than let you know you were good for something.

it didn’t matter, though. the telltale signs of arousal manifested themselves in plentiful ways from his body, like the taut ache in his pants when you turned him on a little too much. he got so hard for you, it was ridiculous.

and you were having a ball (you were tempted to make a joke, but resisted for his mental sake). there was something about having an insanely large, strong man who could potentially crush you to smithereens squirming at your mercy. it made warmth spread through your chest and the slyest grin curl onto your lips.

miguel’s hips were thrusting into your palm, an obvious sign that he was on the brink of climax. you’d come to know it by now - he started to lost control, the reins slipping out his hands. and you loved it. you loved how he was a slave to his urges and not the other way around.

“you almost there?” you asked, in spite of being fully aware. 

miguel offered you no words, but the look on his face and his unstill, restless body said enough.

that was when you got the bold idea to withdraw your hand at the very last second, depriving him of what could have been. his wrath was instant. you saw his hips flail in a desperation you’d never seen of him before, his fluttering eyes snapping open to cut at you.

“oopsies,” you sang, smiling innocently.

that was the very last straw for miguel and he broke out of your restraints, having enough of playing weak. you gasped, caught off-guard when he switched on a dime, throwing you against the ground and hovering over you. you parted your lips to speak, but he was quick to shoot a web over your mouth. 

“you talk too much,” miguel growled, cutting your own spandex with his talons, and was pleased to find you were very wet. he fixed himself between your thighs, leaning into your ear to whisper, “and for the record, nobody decides if i cum, cariño.”

[madame-fear]

˗ˏˋ 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 + 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 | 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 𝐏𝐓. 𝟐 ˎˊ˗

ೀ amira speaks! : part two of my fluff + smut prompt lists for requests, check them out here! requests are currently closed. remember to specify who says what to who when requesting! 彡 last updated : 08/03/2024 — ♡

116. (character) is talking to someone about you. they try to hide how they feel about you, but it’s quite obvious. “I like them a normal amount.” character says, “we get along, we’re just friends.” “and you’re a friend... who stares at them smiling to yourself like an idiot?” “shut up, you know nothing.”

117. lazy morning kisses and cuddles.

118. “so wet already? I barely even touched you. You must be quite needy.” (smut)

119. “Can I touch you over here?” (smut)

120. “Do you like it like this? Or should I go slower?” (smut)

121. “You’re blushing, that’s cute.” “Shut up, stupid.” (specify who says this to who)

122. “Can I please hold your hand?”

123. “You’ll have to beg for that.” (smut, specify scenario if possible)

124. “Please, if you could stay with me for the night, I would be grateful. I need you.”

125. (character)’s friends discreetly playing matchmaking by placing both of you in places where you can be alone together. You’re both oblivious to your mutual pining, so at one point they force (character) to ask you out for once and for all.

126. “They gave us... One bed?” “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.” (could end in smut, or simply fluffy teasing)

127. “I think I might be dying... These may be my last words.” “It’s a small fever. If you don’t quit whining, the only thing killing you today will be my bare hands around your neck.”

128. “Touch yourself for me.” (smut)

129. “Your breasts are cold. Can I warm them with my hands?” “No.” “Pleeeeeeaseeeeee?” “Fine, but stop staring at my with those sad puppy eyes.” (smut)

130. Pillowfighting with (character). (Character) is better at it than you, but when you complain about it, they let you win because they genuinely feel bad.

131. Drunken love confessions to you.

132. Same as 131, but with you being drunk and confessing your love to (character).

133. “Don’t you like being all marked by me? Look at you, everyone will know you’re mine.” (smut)

134. “Someone might see us!” “Isn’t that the fun of it, love?” (smut)

135. “You are one pretty little whore. My pretty little whore.” (smut)

136. (character) gently removing your hands from your very flustered face after you give each other your first kiss, finding them smiling to themselves at how adorable you are.

137. “Who hurt you? I’ll get my revenge on them.”

138. “I could warm you up... From the inside.” (smut)

139. character introduces you to someone. “this is my girlfriend/wife!” (specify). you turn to them in confusion, becoming flustered. “yeah... your girlfriend/wife.”

140. “Stop stealing the blankets!” “Gods you’re so oblivious- I want you to come closer and cuddle me to seek warmth!”

141. “Why should I look up at the stars, when you have a whole constellation in your pretty eyes?” (so cheesy, woops)

142. “How come you were in love with me all this time?!” “I THOUGHT I HAD BEEN OBVIOUS ENOUGH ALREADY!”

143. “Look elsewhere, and I stop.” (smut)

144. “You have such a pretty, delicate little mouth. You surely take my cock so well.” (smut)

145. (character) lifting you from the floor, taking you in their arms, and happily swriling you around the place after not seeing each other for quite some time.

146. “We should film this.” (smut)

147. “Go fuck yourself.” “Only if you watch.” (could be smut or not, specify!)

[atlabeth]

the first ball (aka luke goes a little insane)

pairing: knight!luke castellan x princess!reader

a/n: okay these two literally just like. possess me because i am already thinking about them always. thank you to those who sent in requests, they were already things i wanted to write for them in the future so it's perfect!! we're all on the same wavelength fr i just needed to get this out before i started on them

wc: 3.2k

warning(s): luke is a lil sad </3 knightly duties are rough

once again, a mix of hc's and traditional fic!

okay so last time we left off luke had been knighted and you were kind of upset that he straight up promised to die for you. 

since then, things have smoothed out a bit. The fire inside of you has cooled.  

It was easy to get used to Luke’s constant presence. It was a bit more difficult to get used to what it truly meant for him to be a knight.

In private, he was mostly the same Luke you knew. When he would walk you back to your room at the end of the night and you would invite him in, and you’d sit on the floor and talk for much longer than you should. Go out to the balcony with him and stare at the stars, wondering aloud about your future. You would crack jokes in the hallway and he’d laugh like always—he’d actually talk with you, act the way you have for years.  

In public, though, he had a different part to act. And that part was largely silent. During meetings he would stand with all the other knights, and the most you could get out of him was a slight smile or a glint in his eye when you looked over at him after something ridiculous was said. 

More often than not, his role in your life was to trail quietly behind you or stand at attention. 

Sometimes, when the knights would train in view of your balcony, you would stand there and watch, just so you could see Luke display some fierceness, some emotion other than the obedience that was required. 

You had to get it into your head that you weren’t just you and Luke anymore. 

You’re the Crown Princess, the sole heir to the throne, and Luke is the member of the crownsguard, a knight entrusted to your personal protection. 

Things are different now, and you wonder how long it’ll take you to get that through your head. 

and things are about to get a little more complicated for you both lol 

It’s your first ball since Luke was knighted, which means that it’s the first ball he’s coming to with you. 

When you were younger, you typically stayed home and you and Luke would mess around the entire night; stealing treats from the kitchens, giving your governess the runaround, and running out to the castle grounds to do whatever the hell you wanted. 

Once you were old enough to accompany your parents, Luke would just have to be alone. His mother always went with your family, seeing as she was your father’s guard, but Luke only had servants and knights decades his elder for company. 

He usually ended up training, roaming around the grounds himself, or thinking of you. 

Actually, no matter what he was doing, he was typically thinking of you. 

Luke would wait up until you came home and listen to you talk and talk and complain and talk about everything that happened. He could be seconds from falling asleep and then he would hear the horses and carriages and he would be back on his feet immediately, instantly going to find you. 

You mostly complained—about how your feet hurt from the shoes, how you had to talk to so many stuffy nobles (he would remind you that by definition, you were the stuffiest noble), how you had to pretend like you cared about anything anyone was saying. 

Luke doesn’t care, though. He’s always loved listening to you. 

One thing is typically the same, though. 

“I wish you were there, Luke.” 

(So does he.) 

