grlpartdoll

[grlpartdoll]

older-boyfriend simon riley ‘nd his protectiveness.

tw/cw: age difference/age gap, exhibition, afab!f!reader. MDNI 18+

older-boyfriend simon riley is incredibly overprotective and possessive of you.

perhaps it stems from his deep insecurities and jealousy—that he's dating a pretty little thing, constantly anxious that you'll find someone younger than him, someone less toxic and more attractive. he makes out with you in public, despite not being into PDA whatsoever. of course, simon is familiar with the judgmental glares people give him in return for perving on a young, docile thing like you, but he can't help himself and craves the control and power that being your boyfriend allows him to have.

simon feels that it's his duty to protect you and to make sure you know who you belong to. people automatically assume that you are father and daughter due to your large age gap. i mean in all fairness, the man is old enough to be your father; you can't exactly blame them. despite the obvious age difference between you two, simon is still left frustrated and stressed whenever he hears those words, which leave him feeling perverted and corrupted for having a young woman wrapped around his finger.

he'll make out with you in public, his thick digits sliding into your panties while you're sitting together in a restaurant, only the table covering what depraved things simon is doing to you. he hides your face in his burly chest, your moans muffled and stifled, silenced from him hushing you, while he curls his calloused and scarred fingers inside of your tight hole.

he'll take you to the bathroom and fuck you relentlessly, forcing you to scream his name the entire time. your voice is left stained, and your throat is sore from deepthroating his large, hung dick. your makeup is left smeared—a mess—but at least everyone knows exactly who you belong to, right?

[grlpartdoll]

thinking about your older bf!simon that cannot cope with being far from you.

when you’re in the shower, he’s sat on the lid of the toilet on his phone (watching those rug cleaning videos) enjoying your faint singing under the stream of water, the smell of your body wash on the cloud of steam- ready to pass you a towel or get your back.

when you’re at your desk, working from home or studying, he’s just on the other side of it reading the paper with one outstretched leg tangled with both of yours. he’s dead quiet when you’re on a call, just happy to be around.

when you’re doing laundry, collecting the clothes in the hamper and crouching to stuff them into the washer- turning around and accidentally colliding with a thick wall of muscle.

“sorry, love”

he steps aside but you can hear his soft footfalls as he continues to follow you throughout your home.

when you’re both watching something on the couch, what starts as his pinky locked with yours turns into his arm around your waist. that turns into your head on his chest, which culminates with you falling asleep in his lap with his cheek on your head and soft snores emanating from his lips.

when you grocery shop, you push the trolley but his chest is to your back, arms either side of you and hands clasped over yours on the handle. you can thank his military training for his uncanny ability to tell exactly when you’ll stop walking.

when he wakes up in the middle of the night, on a rare occasion when you’ve managed to slip out of bed without him realising, he’s immediately in a panic calling your name.

“in here, my love”

as soon as his heart settles, he realises the bathroom light was probably a dead giveaway. you’re taking a wee, you’ll be back in a minute.

that doesn’t stop a sleepy simon from leaning in the doorframe, shielding his eyes from the big light as he waits for you to finish up.

even on the short walk back to bed, you can feel fingers twisted in the back of your shirt- almost like you’re leading the way.

minute you’re both on the mattress, you’re being wrapped up in his arms, slotting you perfectly into the curve of his front- almost like you’re made for him.

(and you are)

[grlpartdoll]

wait wait because imagine being a normal OF creator or a cam girl, just a small name nobody who does it for the sole purpose of getting through college. you keep your face out of everything, nothing in the background of any video of yours is personal, like once you get your degree this entire account is getting deleted and it'll be a thing of the past. (not that you're ashamed or anything. we respect sex workers of all kinds here)

and you plan on doing a different kind of video: one of you fucking yourself with a new, much bigger toy. usually you keep to the rabbits and bullets but following your friends advice, you fucking yourself on a dildo wouldn't be terrible.

plus you need it, sweetheart. when was the last time you even had a date?

