#hearing impaired!Reader

[moonstruckme]

hello lovely girl!

this is quite specific so please bear with me, but i am deaf in my left ear so i constantly am hearing only half of conversations i am in and constantly pulling people to my right side or sitting across so i can fully hear them. in loud areas i refuse to wear my hearing aids because it’s honestly torture with how much louder everything gets and it’s quite overwhelming.

no pressure in the slightest because you probably receive at least 100 requests a day, but if this is your cup of tea, would you do poly!marauders or any marauder x fem!partiallydeaf!reader? maybe she’s just upset she can’t hear properly and feels like a burden? however you wanna spin this darling!! thanks for even reading it xxx

Hey gorgeous, thank you for requesting!

cw: alcohol

Sirius Black x hearing impaired!reader ♡ 912 words

Sirius is talking loudly, nearly shouting, but his fingers are soft and gentle against yours. He toys with your hand like it was made for his amusement, his rings brushing against your skin as he folds your fingers in, spreads them out, runs a short nail up the length of your pinkie as light as a breeze. He smooths his thumbs over your palm like he’s flattening out the creases in a piece of paper. 

“Why don’t you just go to a different grocery?” Lily is the only one who seems to find Pandora’s story more concerning than amusing. 

“Because,” Pandora says patiently, “if I stop going, who will feed the goose? I’m not sure if anyone else does. He seems rather neglected.” 

“He bit your hand!” 

“Which makes it seem like he was quite hungry, no?” 

Without warning, music blares into the room. It ricochets off the walls, rising over the cheers of your friends as they recognize the song. You wince, a hand finding your ear. 

Sirius’ hand leaves yours. He holds it out in front of you for you to put your hearing aid into. You do, and he stores it safely in his jacket pocket, getting up and moving to your right side automatically. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah.” You smile at him. “Thanks.” 

He kisses you on the cheek, lips staying close to your ear. “Evans is worried about the goose being around children.” You turn your attention back to your friends, and you can see the gestures and expressions corresponding to Sirius’ account. “Rosier thinks it has a nest nearby. She’s, well, a bit unhappy that human children are taking priority. And James is back with our drinks.” 

The last part you could’ve ascertained on your own. James is carrying four cups in his two hands, seemingly unaware of the liquid sloshing out on all sides to coat his knuckles in stickiness. He peers into the cups concentratedly as he stops in front of you, passing one off to Remus before holding two more out to you and Sirius. 

“This one’s yours, babe.” He leans slightly to your right as he speaks. “No vodka, right?” 

You nod gratefully. You know James is Sirius’ best mate, but after you’d started dating it almost felt like he became yours, too. He treats you like he’s known you forever, includes you in all their conversations, and remembers things like how the taste of vodka makes you gag. He teases you like you’re best mates as well. 

“Wuss,” he says, plopping down in the spot Sirius vacated.

Sirius makes a dramatic gasping sound. “Excuse me! Darling, would you like me to defend your honor?” 

You take a sip of your drink. It’s sweet and made the way you like it. “Not this time,” you hum. 

“Fair enough.” He shoots James a faux glare, speaking to you. “Now Marl’s asking why Rosier goes to a grocery that far out of the city anyway. Good point.” 

Sirius uses his whispering as an excuse to get you close, working a hand around your shoulders and tugging you up against him so his breath warms your ear as he speaks. The conversation is interesting, as are the little comments and opinions Sirius peppers in, speaking to you as though you’re the only one in the room instead of to the group, but you find your mind nonetheless drifting away from it. Sirius’ hand is cupped around your shoulder, tightening every now and again to keep you in place when one of you shifts or his grip starts to slip. The cadence of his voice is enthralling, dipping and curving and getting enthusiastically louder before he remembers to drop it back to a hush, and occasionally on an odd word his lips will tickle the shell of your ear. 

It’s difficult to care what he’s talking about when the talking itself is so lovely. 

“Thanks for doing this.” You turn towards him, half startled to find his nose hardly an inch from yours. Your boyfriend’s lashes flutter momentarily as though it flusters him too, but he collects himself swiftly, quirking a dark brow. You wet your lips. “I appreciate the help. I know it’s not…it can’t be easy, accommodating me all the time.” 

Sirius grins at you. “Course it is, sweetness. It’s easy. I’m only translating.” 

“Well, you don’t have to,” you reply, voice softening self-consciously. “So thank you.” 

Dark eyes roll skybound before settling on you with an intensity that you should be used to but nonetheless pins you as effectively as it did the day you met. “You think I’d rather you use your hearing aid when it’s too much for you? Or leave you not knowing what’s going on? Don’t be silly, it doesn’t cost me anything to sit here and talk to you.” He stamps a kiss on your cheek. “Shocking as it may be, I like talking to you. Got it?” 