Times seemed so simple then, when you were just there to be there—you didn’t have to think of the intricacies of politics, you were just a twelve-year-old who happened to be a princess. 

And now you’re only two months from eighteen, and you’re already feeling all of the pressure. 

Namely in the form of a marriage. 

Relations with your neighboring kingdoms are shaky as hell but they’re a necessity if you want to keep any modicum of peace. No one likes it, but you’d like war a little bit less so you’ve gotta suck it up. 

The easiest way to keep the peace is through alliances, and the easiest way to get an alliance is through marriage. Fortunately for Aurelda, the princess is eligible and seems to be the subject of many noble affections. 

Unfortunately for you, that princess is in fact you. 

And for like, the first time since Luke has been knighted, you’ve actually been separated from each other for the majority of the day

Luke had to get a lecture on knightly etiquette, this being the first ball he’ll have attended away from Aurelda. He’s gained a temper as he’s gotten older, and the last thing anyone needed was for him to lose it in the midst of peace talks. 

And you were busy with all sorts of preparations. A meeting with your parents and their advisors ensuring you would know what to talk about, a meeting alone with your parents ensuring you knew how to act as the Crown Princess in times like these. A talk from your parents not as their daughter, but as their heir, on how to deal with the suitors you would meet. 

Unlike the Aureldan nobles that would thrust their sons in front of you in the dim hopes of sparking your interest, the men you would meet at this ball would actually be potential husbands. Princes, sons of the richest dukes and earls—and you would be expected to entertain whatever advances they deemed appropriate, or worse—make the advances yourself. 

The thought of it was a bit overwhelming. 

And obviously, Luke is such a fan of it. 

(He kind of wants to die just imagining it.)

(But he doesn’t tell you that.) 

You leave Aurelda a few days before the ball to make sure you’ll make it in time (carriage rides go crazy)

unfortunately, Luke is on horseback alongside the rest of the cavalry and so you have nobody to save you from the continued lectures of your parents. They really just want everything to go perfectly, and you understand it, but you’re already tired of this. 

You arrive the morning of the ball so you spend near the entire day accompanying your parents as they talk with the royal family—at one point you’re forced to go off on your own with their son who just happens to be your age. 

He’s nice, at least—just dreadfully boring. You manage to slip away from him at one point after he gets distracted talking with a servant, and Luke follows you without complaint. 

“Do not say a word,” you told him.

“As my princess decrees,” he said, amused. 

At the end of it all, an hour before you’re meant to leave, you find yourself in your room with Luke. He’s standing guard at the door, and you’re making last minute adjustments to your appearance. 

You should both probably be somewhere else—everything has to go perfect tonight, and you feel as if the entire staff has been in disarray trying to ensure that—but you had to get away. 

And if you’re getting away, Luke is coming with you. 

It doesn’t matter that it’s his duty—he would do it anyway. He thinks he’d do anything you ask.

You’re also very thankful that he doesn’t snitch on you—sometimes, you’re able to appeal to best friend Luke rather than Sir Luke.   

You’re fixing up the last couple bits of your appearance, ensuring all your jewelry is shiny and your gown fits just right and your makeup is perfect. 

The only sound is your sighs and hums and the clinking of your bracelets. You feel Luke’s eyes on you the entire time, and then he finally speaks up. 

“I don’t like this, princess,” Luke said. 

“Really?” you hummed. “I think I look quite dashing.” 

“You always look beautiful,” he said, “but you know that’s not what I mean.” 

“You don’t like much,” you mused, adjusting the position of your necklace. 

“This ball is a bad idea,” he insisted. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“I don’t have a choice,” you said. “It’s enough that my mother is staying home—if I don’t go, especially now that I’m of marrying age, it’ll be taken as a huge insult.” 

“Let them be insulted,” he said. “Your safety is more important than their feelings.” 

A smile tugged at your lips as you turned around and cocked your head at him. “Everything is going to be okay, Luke. No one would be bold enough to…” 

You trailed off, your smile fading as the memories fronted. It had been almost two years and it still felt so fresh. 

Of course Luke would be thinking of it—this would be his first ball in a foreign kingdom as your knight. His mind was probably reeling thinking of all the ways you could be murdered.

You shook your head before the memories could fully surface, before you could entertain any possible disasters. “It’s going to be okay,” you repeated, more forcefully this time. “You’ll be by my side the entire time, right?” 

“Of course,” he huffed. “I just hate the thought of you having to go through all of this.”

“It is what I was born to do,” you said wryly. “I’m going to lead this kingdom someday.”

“Queen is a good title for you,” he admitted. “It seems so far away, though.”

You huffed. “And may it remain that way.”

You moved closer to the mirror to check your makeup, which was when you realized you forgot the most important piece.  

You picked up your most prized necklace from your jewelry box and undid the tie. You attempted to get it back together around your neck, but for some reason you couldn’t get the knot from this angle. After a few fruitless attempts, your shoulders sagged. 

“Luke,” you grumbled, “can you help me with this?”

You could see his raised eyebrows in the mirror. “If you can’t do it, what makes you think I can?”

You didn’t give him an answer, instead turning around to face him as you batted your eyelashes. “Please.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Please,” you repeated, jutting your lip out. “You can swing a sword—you can do up a necklace.”

Luke sighed, but he was already removing his gauntlets, setting them on your bed. “You’re dangerous, princess.”

 You smiled inwardly, and once he was done and walking over to you, you held out the pendant.

Luke paused as he took it, and his eyes darted back up to yours with the slightest smile on his lips. “You still have this?”

“Of course I do,” you said. “It was from you.”

It was only five years ago, but it felt like a century. Luke had gone into town with his mother when your father was cooped up all day in meetings. He’d come back beaming brighter than the sun, proclaiming he’d gotten a gift for you. 

Luke was paid a tiny sum per month at May’s request for the chores and work he did around the castle—she claimed it would keep him in order if he was rewarded for staying in order. It partially worked.

Luke saved for months under your nose, and used what meager gold he possessed to buy you a simple pendant from a merchant. Once again, your excited scream must have echoed through the entire castle.

You wore it every day for the next year and a half, but at some point after tragedy struck, it ended up out of rotation. 

But you’d always had it, even when you weren’t wearing it. 

Always. 

“I just thought…” He glanced back down at it before looking back at you. “It’s not nearly as nice as your other jewelry.”

“It’s from you,” you repeated. “That means it’s my best piece.”

A small smile pulled at his lips, and he gestured for you to turn around. You did, and you watched his work through the reflection. 

His callouses scratched your skin ever so slightly as he moved your hair out of the way, and a shiver ran up your spine both at his touch and the cool air hitting your bare skin. You were silent as he positioned the pendant, not daring to even breathe. 

He tied it together with deft fingers, and you smiled as you felt the leather cord settle around your neck again. 

“And you said you couldn’t do it,” you said wryly.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. Almost as if he’d forgotten you could hear him. 

For a moment, time froze. Luke’s hands just barely grazed the bare skin of your neck, and your breath caught in your chest at his proximity. He’d done what you asked, but he didn’t move. You didn’t ask him to—you didn’t think anything would come out if you tried. 

You could see his lips part, but they opened and closed a few times before he managed words. 

“Princess, I—”

And then there was a very loud knock on your door, jolting the two of you apart. Air finally returned to you as you tried your hardest to will the heat out of your entire body, and Luke was putting his gauntlets back on quicker than you’d ever seen. 

“Come in!” you exclaimed, voice higher pitched than usual as you smoothed out your gown and fixed your hair and felt the blaze beneath your skin. 

Your lady’s maid opened the door, not even paying Luke a second glance. “I was wondering where you were, Your Highness.”

You forced a smile, thankful for all your childhood training that it would be at least somewhat believable. “My apologies. I required some time alone after the chaos of today.”