bitch. (affectionately)

and as soon as you walk into your usual sex store, you double take. there is no, NO, way that is pornstar!ghost's dick you've just spotted as a dildo.

he's been your favorite pornstar long before you even started this side hustle. who in their right mind can resist that beast of a man with the mask and the tattoos and the heaving thing that's between his legs--

you take it home immediately.

it's almost sad how stupid you fuck yourself on it, cunt split open and dripping onto the floorboard for the internet to see but in that moment, you don't give a fuck.

you don't remember how many times you come that night nor how many viewers you had watching your puffy lips swallow "ghost's" cock whole, but come morning, you notice your bank account and it is padded.

PADDED.

one particular tipper was incredibly generous and they even left a message.

i'd love to see you do that on the real thing.

yeah, me too.

(whoever that is becomes a loyal follower who tips regularly.)

*screaming at the thought of simon getting himself off at your video. hasn't come that hard in months and that says a lot since he's yknow, a pornstar.*

[grlpartdoll]

some of you guys really need to learn to appreciate the fics you've been given. im so tired of seeing comments saying "is there a version where this happens?" "man i was really hoping for this" "another chapter were this happens?"

if you read a story and you can't even bother to comment on the effort and work the author already put in, but you comment suggesting something else just because you wanted it to go a different way? you're doing it wrong. i see this so, so often and im tired of being nice about it.

appreciate the authors who work for FREE on here. they're not writing machines. you're lucky they even shared their works at all.

[grlpartdoll]

i still can't get over it

[grlpartdoll]

If a worker who isn't the owner says ANYTHING similar to "I'm not really supposed to do this but-" and then does something that helps you, under no circumstances inform the business, including through reviews. You tell them that the worker was polite, professional, the very model of customer service and why you like to go there. You do not breathe a word of the rulebreaking.

[grlpartdoll]

assistant!reader trying to talk to a news anchor about how an interview is gonna go and qb!bucky wont stop bothering her?

assistant!reader:

pic frm @ixalit

Pairing: QB!Bucky x grumpy Assistant!Reader

CW: 6'5" beefy Bucky. Switch!Bucky.

A/n: Written on my phone, unbetad.

Thanks to months of cultivating working relationships with various members of the press, you’ve developed a repertoire with many of them, allowing you to tactfully nativagte their egos while skillfully dictating how and when his interviews happened.

Bucky is naturally charming and outgoing, but you’ve witnessed how quickly and viciously the media can turn on anyone.

You refuse to let that happen to Barnes.

No matter how aggravating he is.

Instead of listing off the things that are off-limits, you’re requesting, disguised as subtle pleading, the topics you want to be discussed.

His upcoming game. His elusive new contract with Patek Philippe. Charity work. Can’t forget the charity work. Bucky gives a lot of time and money to the local children’s hospital. He had an entire wing completely renovated last year and only a handful of people know how generous he is.

You think it’s time that people know he’s more than just a pretty face.

“Hey,” Bucky whispers loudly, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Can we talk about my new car? That baby is sweet. I can’t wait to take you for a drive. You’re going to say yes one of these days. I know it. Matter of fact, let me take you for a quick ride after the game, we can get something to eat and—”

“No.” You hiss, swiftly turning back to an amused Jessica, plastering a cheerful, too-wide grin on your face. “Okay so—”

“Can we talk about Alpine?” He continues, unperturbed. His fingers tapping along the side of your arm as he moves closer to you. “I got some new pics and you know the fans love her. She misses you, by the way.”

His cologne drifts down in a hazy mix of smoky cedar, spiced orange, and vanilla. Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. He smells incredible and the last thing you need is for him to know that.

“Barnes. Shut up.” You’re tempted to elbow him in his stomach but the last time you did that, you met his rock-solid abs and were left with a sore elbow. And of course Bucky decided to strut around your office without a shirt on because he claimed his poor muscles were too tender to have anything on them.

“Okay,” he responds, moving just a little closer, his beard grazing the side of your neck as he gets comfortable. He’s so large and warm and a traitorous part of you doesn’t want to push him away.