She nodded. “You needn’t apologize, Your Highness, but it is necessary you get on your way. Your Majesty is nearly ready, and it is imperative you enter together.”

You swallowed thickly as you glanced over at Luke. He wouldn’t make eye contact with you. 

“…Of course,” you said. “Lead the way.”

You followed your lady’s maid and Luke trailed after you. For some forsaken reason your skin still burned where he’d touched you. 

and you’re expected to entertain other suitors tonight with Luke in the vicinity.

god help you. 

but anyways. you manage to regain most of your bearings by the time you reach your father—Luke still won’t look at you, but you can’t deal with that problem right now, even if it’s clawing at your insides—and your father helps calm you down before you go in. 

You enter the ballroom on the arm of your father as the two of you are announced, and your hold on him tightens as you see the sheer number of people here. It all feels much more overwhelming than it did when you were younger—maybe because you understand what this all means.

You continue to stand with your father, clapping politely as other royals are introduced, connecting faces to names and descriptions that you’ve been quizzed on for years. 

It isn’t long after the king of the kingdom you’re visiting gives his speech that you’re pulled into a conversation with your father, and it takes five seconds for you to realize this is what the rest of the night is going to be like. 

You search for Luke by the wall with all the other guards, but you can’t find him. You sigh and let your attention be drawn back to the conversation at hand. 

Luke, meanwhile, can see everything. He sees you looking for him, he sees you talking with the prince of a nearby kingdom, he sees both your and his father casually moving away to leave the two of you to talk alone. 

He says nothing. 

Not that he can, anyways. Luke stands at attention with the other crownsguard, specifically stationed next to your father’s personal guard. He’s within view of every exit, and he can’t help but profile every person that walks past him. 

He’s especially honing in on every person that talks to you throughout the night. His mind is working overdrive trying to remember all the names of foreign royalty—he feels like he’s already made up ten worst case scenarios for how this night could go. 

It only takes another hour for the prince of the kingdom you’re in to find you and spark up a conversation, and a muscle works ever so slightly in Luke’s jaw. 

He already had to deal with that dull prince for hours, showing you around the castle and trying to start conversation and just making everything so dreadfully boring Luke was surprised you could handle it. 

That was why you were the princess, after all. You could take everything in stride with a pleasant smile—Luke fought his way through his problems. 

He couldn’t exactly fight through this one. 

But you sure as hell could smile through it—and gods, your smile was beautiful. No wonder you were talking with what seemed to be your fifth prince of the night. 

Whatever he says makes you laugh. The prince places his hand on your arm, and Luke feels himself flinch. 

He’s thankful that the guards are the same as background decorations for a majority of the people here. He’s gotten good at controlling his emotions when he has to, but none of his slipups will be noticed. Not by the crowd, not by your father, not by you. 

It’s a torturous existence that Luke’s got going on here. It’s his job to look out for you, to watch the every move of you and those around you, because he has to be the first to act if anything goes wrong. 

But it’s not all that great for him when he’s just watching royal after royal vie for your hand. 

At least, that’s what he figures they’re doing. He can’t exactly hear everything through the revelry, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. 

Luke keeps going back to the two of you alone, you asking—pleading, practically—for him to help with your necklace. 

The necklace he got you in a childish declaration of love, that he thought you had forgotten about. 

You hadn’t. 

It looks out of place, he knows that much—a piece of himself among gold jewelry and shimmering gems. A leather cord holding onto a rough piece of turquoise, your initials carved into the back in the corner—his own work. 

You had a part of him with you as noble sons tried to woo you, as you tried to take the next step into your future. 

He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse

Sometimes, Luke wonders if you know. Oftentimes, Luke wonders if you could feel the same. 

He never lets himself entertain that train of thought for very long. 

It doesn’t matter how he feels. It doesn’t matter if you went against all rationality and somehow felt the same. 

Because you’re a princess—the heir to the Aureldan throne. Expected to marry and produce heirs and lead your kingdom into a golden age of peace. 

Luke is just a knight. 

Nothing will ever happen. 

That’s the only thing he needs to remember. 

But that doesn’t mean his lip doesn’t curl in disdain ever so slightly when the orchestra starts up, signifying the beginning of dances, and that tiresome prince offers you his hand. 

You take it, smiling back at him as you walk onto the floor together with other pairs. 

Remember your place, Castellan, he thinks. 

It's a lot harder than it should be.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Video II

Meadema x Baby!Reader

Summary: Munchkin vs ACLs

The first week with you is perfect.

You're a fairly well-behaved baby. You're smiley and happy and you sleep through most nights. Viv's on overnight duty though, your first week with them, because she's the only one out of the two of them with working knees.

It's absolutely perfect. You settle in well and you fit so well in Viv's arms that it must be fate.

Then...She tears her ACL.

It's like you know something's wrong because you scream and cry for days on end and Beth and Viv barely have the strength to get up to attend to your needs.

Between the two of them, they manage to pull your crib into their room, leaving it at the foot of the bed for easy access. You get less time on the floor on your sensory mat because they can't bend down properly to grab you anymore.

It's like their own personal hell.

You won't settle unless one of them is holding you. You won't settle unless one of them is moving you about.

Beth cries multiple times as she tries to soothe you as you sob until you're red in the face. Viv cries too but when she's in bed and you've just fallen asleep. She sobs into Beth's chest for hours.

It's a struggle but neither she nor Beth can imagine their lives without you in it.

They keep you to themselves for the first few weeks they have you but end up bringing you with them to rehab when they start.

"Oh, look at this cutie," Vic coos as they both hobble in," Look! Look! She's smiling at me!"

"It's gas," Beth laughs.

You're completely passed out in your pram and you smack your lips together a few times in your sleep.

"I'll take her," Lia offers," If you two want to go to the physios."

"We can keep her," Beth insists," It's fine."

"You two can barely walk," Lia reminds them," Let alone push her all the way down to the physios. Let me take her."

Beth is loath to leave you. Viv doesn't want to leave either but she knows that Lia's right.

"You'll bring her back?" Beth asks and Lia shrugs.

"I don't know. This little cutie might end up coming home with me."

"Alright," Beth laughs," That's it. I don't think we're going to let you have her."

"Go!" Lia says," You'll get her back."

Beth is a little guilty as she tries to rush through the first part of the rehab session, desperately trying to hurry everyone along so she can escape to the gym where she knows you and Lia are.

Viv's not ready for the gym just yet so she's stuck in the physios for most of the day.

Beth hobbles her way to the gym as fast as she can go. The scene that greets her is one that she suspected.

Your pram is parked right by the door, completely empty save for the changing bag hanging off a handle. You're nowhere near it, held nice and snug in Lia's arms at the very centre of the group of fawning teammates.

You make happy little snuffling noises as the team coo over you.

"I hope you washed your hands," Beth says in greeting as she heads over.

"Of course!" Katie says with a grin as she tips her pretend hat," Only the best for Viv's baby."

Beth rolls her eyes. "I get that you're the president of Viv's fan club but she's my baby too."

Katie waves a dismissive hand. "Same thing."

"Well, do I get my baby back or not?"

Leah, who has somehow taken custody of you, shakes her head. "Haven't you got stretches to be doing?"

"Haven't you?"

"I'm holding this little munchkin. She's like a little angel, mate. I'm not putting her down."

"You've only got five minutes," Steph complains," Then it's my turn."

"Don't take turns on my baby!"

Leah rolls her eyes. "This is the Arsenal baby. She's all of our baby."

"I don't see you getting up in the middle of the night for a feed."

Leah ignores her, soaking up all her time with you before begrudgingly handing you over to Steph, who takes her turn happily before moving you along the line.

Beth doesn't get you back unless it's for feedings or to change you but even those two things are done with an audience of your aunties cooing over you.

"We need to keep her away from them," Beth says softly that night as she sits in bed with Viv, you tucked up on Viv's chest taking a bottle," We'll never get her back again."

Viv laughs as she mops up some of the milk that's spilt down your chin. "I don't think it's that easy."

It's not because a few weeks later Laura moves in.

She's done her ACL too and it's like pass the baby to the most depressed person in the room. With three working knees between them, it's like playing hot potato with the you and you're very rarely out of somebody's arms.

To be honest, you seem to enjoy this greatly and, when Viv finally puts her metaphorical foot down and sets you up for tummy time, you whine and cry the entire time.

"Don't, Laura," Viv says softly when Laura moves to pick you up again," Not with your knee."

Beth's the one that's been put in charge of you, sitting next to you on your mat with her leg stretched out.

You keep whining and crying and Beth has to turn a blind eye because she knows that you're meant to be having more tummy time than you're actually getting.

It's just easier if someone's holding you now that you currently have more working knees than anyone else in the house. Usually, it's Laura who ends up holding you (not that she complains) but Viv's insisted on tummy time.

You whine a bit pitifully before it peters off when you notice that no one's coming to your rescue.

"It's alright, munchkin," Beth says softly," Just a little bit longer and then you get to nap."

You end up doing that in her arms. It's easier than hobbling through the house to place you back down in your crib. You yawn softly, your mouth making the perfect 'o' as you move around a little bit.

Your eyes flutter shut and you go completely limp and relaxed in her arms.

"The bottles are done," Viv says as she limps over," Ready to be heated up when we need them."

Beth smiles. "Munchkin's asleep too."

"So is Laura."

Beth hadn't even noticed Laura asleep too, curled up on the sofa with an arm grazing the floor.

"We're so good at this. Two knees between us and we've got everything done."

Viv rolls her eyes. "I saw you finish her tummy time early, you know. She needs to do it properly later."

"Oh, come on, Viv! She was crying!"

"You're such a pushover."

[strang3lov3]

Boundaries

Roman reads your diary when you're out of the house and learns all of your dirty fantasies about him. (3.5k)

Tags - stepdad!roman because I was in that kind of mood, stepcest, smut, daddy kink, age gap, (i aged roman for this so just picture him as dilfy as you'd like - perhaps pedro pascal aged. or joel miller aged if you're nasty), dubcon, some hitting, unprotected piv, blowjobs, vibrators, overstim, creampie, come eating, dom!roman - yes I know. I know I know I know. Let me have this let me pretend he’d fuck my brains out until they’re dripping out of my ears. He’s also a huuuuuge creep in this but I’m into that. I love this little dirt boy slime puppy. Fic help @beefrobeefcal for your beautiful eyes and @noxturnalpascal for your generous editing 🩷 A/N - ROMAN GIRLIES I am sorry for taking my sweet fucking time on getting him out to you in a timely manner but he can be difficult to nail down. I hope you like this icky stepdaddy version of him 🩷

Roman’s bored today. You’re not home right now, you’re out and about spending his money on god only knows what. He shouldn’t complain, though. You’re not as bad as his wife - your mother - who buys bags and bags of clothes and those single-function kitchen gadgets. He knows he’s one to talk, that really, he doesn’t need all of the square footage of his massive apartment or the fancy light fixtures or closets full of clothes he doesn’t wear. But he still doesn’t get it. Your mom doesn’t even cook.

Roman’s lonely, despite his marriage. He married your mom when you were still a teenager. He didn’t see much in her and he doesn’t think she really saw anything in him either, but neither of them seemed to really mind those facts. It was for appearances, mostly, there was never any love in it. Never any sex, either. Your mom could impress her family and friends by marrying rich, and Roman could appear to live a normal life. It makes him feel like Dexter a little bit, and that she’s Rita. Although, he feels like Rita too on some days. 

Roman checks his phone. 9:17pm. Your mom is gone too, she’s out getting drinks with her old friend from college. At least they’re out of the house. They get rowdy and obnoxious when they drink. Roman figures he might as well go to bed, so he gets up off of the couch and heads up the stairs. He’s just about to go to his bedroom when he catches a whiff of something strong and fruity coming from your room. 

A lit candle. You and your stupid fucking candles. Your room is covered in them, all different sizes and colors and scents and brands. You leave them lit all the time, and Roman’s constantly having to remind you to blow them out. But you’re not here right now, and who knows when you’ll be back. He goes around your room, blowing the candles out for you.

 Roman doesn’t go into your bedroom often, the door is always closed and locked. But he catches glimpses now and then, he sees that you leave your bed unmade with your sheets and blankets crumpled up together and he wonders how strongly it smells of you. Not just your shampoo and body wash, but your sweat too. You. And he sees clothes on the floor, a bra hung on the closet door. Bottles of nail polish and acetone and used cotton pads on the vanity where you apply and remove your makeup. Lotion on the nightstand, a jewelry dish filled with sparkling gold trinkets. All of the things that make you up. He gets to look at it up close now, messing with the tchotchkes on your dresser and bookshelf as he strolls through your room. And he snoops through your bathroom too, opening your medicine cabinet and finding razors, and Midol, and mismatched earrings. 

Roman lies down in your bed sheets to smell you like he’s always wanted to do, bunching them under his nose only to be disappointed when he finds that they’re freshly laundered. Only then does he feel like a creep, but not enough to stop what he’s doing. He’s learning so much about you. Roman opens the drawer of your nightstand and finds a THC cartridge and chuckles. You little pothead. He finds a little satin bag and pulls your Satisfyer from within it and smirks as he brings it to his nose and sniffs it, hoping for even the briefest of whiffs of your scent. Not much. He puts it back in its bag and stuffs the bag in your drawer, his fingers grazing over something else deep in the back. He pulls it out - a journal. You’re so difficult for Roman to understand at times, this is the fucking jackpot. 

He situates himself against your thick Tempurpedic pillows, ones that he purchased for you, and he opens your journal. Your handwriting is loopy and a mix of cursive and print, but he manages to make out the words anyway. There’s some entries that are just nonsense - “Bugs flew into my hair”, and “Lost in a maze, following orange tabby cat”. He assumes these are dreams you’ve written down. He flips through the pages some more, hoping that maybe he’ll come across one of your sex dreams. He wonders which celebrity it’ll feature. Probably Pedro Pascal, but he hopes it’s about someone weird like Conan O’Brien or Liam Neeson. 

Roman. Roman is the first name he finds, and it’s within an especially long entry. Not a dream, no - you were most definitely lucid for this one. There’s details, adjectives and adverbs, words like ‘desperate’ and ‘sexy’. You’ve written in detail the way you believe he would fuck you. The things you’d want him to do to you, the things you want to do to him. 

He should feel sick to his stomach right now. You’re decades younger than him, he used to help you with your algebra homework at the dinner table. So fucking gross, so wrong. Roman likes it wrong. He likes it when there’s something off about it, something that would ruffle feathers if people knew. He wonders, do you like that too? Or do you feel ashamed of yourself, do you feel sort of icky inside? God, he hopes you feel humiliated by yourself. 

But he doesn’t feel sick, he feels excited. Thrilled, even. Thrilled that it’s now 9:44, and you don’t like to be out late. Minutes feel like hours as he waits for the sound of your careful steps up the stairs, down the hall. He can barely contain his smirk when he sees the shadow of your body on the floor right before you walk through your bedroom door, face dropping as you see him laid in your bed, your diary in his hands. “Hey, kiddo!”

“Roman–” 

“You’re out past curfew,” he teases. “Isn’t very becoming of a young lady, you know.”

Your cheeks heat up and your bottom lip begins to wobble. “Roman,” your voice shakes, “P-please, don’t read that.” 

“Oh, you’re too late for that. You should have gotten one of those diaries with a lock. Like, maybe one of those ones where you use your voice to unlock it. Or is that before your time?” Roman pauses, waits for your response. He’s not met with one. “Yeah, I read it all. You’ve got a lot of insect nightmares.”