“What if we talk about how you should go out with a certain lonely quarterback? You know the cute one with the hair you like to pu—” Without looking, you grab his jaw and squeeze his cheeks until his lips purse and his words taper off into a light chuckle.

“I think that should cover everything,” you grit out between clenched teeth.

Jessica is eating every second of this up. Your relationship with Bucky has been an endless source of entertainment for her. She commends you for your resilience because she was sure you were going to give in months ago.

There’s a pointed gleam in her eyes that makes yours narrow. She bites back a smile and glances down at her screen. “So the new campaign, his charity work, and the upcoming season.” The list is ticked off with a tap of her nails on her phone. “Got it. I’ll be in the media room after the game.”

Jessica turns and makes her way out of the locker room.

“Thank you.” A relieved smile graces your lips and you start to push Bucky away, only to freeze at her next words.

“And Barnes,” Jessica says, one hand on the doorknob, “I want dibs on all engagement and wedding interviews. You two are going to make a beautiful couple.”

“Excuse me?” You splutter, your head whipping around to stare at him. Your fingers lift as a grin stretches across Bucky’s lips, his cheeks jutting out. “We’re not—”

“It’s yours,” he shouts, waving at her as the door closes behind her.

You release him, arms folding across your chest. “We’re not a couple Barnes and we are definitely not dating. Also, I can drive myself to the hotel after the game.” You inhale, taking a step forward to poke him in his chest. “And another thing, I do not like pulling your hair.” That's a lie, you loved it. And you keep thinking about the way he moaned that day and you desperately want to hear that sound again. Not that you’ll ever admit it. Instead, you continue on, steeling your gaze. “And you better not--“

Bucky’s grin widens, his tongue running across his bottom lip as he gazes down at you, listening to you ramble. If you only knew that he could listen to you read the dictionary and he would hang on to your every word.

“Yet,” he breathes out when you pause mid-rant to poke him again. “Not a couple yet. Give me time ‘cause I’m already yours. We just gotta work on making you mine.”

His confidence is bold and smooth and undeniably sexy. You’re scrambling to rebuild your defenses and find a quick retort when he saunters toward the showers.

“Not going to happen, Barnes,” you manage to get out, your tone lacking its usual bite.

Bucky turns, walking backward without breaking his stride, his darkening gaze so full of heat and promises that you feel it on your skin. He winks, eyes drifting down your body in one exhilarating caress. “And I can’t wait to show you just how good I can be for you.” 

Part 1: The Hair Incident

[grlpartdoll]

i have a headcanon that when Eris is filled with murderous rage, it gets REALLY cold in whatever room he is in bc all the warmth and heat is leeched from his general vicinity and he takes it for himself

[grlpartdoll]

Making out on the car hood with olderbf! Simon after we’re teasing him while he’s working on his favourite car :(

hnnngh need to distract him so bad 🫶🏼

it wasn’t like your older bf!simon couldn’t catch a break- he totally could, he just chose not to.

fresh off deployment, the blood under his fingernails had barely dried and he’s already running up a list of all the things he wants to do around your house.

starting with the car.

his car, only thing he learnt to love more than you (hardly)

1960 jaguar daimler, british racing green. goes like a cut cat, purrs like one too.

when she’s running.

you can hear the radio in the garage, there’s a bad moon rising under the sounds of banging metal. you think a wrench might’ve hit the floor.

that’s your cue.

“baby, you having fun still?”

simon grunts, he doesn’t reckon you’d ever understand the fact he could be having the time of his life and still be effing and blinding.

he calls it duality of man.

you call horseshit.

“course i am, nearly ‘ad it”

“sure you did”

he takes the bait, eyes raising off the motor long enough to watch you out the corner of his eye. he knows you’re teasing.

he likes it.

“alright, get round ‘ere and do better then”

and you take the challenge, slotting in between simon and the bonnet of his car. your eyes are scanning across the exposed mechanics, thumbnail between your front teeth as you hum.