“Did you - did you read anything else?”

 His smile tells you everything. “Mhm. I think it’s cute that you think I’d make love to you. That’s how you put it. Very romantic, very The Notebook-esque. No pun intended, of course.” Roman wiggles your diary in the air. 

 You’re gonna be sick. “Oh my god,” you whimper. “Oh my god, Roman. I’m sorry - you–” you seethe, “That was private.” 

“Ooh, defensive! No, I get it. I really do. You’re embarrassed. You’ve been fantasizing about fucking your stepfather and you’re embarrassed. What would your mommy think?”

Tears begin to blur your vision and you stomp over to where Roman lies on your bed and attempt to rip the journal from his hands, but he’s stronger than he looks. He yanks it back towards him, pulling you on the bed as he does. “C’mere,” he says. “Let’s read your bedtime stories. Is this what you think about before you sleep? While you play with your pussy using that little toy in there?”

“Please, Roman. Don’t do this.” 

“Yeah, I guess that’d be rather redundant, wouldn’t it? Because you’ve written everything in here, and I’ve read it all. I don’t know,” Roman sucks his teeth as he scoots closer to you, too close for comfort. His body touches yours, he brings his face too close to yours as he speaks. You feel claustrophobic, surrounded by him. Like there’s nowhere to run. “It occurred to me, sitting here, reading your dirty little fucked up fantasies about me, that you’ve got me all wrong in your head. And that just kinda bugs me, I guess?” he says. “I don’t know. If you’re gonna fantasize about your stepdad you should do it right. Like look - ‘long, thick, and veiny’,” Roman repeats your own words back to you. “I’m flattered, sweetheart, really. You’ve described a pornstar’s dick, and that’s sweet. But–” Roman unzips his pants and pulls out his cock, already rock-hard and leaking, a pearly bead of precum sitting pretty at his slit. “See? Painfully average.” He strokes himself slowly, squeezing his cock as he does. You’re almost in disbelief, and you should feel disgusted by this. Disgusted by Roman, by his actions. Disturbed by him for putting you in such a vulnerable position, making you feel so small. But goddamn if this isn’t what you’ve wanted. You can read between the lines, see that Roman’s casualness means that on some level, he must want this too. It appears as though your feelings are reciprocated by him, and that’s humiliating in an entirely different way than being caught for having them in the first place. It shouldn’t feel good like this. 

“Look at you,” Roman says. “You don’t give a shit. You’re fucking- fucking salivating over there. Why don’t you get on your knees?”

The door’s wide open. Your mom could come home at any point, walk up those stairs and see her husband on your bed with his cock out, and you sitting right next to him, your eager eyes devouring him. Enabling him. 

“On your knees,” Roman demands. It’s not a suggestion this time. 

The memory foam mattress slowly springs up as you slink off of it and onto your knees, just like Roman asks. He moves with you, lifting his hips to push his pants and boxers down his thighs, and then unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, revealing his soft, lightly toned body to you. His cock stands at full mast and looks imposing above you despite the way he described it as average, painfully average at that. Maybe it’s the context of the situation. The way that if you take him down your throat, that a line will be crossed and that there would be no way to go back. 

Roman sees you weighing it in your mind as he holds his cock between his thumb and forefingers. He doesn’t want you to think, or second guess this, rather. You’ve done enough thinking to know that this is what you want. It’s why you wrote it all down, right? You want this. You fucking want this. 

With his free hand, he reaches for the back of your head and pulls you close, tangling his fingers in your hair and looping the strands around his fingers as he pushes you down on his cock. He’s met with resistance as you push back, opting to swirl your tongue around the head and tasting that headiness of him, savoring him the way you wanted to. Roman swats your cheek, “Hey - quit that. Don’t fucking tease.” You wish he’d rub the skin he hit, show you a little kindness and make it hurt less. 

 “Wider, open wider,” he grunts. You open your jaw to allow him to push himself into your mouth inch by inch. He smells musky, heady, stronger than you would expect despite his pubic hair being so neatly trimmed. He tastes salty, the bead of precum that meets your tongue tastes so bitter and rather unpleasant, just like Roman is. But you love it anyway. 

Roman takes your hand in his own and wraps it around the part of his cock that you can’t reach with your mouth, squeezing your fingers tight so that your knuckles grind against each other as he twists your hand up and down. His other hand is still tangled in your hair as he fucks himself into your mouth, making lewd grunts and moans. None of it feels pleasant, it’s just his cock in your throat, sliding in and out. It’s mechanical, emotionless. You feel like a fuckdoll. 

Roman decides then that he wants to push you to your limit, so he pulls your hand off of his cock and forces himself down your throat entirely, his hand pushing on the back of your neck, causing you to gag and choke. He displays his strength again as you try to pull yourself up, but he holds you right where he wants you with his hand firmly on your head. “Nuh-uh, you're not quite done,” Roman says, “Choking builds character. Breathe through your nose. You’re fine. Hey–” he taps your cheek, “You’re fine. Relax.”

You know he’s right. It’s like the way they say to try to relax if you know you’re going to be in a car wreck, tensing up makes it hit harder. You try to relax your jaw and open your mouth wider as Roman fucks your mouth, but you still choke on him, drooling all over and making a mess of his lap. Zero gentleness as he bounces your mouth on his cock to an increasingly faster rhythm for his pleasure alone. Tears are spilling down your cheeks as you take Roman’s cock as far down your warm, wet mouth as he wants you to. 

“Mmph–” you groan in discomfort. 

“Oh, shut up,” Roman pants. “Fuck - just - just shut up. You’re fucking fine.” 

Your nose brushes against that coarse patch of trimmed hair at the base of his cock as he forces your head up and down on his member over and over, gripping his muscular thighs for stability. You whine in discomfort as Roman really forces himself into you, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat. He giggles at the way you gurgle and sputter on him. “Listen to you,” he taunts. “God, you’re making this so fun for me.”

Roman moans and grunts, his head tilted back as he uses your mouth. Your jaw aches and you don’t think you can take much more. With a deep groan, Roman pulls you off of his cock. “Fuck,” he says. “Get- stand up. Up. Take your clothes off.” He lays on the bed, arms folded behind his head and his hard cock standing up tall, shiny and wet with your saliva as he watches you take off your clothes. You don’t actually consider if you want this or not, you just do as Roman tells you until you’re completely bare in front of him. He looks predatory, threatening even, as he lays there on your bed. “You have your mother’s hips,” he tells you, smiling sickly when your face falls at his comment. He knew that’d ruffle your feathers. 

Roman sits up and leans toward you, reaching for your arm and pulling you onto the bed with him so that you’re straddling his hips. He brings a hand between your thighs, humming when he feels just how slick you are. He ignores your clit entirely, skipping past it to push two of his fingers into your pussy, curling them rhythmically as he brushes against that sweet spot inside of you. “Fuck, Roman,” you moan. And as quickly as it begins, it’s over. He’s impatient and needs to be inside of you. 

Roman sucks on his slick fingers and then puts both hands on your hips, pulling you down a bit, lining his cock up with your entrance. He rubs the thick head up and down your dripping seam, coating himself in your arousal. “Come on,” he says. “Like you wrote about. Let daddy make sweet, sweet love to you.” 

Oh, you like that. Daddy. It adds another layer of fucked-up to all of this that affects you right where you need. Roman watches how your eyes go wide and your lips part. “My, oh my. Is that how we’re doing things? I don’t recall reading about your daddy kink but color me surprised, I guess. Dirty, dirty birdy,” he hums, still teasing your cunt. “Very cliche, you know, but I’m not here to yuck your yum. I will happily be your daddy.”

With that, Roman pushes his cock into you. That slow, gradual slide inside your body stretches and aches and hurts, causing you to bite back a moan. His warm, hard cock fills you just how you need, just how he needs too. Roman sort of whimpers once buried inside of you completely, but he doesn’t allow you a moment to get used to him before he’s thrusting his hips, guiding your own as he does. 

You feel unsteady and grip Roman’s shoulders for balance, he’s surprisingly broad. As he moves his hips he insists on looking at you, not with any love or adoration but intimidation, perhaps. At least that’s how you interpret it. He’s so fucking handsome - his once sleek strands of hair, all different shades of brown and gray are becoming mussed. His brows knit together as he focuses on his pleasure, his dark, hazel eyes scanning up and down your body. You fall forward and bury your head in his neck, the rough scruff on his face brushes against your skin, scratching you. 

You like the way Roman fucks you. Even beneath you, he holds all of the power. His thrusts are sloppy and harsh enough to make you forget about how disgusted you feel by yourself, by him. With Roman inside you, all thoughts are gone. All there is is the in and out, his warm hands holding you down with his nails digging into your skin as he pushes himself inside you over and over again. 

“Oh- hey. Sit up.” Roman’s thrusts still and he leans to his side to open your nightstand and rifle through your belongings for the second time. He pulls out that little satin bag and removes your vibrator from it. “You come on this thing when you’re thinking of me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you answer. 

“Mm-mm,” he tuts. “We went over this. Yes, who?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl.” Roman holds down the power button and the toy buzzes to life, then clicks it a couple more times to increase the power. He wriggles it between your bodies, “I wanna watch you come on it,” he says. 

It’s less than a moment before he’s back to fucking you, everything now intensified with the toy vibrating on your clit. It never takes long for it to get you off but with Roman inside of you, you’re done for. Your orgasm approaches quickly, thighs twitching, moans becoming stuttered and broken with your release. 

“Do you always come this easily?” Roman pants, “Or just for me?”

“Just - just for you, daddy.”

You wait for Roman to come too, but it never happens. He keeps going, fucking you til you’re an overstimulated mess, adding insult by using his free hand to tease your nipples, flicking and twisting the sensitive buds. He likes the way you moan louder when he does that. 

“Too much,” you beg. “Please - I can’t.”

“You’re such - fuck - don’t be a pussy. You can take it ‘til I’m done.”

Another orgasm is beginning to approach, threatening to send you over the edge a second time. Those tears from earlier when you were on your knees for Roman are falling freely now. 

“Oh please, the fucking tears. Why are you crying?” Roman goads, still fucking you relentlessly. “You like it this way. I know you like it this way.”

You do like it this way. You like the way Roman fucks you like he’s an animal, how he makes you feel like you’re one too. But you need that come down, that final descent from pleasure, because it’s painful at this point. Your quiet sobs of exhaustion and ecstasy do nothing to slow Roman down yet. “I want one more,” he demands. 

“Roman–”

“Yeah, one more. Do it for your daddy.”

Roman grunts as he fucks you hard, you’ve only now noticed how damp he is with sweat, and how damp you are too. That particular thought makes you feel queasy, the idea of your sweat mixing with his. It feels more intimate than coming on his cock, somehow. This is so fucked up.

You don’t know where release begins and ends, it all feels so intense. But you must’ve moved the right way, made the right sounds, because Roman seems satisfied enough to finally spill into you. You welcome the warmth of him coming inside you, as well as the pain in your shoulder as he bites you there to muffle himself. 

When he’s satisfied, he gently flips you over and pulls out of you, his cock already soft. His spend drips from your core and he uses two fingers to push it back inside, then licks the remnants off his fingertips, humming with satisfaction. You’re all fucked out, an exhausted look on your face. Roman pulls a blanket over your naked body and pushes some hair out of your eyes. “This is on you,” he warns. “Whatever happens, whatever you’re feeling right now…this is on you. You know that, right?”

You nod. “Yes, Roman.”

Roman likes you like this. So pliant, unquestioning, willing to accept a responsibility that’s really not yours to accept. You’re more desperate for him than he thought. He presses a long, gentle kiss to your forehead just to get under your skin and fuck with you. “Sweet dreams, kiddo.”

Next

I'm really sorry about the "you have your mother's hips" comment. I know that was out of line. But I don't have self control and the ickier it is the harder I nut. (also if you enjoyed,,,,please tell reblog/send me asks/comment <3 )

tagging some friends i think might be interested based on if you've rb'd or commented or talked about my Roman stuff before <3 @dorims @atinylittlepain @joelsdagger @goldenispunk @littlevenicebitch69 @gaeela-6 @bean-is-reading @slutsoutgutsout @galarian-weezing-on-prep @cum-a-calla @pastelpinkflowerlife @kolsmikaelson @bookmarkingfics @moth-maam56 @kothku @cult-of-escapism @swiftiegirliepop @bluecookies-and-ink

[love4myg]

subtle changes | myg

summary. your carefully structured mornings takes a heartwarming turn when yoongi becomes a welcome part of your days, leaving you unexpectedly craving more.

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pairing: yoongi x f!reader

word count: 3.9k

warnings: none :3 (i think, plz tell me if i missed something)

a/n: the end of summer hit me like a truck, which is why this took super long 😭 i'll try my best and have an update schedule to keep me on track, but no promises! idk how i feel about this chapter but you guys have been waiting for too long lol. i hope you enjoy <333

!!! this is the second part of a mini-series. you can read this as a stand alone, but things make more sense if you read the first part !!!

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You were very fond of routines.

You liked knowing what would happen next; liked being able to go into auto pilot as your body steered you through the morning, liked leaving it up to your routine to anchor you back to reality whenever life took a toll on you.

Usually, you hated change. You hated its unpredictability; hated the way it slapped at you abruptly like a whip, hated the queasy feeling that bubbled in your stomach whenever it occurred.

But the change that snaked into your strict routine was welcomed with warm, open arms. He slotted into your mornings and evenings with ease, like a jigsaw piece that fits perfectly into the space in a puzzle. A puzzle that happens to be your life.

Yoongi was the first person you greeted every morning before leaving for work or classes. He left his home at the same time as you—something you only noticed in the last fortnight—and would wave at you from his door. You returned the gesture with a bright smile, one that was starting to feel almost too natural.

He waited for you every day without fail, with hands shoved deep into his pockets as he leaned against the wall. When you finally managed to reach his door, he would make small talk with you as you descended the elevator.

You’ve always hated the awkwardness that lingered with small talk but those feelings dissipated when it came to Yoongi. He always listened attentively when talked, chuckling whenever you complained about the lady living opposite you as he agreed. It made you feel comfortable about rambling on about whatever it was that swam through your mind, leaving no space for awkwardness to bubble.

Today, your topic of conversation was the music he claimed to make.

“At this point, I’m starting to think you’re a fraud,” you said.

You both stood outside the elevator of your apartment complex. Yoongi leaned in front of you to press the bottom button, and a ring of red light awoke along the sides of it.

Yoongi’s music has always been a topic of mystery. You’ve practically begged him to share a snippet of his songs with you ever since he mentioned being in a band, and each time he has refused. Though your words were playful, you had no idea if he made music at all. You recently realised how little you knew of him as a person too.

“And why would I lie to you about making music?” he asked.

You shrugged your shoulders. “I dunno. You could’ve been using it to make me fall in love with you or something. Pretending to be some cool, mysterious person in a band when you’re actually the opposite.”

“Well, did it work? Are you in love with me yet?”

You turned to look at him, narrowing your eyes as if to analyse him.

“Nope. You’ve got to try harder than buying me food and walking me to the lobby every morning.”

Yoongi let out a sigh, feigning disappointment. His lips pressed into a thin line that did little to hide the growing smile on his face. “Damn, I really thought I’d have you by now.”