“yeah, definitely a car”

you hear him snort a laugh before you feel his chest pressed right up to your back. poor excuse for a white singlet stretched across him, already covered in grease- you can feel the heat radiating off him.

one hand grips your hip, the other points out in front of you. you follow a long, thick finger to something you couldn’t name with a gun to your head.

“see ‘at? iss’a carburettor and it ain’t meant to look like ‘at”

you nodded, like you understood- like you could even listen when there was something firm and warm and entirely yours pressed right up against you.

“when i get ‘at sorted, she’ll be purring”

his voice dropped low in your ear as he spoke, you could feel his breath on the back of your neck. if you really thought about it, his lips might’ve been brushing your skin.

“purrs almost as nice as you do, sweet’art”

that was for another day, one where he hadn’t shut the bonnet and sat you right on top of it so he could slot between your knees.

hands slipping under his vest, sweat slicked skin beneath your palms as his tongue ran along the roof of your mouth- your hips were rolling up into his before you’d even realised it.

when he was finished with you, your panties would be hanging around the rearview mirror and you’d be lucky if you ever saw them again.

your muffled cries fell onto simon’s tongue as his lifted your hips, pulling you straight into the hard length that was barely kept by sweatpants slung low on his hips.

“that’s it- nice and easy f’me”

[grlpartdoll]

firm believer that if you asked gaz about what he’s doing / what he’s wearing, he’d reply with a photo posed up like a SLUT (affectionate)

[grlpartdoll]

Lady Death🖤 by xohikka [twitter]

[grlpartdoll]

Rolling your eyes at Captain MacTavish, not only do you earn yourself a spanking over his desk, you get yourself a sore throat from how rough he fucks it after beating your ass raw.

"The only time you should be rolling those pretty eyes o' yours at me is when my cock is down that tight throat. Now be a good pet and take it."

And don't worry, he's not too mean. As much as he loves seeing those teary eyes roll up at him, he'll tenderly wipe away any stray tears that spilled down your cheeks.

(Just don't expect it to get him to go any easier on your thoat).

[grlpartdoll]

predator/prey trope + light dubcon soulmate au 😵‍💫

with you, who’s not interested in having a designated soulmate. enter price, who’s pent up and hardened. price, who’s waited so long for you that he’s almost given up on finding his other half. price, who doesn’t care how far you wanna run. be it across the city or across the state. you could run across the country and he wouldn’t care.

no matter where you went, he’d be there. he’d find you in whatever hotel you manage to book, sneaking up behind you and taking a whiff of your scent.

“you sure made me work for it, honey.” he all but purrs into your neck, enjoying the way you startle against him. “that’s alright. just makes the catch even sweeter.”

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[grlpartdoll]

simon telling the guys he's got a girl to go home to post op, and johnny's gobsmacked because him??

his simon? with a sweet thing?? that isn't repelled by his very existence??? he's gotta meet you! (he's also mildly upset that the rest of them are single. or is it jealousy that the man he's gotten himself off to is finally taken?)

it takes a little (a lot) of cajoling to at least show johnny a picture and when simon hands him his cracked phone, johnny whistles low and murmurs out a pretty lass.

and you do look pretty. you look pretty from the side as you're washing dishes, even with the gaudy yellow gloves covering up to your elbows. you're so pretty from the back as you're bent over, carefully basting the chicken you're baking. you even look pretty fuzzy, the camera blurring your features while zoomed in.

there's even a video of you but johnny doesn't overstep. he knows better. he waits for simon's go ahead, and once he gives the almost imperceptible nod, johnny quickly presses play.

the room is dim, the television casting a soft glow upon your face. your legs are folded beneath you, your gaze fixed on whatever it is you're watching, your hand reaching for the bowl of popcorn on the nightstand.

"ken wha' she's watchin'?"

"i dunno, but she's been into nature documentaries as of late."

johnny hums softly and the video comes to an end.

"yer a lucky man, LT."

simon doesn't say anything.

(and neither does johnny. not about the grilles of the window in every picture nor the quiet chirping of crickets and even quieter crunching of leaves in the video.)