A giggle escaped your lips just as the elevator doors slid open with a ding. You stepped in and returned to your position beside Yoongi, who clicked the second last button. Faint music played in the background, a soft ballad that you instantly recognised.

“I love this song,” you said. Yoongi turned his head to look at you with furrowed eyebrows.

“You do?”

You nodded. “Mhm. I’ve been having it on repeat for the last week.”

“Oh- I love this song too. Well- I’ve only listened to it once or twice whenever my friend plays it, but it’s really good.”

“I know right!” You were grinning as you looked at Yoongi, enthusiasm spilling from your tone, eyes wide with excitement. “It’s so- like- cosy? I don’t know.” A laughing breath escaped you.

“No, you’re right. It has that nice, cosy feel to it.”

You gesticulated wildly as you rambled on about the song and why you loved it so much, while Yoongi watched you with a wide smile. It was nice seeing you talk so passionately about something so mundane, how a simple song could brighten your entire day.

Yoongi didn’t interrupt you once, listening to your every word attentively. He wished he could stay with you, maybe even walk you to your college, just to hear your pleasant voice. There was just something about the smile on your face that made his heart beat a little faster.

But alas, he was forced to part ways with you as you reached the lobby doors. You waved goodbye and walked down the pathway. Instead of going his own way, Yoongi stayed as you grew smaller in his view.

Just before turning a corner, you looked back at him. You threw your head back as what Yoongi assumed to be a giggle—he was too far away to hear—left you. You brought your hands up and swatted them in his direction as if to shoo him away. He moved his hands to rest over his heart, feigning a hurt expression. He failed miserably, earning more laughter from you.

He liked making you laugh. It made his skin feel warm, the mere sound of it causing butterflies to erupt in his stomach.

It was stupid how much of an effect you had on him. He was absurdly comfortable around you, something he found difficult to accomplish around people he’s known for the better half of his life, let alone less than a month.

You lit up his day, your everyday routine giving him a reason to get up and be productive each morning. He never woke up before noon; there was simply no need to because anything to do with the band was held in the afternoon, and he usually did the night shift at his part-time job.

So why was he sacrificing the comfort of his blankets just to see you for ten minutes? Why was he debating on whether to change to a day shift because he didn’t even have anything to do in the morning other than seeing you? Why was he smiling to himself as he walked down the street, earning looks from passersby? And why didn’t he care, all because you were the only thing on his mind?

Honestly, he didn’t have an answer. It was too soon to conclude that he liked you. You were just a genuine friend, someone he happened to click with.

Right?

────

“I wrote a new song. I need you guys to sing it.”

Yoongi threw a leather notebook to the side, where it landed on the brunette who lay sprawled across the couch.

“Ow! Hyung, what the fuck?”

Taehyung plucked out his wired earphones, eyebrows furrowed in exaggerated pain as he took the notebook into his hands. He flicked through the pages meaninglessly before landing on the newly written pages.

On the couch opposite him sat Jungkook and Seokjin, completely immersed in some sort of game they played together. They yelled out profanities and shared movements intended to sabotage the other’s gameplay. Yoongi sighed.

Calling the room a mess was an understatement. A multitude of empty energy drinks, a few random sticky notes—reminders from the members to each other that would end up being forgotten anyway—and a stack of empty plates littered the coffee table. A hill of clothes sat neglected in the space beside Jungkook and Seokjin, and Yoongi automatically crinkled his nose despite the lack of any unpleasant odour.

He would have attempted to tidy up the room, but the long day weighed down on his shoulders. He moved Taehyung’s legs off the couch and slumped down beside him.

“Since when did you write love songs?” Taehyung asked. It was comical how fast Jungkook and Seokjin’s attention turned to Yoongi.

“It’s not a love song, it’s a ballad, idiot,” Yoongi mumbled.

“Same thing,” Taehyung replied, rolling his eyes as he flicked to the next page.

“Aw, Yoongi’s in love,” Seokjin piped up, feigning a sympathetic expression. He brought his hand up and added with a whisper, “Don’t worry, it’ll go away soon.”

“Fuck off, hyung.” Yoongi flipped him off and Jungkook chuckled at the exaggerated gasp that fell from Seokjin’s lips. Before he could start rambling on about how you should respect your elders, the youngest spoke up.

“So, who’s the girl, hyung?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“I told you, it’s not a love song. There’s isn’t any girl.”

“Yeah, right. Just tell us wh—.”

“Is she the one that lives a few doors down?” The new voice emerged from the side of the room, and everyone’s heads snapped up in its direction.

Jimin shut the bathroom door softly as he vigorously rubbed a towel over his hair. The ink tattooed under his chest was displayed in his shirtless form, grey sweatbands lying low on his waist.

“Who?”

“Why was I not told about this?”

“Yoongi has a girlfriend?!”

“She’s not my girlfr—.”

“No, she’s just the only reason you wake up at ass o’clock to see for like- ten minutes.” A teasing smile played at the corners of Jimin’s lips as he propped down between Seokjin and Jungkook. Yoongi shot him a glare.

“She’s a nice person. So what if I wake up a little earlier to see her? I’d do the same for you guys if we didn’t live together.”

Everyone in the room turned to look at him with a deadpan expression.

“Okay, maybe I wouldn’t, but it’s not that big of a deal!”

“Clearly is if you’re writing love songs about her,” Taehyung added. He threw the book over to the three who sat on the opposite couch, and Jungkook caught it with ease before eagerly flicking to the page with the lyrics.

“I’m not writing love songs about her! It’s not even a love song, it’s a ballad!”

“Okay, maybe you’re right. But there’s no way she’s not even a tiny bit of the reason why you wrote this,” Jimin said.

Seokjin nodded in agreement. “You’ve been struggling with writer’s block for like- the past week. And now you’re suddenly writing a song that’s a complete 180 of everything we’ve made so far?”

All four of their beady eyes stared at Yoongi, waiting for an answer. It felt like an interrogation.

“This isn’t fair, this is bullying. If Namjoon was here, he would’ve stuck up for me.”

“Yeah, cuz you’re a big baby that can’t even stick up for himself,” Taehyung mumbled, though Yoongi heard him loud and clear. He opened his mouth to curse at the younger when Jimin interrupted him.

“Uhm, no he wouldn’t. How’d you think I knew about the girl?”

“Asshole,” Yoongi muttered under his breath.

He told Namjoon about you around a week ago. How it had slipped into the conversation, Yoongi didn’t know. But his mind had been foggy from his intoxication that he found himself eventually telling Namjoon everything; about how you met, how you helped him, the dinner you shared. He didn’t even spare the details; how he thought you’re eyes were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen, how your laugh made his heart leap, how he hadn’t felt like this is years—if ever—and it was scaring him how fast he was falling for you.

Yoongi was frustrated at Namjoon but was also grateful that he didn’t reveal everything he had told him that night. If he had, the members wouldn’t be questioning him right now because they would already have a clear answer.

Yoongi sighed, leaning back his head.

“I- Last week, she mentioned this song that she loved ‘cause it was playing in the elevator. And- I don’t know- I don’t think our usual music is her taste. She’s been asking me to play her some of our songs for weeks and I’ve just avoided the subject. I just- I want her to listen to something that I know she’ll love.”

Because he loved seeing you happy. He loved the way you’re face lit up and he wanted you to have the same reaction when you listened to his songs. But he didn’t say that, of course. Just treasured the thoughts deep in his mind because he hated the truth they carried.

“That’s so cute, hyung,” Jungkook said.

“Whatever,” Yoongi mumbled, becoming more aware of the warmth spreading across his ears. “So, will you guys sing the song? I don’t think any rap verses would fit it, so it’s completely up to you.”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to get it finished fast enou–,” Jimin started, but was abruptly cut off.

“Of course, we will,” Taehyung said, throwing a hand over Yoongi’s shoulder. “When you guys get married, tell her that we’re the only reason she fell for you. You know, with our angelic voices an-.”