[grlpartdoll]

Thank you for all the love on this! If you guys have anything you wanna see in particular regarding this AU you're welcomed to leave me an ask!

Azriel is quiet, yes, but not for the reasons people might think. It's not something he does to be mysterious — or to frighten others. Sure. It works well for that, too. But.. Truth is, he has been quiet all his life ; perhaps a symptom of always being belittled when he tried to speak up for himself, be that by his step brothers, his stepdad, or by Rhysand himself.

Azriel has never really had the luxury of having his own opinion. His life has been — for better or for worse — a binary code, 0, 1, a black and white painting, and an immense quantity of yes' and no's.

Since living with the shadows, he's had his step brothers to fear, and then when he goes into the camps, he has Cassian and Rhysand to fear — to watch his mouth around.

But of course, as the story is told, things change, and then before he knows it, he's following his new brothers into battle because even beneath it all, ignoring the fact that he has suspicions that he does not exactly belong within their troops, they're brothers, damnit, and he will walk through fire for them.

And then they grow up, and the war ends. He becomes Rhysand's father's spy, and he goes into that job without any beliefs of his own, his life built around trying to survive his abuse and then the Illyrian camps.

And when he and Cassian and Rhysand finally become old enough, and Rhysand takes the throne, well, at that point he's got an unbreakable devotion to the night court and the citizens within it, and to his brothers, too — beaten into him, caking under his nails like blood, running through his veins like some type of venom to which no one has the cure to.

But even then, when things begin to settle, and everyone finds their place in the Inner circle, he doesn't really know himself, doesn't know where his place truly is. Sure, he's devoted to something, and likes these people enough to forget himself, but. Who is he, really? What does he want? Where does he belong?

Which is why — when he meets you, something wild and free and immovable in your own beliefs and person, he can't help but find refuge there ; in your wild, unkempt person, in your loudness, your clinginess, your unashamedly huge heart.

You're a freshly born… something. The girl born from the Mother, they call you. You're created from the necessity of there being balance again in Prythian during Amarantha ; sent by the Mother to hunt the falsely crowned High Queen of Prythian, and then kill her.

For your service, after you've killed Amarantha and redistributed the power around to their respective High Lords, everyone takes an oath to protect and shelter you whenever you need it.

You spend years between Courts, refining your skills, your powers, enlisting the help of all the helpful High Lords and their Ladies. Rhysand and Feyre, after a few years and the war finally passing, both deem it safe enough and decide to introduce you to their inner circle. You're introduced to them as the person who saved Prythian, as the girl who freed Feyre and Rhysand from under the mountain.

You fall in love with Velaris, and you take a liking to the members of the inner circle. But you become closer friends with Azriel than anyone else you had ever met before.

You, from some kind of instinct or because of the unspoken link you share with Azriel, know he is lost. You are, perhaps, the first to see it.

It's easy to follow and do the same, you suppose. To copy you, devote himself to something new, something other.

But you don't want him to take you as just another thing to protect. To lose himself in. You don't want him to follow in your footsteps just because he has a personal debt unpaid to you for saving his family members, you don't want him to be to you what he is to Rhysand.

So at first, you reject him. And he takes it as well as a man like him takes any sort of rejection. He withdraws easily like a tortoise into its shell, and for a great many days, is unavailable emotionally as well as physically. You don't see him, don't hear from him.

Eventually, Feyre falls pregnant, and you're the one, with your powers, to save her and the two males along with it. Rhysand gifts you lands of your own for it. Drapes you with the honours of being their Saviour one more time.

So you go to that place — to your new home in the wild, unowned lands beside the prison — your paradisiacal islands, and begin building a life for yourself. You make your own home, on the highest cliff you can find. Rhysand provides you with workers and builders, and eventually, a tiny town begins to bloom in the islands. It's slow living, like water lapping at the shore, every member of your tiny budding city lives happily, feasting on their hunts, and on the plentiful fruits of their plantations.