“Taehyung, I swear to fucking God-.”

────

Snowflakes poured from the sky, clinging to your clothes for a brief second before disappearing into the fabric. The cold air bit into your skin, slowly seeping into your bones and numbing your face.

You were delighted when the snowfall first began a few weeks ago. It had been the only thing that marked the start of the holiday season, and you found yourself giving into the festivities of it all despite the reminders of your finals looming over you like an angry, dark cloud.

Now that your exams were buried in the past, you realised what a hassle the weather was when it wasn’t the only thing cheering you up.

Your nose was stuffy and an angry shade of red. Your limbs ached, weighing down on you. It took you double the time it usually took for you to walk home due to the black ice that coated the sidewalks. You made the mistake of trudging through it carelessly once, and that ended up with a sprained ankle and complete humiliation. No way would you let that happen again.

No one would willingly go out in such weather.

So why was there someone standing outside your apartment? Why was he choosing the bitter cold instead of the heated lobby that stood a mere three steps away? And why was it Yoongi?

A thick scarf hung around his neck, obscuring most of his face with it’s deep, red fabric. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his black jacket, his head turned down to the floor.

He didn’t notice you as you approached his figure.

“Are you trying to freeze to death?”

His head snapped up. He stared at you blankly for a second before his cheeks rose up ever so slightly, the signs of his rare smile that always made your heart flutter.

“Hi. No—.” He chuckled softly, the sound quickly lost to the busy city. “—I was waiting for you. Didn’t know what time you came back, so...” His voice got quieter as he spoke, trailing off into a mumble.

“Oh, that’s so sweet.” Your words brought a smile to his face, his expression no longer holding a sense of hesitancy. “Why were you waiting for me though?”

“Right. I had to give you this.” He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a square-shaped envelope. Sensing your confusion from your puzzled expression, he added, “It’s a CD. You wanted to hear some of our songs, so I put together my personal favourites.”

All the words of thanks and appreciation died on your tongue as you took the cover from his hands. It was incredibly light, and you could trace the circular outline of the CD that lay inside.

“Yoongi, I– you really didn’t have to,” you finally managed.

“I wanted to.”

Your eyes crinkled to accommodate the smile growing across your face. “This is literally the best thing anyone has ever gotten me. You could’ve sent me a playlist online, y’know, instead of putting so much effort into it.”

Yoongi hesitated for a moment before speaking.

“I thought you’d like a CD more.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, of course I love the CD. I was just wondering why you chose the harder way.”

“I thought you deserved something more than just a few texts.”

You hoped that Yoongi would overlook the heat crawling across your skin as a result of the cold instead of his words.

“I- Thank you. Seriously, thank you so much.”

He nodded. “You do have something to play it on, right? I actually didn’t think about whe–.”

“Oh yeah, no don’t worry. I have an old laptop that I can put these into.”

Another nod. Yoongi’s eyes darted away as soon as they met yours, glancing around everywhere but you.

“Do you wanna go inside and not risk hypothermia?” you said with a small laugh.

“Uh– I actually have to visit a friend today.”

“Oh, okay.” Had he noticed the way your shoulders deflated at his answer? You hoped not. “I’ll see you around then?”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

You stepped past him and fished out your keys from your pockets. By the time you opened the door and turned back to wave goodbye, he had already walked away.

────

Click.

The CD slid into the side of the laptop with ease. Files popped up on the screen, casting shadows across your skin. You could feel the quiet hum of the machine beneath your fingertips, a steady, calming rhythm that contrasted with the sudden quickening of your heartbeat.

Your eyes wandered over it, soaking in the half a dozen songs Yoongi had chosen. You’d already listened to them all once, but you wanted to hear them again.

There was something about the way they played in your ears, something almost magical in the way the melodies intertwined with your thoughts. Each note seemed to resonate with a different part of you as if Yoongi had handpicked them to speak to your soul.

The songs were beautiful. Despite it not being your usual choice of music, you found yourself treasuring each song close to your heart. You hadn’t expected to feel this way, hadn’t anticipated how deeply you’d connect with the music that was so different from what you normally listened to. But here you were, replaying them over and over, savouring each lyric like a secret only you and Yoongi shared.

Maybe it was because you got to see a new side of Yoongi in his music. A confident, almost arrogant version of him that sang each lyric with pure passion. You could feel the intensity in every word, every note as if they were laced with emotions he could never quite express in person.

Or maybe he just knew you well enough to pick out songs he knew that you would like. Songs that would make you think of him, songs that would linger in your mind long after the last note faded away.

Whatever it was, it failed to stop the giddy feeling that enveloped your skin. A warmth that spread from your chest to the tips of your fingers, leaving you lightheaded and dizzy with emotions you weren’t quite ready to name. You couldn’t remember the last time something—or someone—had made you feel this way.

Your fingers scrolled down on the mouse, a habit that had formed ever since you first got the laptop. You hadn’t expected the screen to move. But it did. A subtle movement that caught you off guard, your breath hitching slightly as you leaned closer to the screen.

A seventh file revealed itself at the bottom of the screen. It didn’t have a name. Just a small, blank icon that seemed to stare back at you, as if daring you to click on it.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Yoongi had probably added it by mistake, but you couldn’t help but wonder if this was something he had intended to keep hidden, something private that you weren’t meant to see. You clicked into it.

Someone cleared their throat.

“Uh, hi. I don’t know if you’ll see this or not, but I hope you do.”

Yoongi’s voice was low and smooth, just like you’ve always known it. But nervousness curled around his words, the hesitance before each one clear as day. It was a stark contrast to the confident, almost cocky tone in which he carried himself within all his other songs.

It made your heart flutter in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“This is a cover.” He chuckled softly before his voice turned to a mumble. “God this is mortifying.”

You didn’t even realise that you were smiling. The corners of your lips had curled up almost involuntarily. There was something incredibly endearing about the way he sounded so vulnerable, so unsure of himself, and it only made you want to hear more.

“So–uhm. I hope you enjoy, ___.”

Oh, how you loved the way he said your name. The way the word fell from his tongue; like he was born to utter your name over and over again. It felt like a caress, soft and gentle, wrapping around you like a blanket on a cold winter night. You could almost see him there, sitting in front of his microphone, his eyes closed as he let your name slip past his lips.

He plucked the string of a guitar, the high-pitched sound quickly lost to his voice as he began to sing.

The familiarity of the song washed over you, a wave of nostalgia that tugged at your heartstrings. It was a cover of the same song you heard in the elevator a few days ago. The same one you had mentioned to him in passing. The same one he remembered to be your favourite.

He remembered, and it was almost pathetic how such a simple gesture had you feeling things that hadn’t been awakened in your heart for a dreadfully long time.

His voice filled the space with a melodic warmth that seemed to wrap around you like a comforting embrace. You leaned into the embrace—leaned in closer to the laptop in an attempt to be as close to him as you could so that you wouldn’t miss a single word. It felt as if he were singing directly to you as if every note was meant for your ears only.

His voice reminded you of honey; smooth, sweet, clear, and so fucking addicting. You could feel yourself getting lost in it, letting it seep into your very being, soothing parts of you that you didn’t even realise needed healing.

Unfortunately, the song was short. He had only sung half of it, lasting only around a minute and a half. But the enchanting melody lingered in the air long after he finished. You found yourself replaying it in your mind, trying to hold on to the feeling it gave you, not wanting it to fade away too soon.

“I hope I did the song justice.” A breathy laugh. “If I ended up ruining it for you forever, I’m sorry.”

If only he knew how much you would treasure his cover of the song in your heart, or how you would play the CD almost every day because you liked listening to his voice. How you would wake up every morning and–for the first time in a long while–would find yourself looking forward to change.

Looking forward to him.