Azriel comes around often by means of checking on you for Rhysand. And you accept it, even though it is a lie. Eventually, your friendship rebuilds again, though. And you know that there is no shifting point, no sudden change — but it sure feels like it, when one day you are standing miles apart, and the other, you're in his arms, letting him sway you to the sound of the waves.

The progression is slow, but as you coax him out, with a bit of rough love and a handful of gentle praise, you begin to see the little things.

His armour loosens by the day. Sometimes, when he comes to see you, meeting on the beach down the mountain where your home resides atop of, he wears only warm weather clothes. His truth teller is left behind, and he lets himself be free of what it means to be the ShadowSinger, while enhancing what it means to be HIM.

And one day you catch him drawing. He'd told you once that a lot of the things in his head often begged to get out, to find a way to be put down and kept down and out of him. You suggested drawing. And he'd huffed at first, shaking his head and murmuring about how his hands would never being able to draw up those things. Good or bad.

You'd smiled gently and shrugged ; telling him that practice made perfect — that you hadn't become good at what you do in a day, either.

The first drawing he finishes is a portrait of Velaris. As though it is something he is trying to purge from his soul — the hold this city has on him. He tries to give it to you, but you refuse. You tell him that this is a part of him and no one else should be allowed to own these drawings. That this is him, on paper, all these little sketches, and that he was the only, sole owner of them.

So he begins to put them up in the room you keep for him in your humble home atop the mountain peak. You take your time keeping them in extra good condition, and as you lay down on the sofa while he sketches you, he asks you why you spent so much of your days in his room, cleaning and removing dust, making sure everything was kept safe and remained beautiful.

And you reply that if they were precious to him, then that meant they deserved to be cherished. And it takes a moment for him to register that — sure, the inner circle loved — loves — him, in their own way, but he'd never been loved the way he needed it. Had never been so seen by someone. Rhysand saw him as his most trusted weapon, but never as the lover he could become. Rhysand did not see Azriel ever being a good lover to any of the women in his inner circle. He never saw him being good — whole — enough for it.

Cassian saw him as his brother in arms, he saw him as a man he could trust with his life when it came down to violence. But when it came to gentleness, Cassian did not. He did not blame him for it.

And Feyre, the woman he considered a sister, only saw him as the protector of her family. She had always been closer to Cassian, from them starving so young, and then finding a family of their own, they could relate. Azriel could not relate to her that way, and she knew it, too, which kept him an arm’s length from the true her.

And Mor — Mor saw him only when she felt it convenient for her.

But you. You cleaned those pieces of paper where horrors he’d seen with his own two eyes were depicted and did not flinch. You saw those happy moments, and did not ignore them, either. You did not pick and choose which sides of him you wanted. You appreciated him wholly like no one ever had.

Progress after that day only doubles.

He begins to stand up for himself. Says no to the missions he knows will only break him inside a little more when he is just starting to stitch up all his broken pieces.

He draws. And sings. At first, he sings only alone, in the vulnerability of his own room, for himself. It's a way to get his feelings out — again. But then one day you take him to the bar in Velaris during one of your stays there, and he decides to sing for you. He'd done it for himself first — because it made him happy, but now, he wanted to show you, too, that to the bottom of his soul, he was starting to find himself.

And when you cry as the song ends, he gathers you in his arms and rocks you until you can breathe steady again.

After that night, many things change.

He's away from you more, but when he is around, he's the happiest you've ever seen him be — as though a weight has finally been lifted off of his shoulders. He stays no longer than a day at a time, and each time he comes back, he brings you a new story to tell — a new discovery he's made about himself.

A year later, you're in your garden, knees in the dirt, knuckles deep in the roots of an orange tree when you hear the familiar flap of his wings in the distance. He lands outside the tiny fence you keep around the garden to limit wild bunnies munching on your fruits. He has a bag on his shoulder, no heavier than a few shirts and pants. No armour in sight. He smiles, tired and worn out, but no less free, and no less in love, and you don't question it. You only raise yourself to your naked feet and step towards him. He cups your face, and you smile, nuzzling in it, that warm, scarred hand.

“Welcome home.” You say, soft and gentle but as firm as you can make it.

He presses his forehead to yours, dips down, and kisses you.

The next morning, you wake up with sunshine lapping at your bare skin like waves, your opened french doors letting in salty sea air into the room, shifting the curtains forward and back. Your body is draped over Azriel’s, who holds you loosely at the waist, his face serene with his eyes closed and eyebrows softly curved upwards.

You trace the small smile on his lips with your longest finger. His lashes flutter, and his hazel eyes find yours. He massages your naked waist as he comes to, blinking a few times, bringing you in closer.

He touches you with reverence, with so much love it's dizzying. “I resigned from my place as Shadow Singer of the night court. I trained Nuala and Cerridwen to take my place.” He announces after a few kisses that steal the air from you.

You don't say anything because you know that at this point in time, he doesn't need your approval, or your point of view on it. He'd done this for himself, and you were beyond proud of him for choosing himself above his prior court for once.

After that day, Azriel finds himself a place in your own little world. In that community you're growing in the mountains. He doesn't leave for Velaris anymore, and when you're called in, he will join you only rarely. Not in an attempt to forget — but because he does not feel the need to. He sees Rhysand and Cassian every month, and Feyre comes up with Nesta and Gwyn and Emerie and Elain sometimes to see you, maybe once every two months, to have a girls night of sorts.

And eventually, years down the line, your little community continues to flourish. You work hard to build a safe heaven for the people that trust you — that up and left their own courts to find you. Some people from the night court, others from spring, and a grand majority from other islands faraway.

Your home builds itself so beautifully over time, that the other courts agree to count your Island as the last court of Prythian — as a sign of respect, and some kind of political grant you don't truly understand.

You don't delude yourself into thinking you're any sort of High Lady, but as you see Azriel helping your citizens with their farms, deep brown skin tanned and slick with sweat instead of blood, playing with the kids with that beautiful, beaming smile on his face, shadows dispersing to trick and make toddlers and youngsters alike giggle, helping fix homes up after rather rough storms hit your village, you think that he'd make a perfect High Lord.

#azriel fanfic #azriel x you #azriel x reader

[grlpartdoll]

When I was “I want him” about a male character im not saying I wanna fuck him. I want him like a spoiled little girl wants a pony, I want to him so I can put him on my shelf for safekeeping, I want him like a good hearty stew on a winter’s evening, I want to put him in a jar and shake it.

[grlpartdoll]

Simon Riley who after coming back to his flat (courtesy of the government) from his first deployment as 'Ghost', finds a momma cat yowling and crying. She's hurt and has four kittens tucked into her side. Simon takes them to the vet only to be informed that only one kitten survived and the momma is dead.

So he raises the kitten. Bhe bottle feeds it every two hours, keeps it warm and safe inside a box with a heating pad and a hoodie of his. He's sure that it'll die but he keeps trying anyways with the heart wrenching hope that he's wrong.

The kitten pulls through.

Now six years later, he has a sassy sphynx cat who cries and meows whenever she isn't fed on time. When his usual pet sitter bails on him just days before his next deployment, he scrambles. He never knows how long he'll be gone and that's an issue with pet hotels. He has to find someone trust worthy and capable of caring for his darling pet.

Then he meets you by pure coincidence. Ruthie had slipped between his legs on his way out to grab some more of the wet cat food she liked then made a bee line right towards you. She meowed and meowed until you crouched down to pet her. Simon swears he had never heard her purr that loudly before.

You smile up at him and comment on how he has a sweet cat (he doesn't. Ruthie knocks everything over and has broken so many mugs, plates and cracked so many screens he owns plastic versions of everything plus keeps his phone on him at all times). Simon says something about trying to find a pet sitter to you and immediately realizes what he said when you smile. "I can keep an eye on her for you. She seems like a sweetie." You coo and gently scratch under her chin. Traitor, it took him weeks to get her to let him do that. But how can he say no when she's already taken a liking to you.