Your bashful hum must not be enough for him, because he gives your ear a nibble, a little squeak coming out of you before you can stop it. You both hear and feel Sirius’ laughter, bouncing through his chest as he pulls you closer against his side. “Oh, sod off!” he says to someone, you hope not you. He turns his mouth back towards your ear. “James has just made a ridiculous comment about PDA. The gall of him! Are you sure you don’t want me to defend our honor?”

[jolalibrary]

things you never asked

Javier Peña x f!reader (deaf/hard of hearing/hearing impaired!reader) 

can you sign? biting the inside of his mouth, he at least attempts to look guilty as he shakes his head. gesturing, taking your pen, fingers brushing against yours ever so delicately. likely purposefully.  but I will learn. 

wordcount: 3.1k dedication: written for the wonderful anon who requested Javier Peña x deaf/hearing impaired reader, I hope you enjoy. AN: Please be aware, I am not deaf/hard of hearing myself, and therefore, I apologise to anyone who reads this and sees inaccuracies. I’m aware, even with the research, talking and asking questions, it doesn’t scratch the surface of truly knowing this experience.

javier peña masterlist

Initially, he doesn’t seem impressed that you are here. 

Not at your presence, or that you’re standing in his office, bag in front of your thighs as you introduced yourself—never mind why you were here. 

There was often little choice where you were sent. Assistance and special interests are rarely ever needed all at once. 

Not that it matters, Javier Peña seems even less interested as to the reasons you’re here, or that you were sent here. Under it, though, you see something else. It's fleeting—breezing past like curtains caught in a draught—but he looks worried, concerned. 

He does a good job at burying it, stuffing it down as he stares down at the file again, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge. 

He does give you the nicety of looking at you when you talk, eyes, all hard and umber, flicking from the paper in his hand to you. Then, his eyes take in the sight you knew he would find eventually, the thing you don't hide, but rather wished you’d gotten to your credentials before it was spotted. 

Then it flushes across his face, the flattening of creases and the immediate shift to concern. 

You’ve grown good at reading people, having been around people who make assumptions as an occupational hazard. You’ve become well versed in reading lips, and the minor inflexions around them—the subtle shifts of their eyes, the way their lips try not to curl. 

From the looks of it, if he had wanted someone, he had at least wanted someone who didn’t need an aid to hear him. And you foolishly wished to support someone who hadn’t written you off the moment you arrived, something you’d have commented on, if not for the fact you really wanted this particular job. 

His eyes keep glancing over it—the cochlear implant—the object that allows you to do what you’d always wanted to and what you're good at. 

Languages have always fascinated you, even with the clock ticking on how long you could hear them being spoken. It’s why you knew you’d be helpful—laundering didn’t tend to stick in one county, never mind the country. 

“I don’t mean to be….” 

You lick your lips, letting him do what he feels he must. Albeit softly, kindly. 

“You can’t… you can’t go out—it’s dangerous and—“

Unmeaningly, you smile. “I’m aware I’ll be office-based, Mr Peña. But, a lot can be done from a desk.” 

It leaves your tongue harshly, even if you don’t mean it to be. Even if his tone was the polar opposite, gentle, soft. 

The rules of what you can and can’t do are firmly etched into your brain the number of times you’ve heard them. The amount of languages you’ve heard it said to you in—hell, someone had even once signed it. 

It’s as though each time, they think you expect to run off with a gun and a badge rather than assess case files and assist. 

“If you could show me where I can sit, I’ll get started—I was told you had transcripts I could read.”

He seems to run his tongue against his teeth before throwing the paperwork down on his desk. 

The pile there large, sat at all angles, like adding to it is his hobby rather than sorting it. 

He introduces you to his deputy—a man who tries not to stare but does so all the same. It’s his name, you remember on the initial paperwork: N. Stoddard. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Stoddard.”

“Neil,” he says, wiping his hand on his trousers before extending it. 

Shaking it, your grip firm—just like you were taught—you stand a little straighter, spine a little stiffer, feeling brown eyes still on you. 

In time, you’re left alone. 

Playing catch-up is never fun. A risk of information overload set to hit at any moment, but able to keep it at bay with sugary snacks and coffee. 

In the following days, you find it’s easier not to meet his eyes. To not suffer the same fate as the other women in the building—the ones who all sigh in the same horrid pitch that vibrates through your brain. 

If he looks your way, someone else—an intern, a busybody—swoops in, desperate to remove you from the playing field. Because it’s a game getting noticed by him, each one stepping up to the plate, batting and seeing who can score. 

All he ever manages to ask is whether you’re okay before his attention is needed. 

You’re not sure you believe all of the reasons people give. But then, none of them realise you’re not interested in playing, not knowing that truthfully, as handsome as he is, even spending an evening with someone you assume wouldn’t be able to speak to you without your aid is more tiring and lonely, than declining the opportunity. 

Even if, irrespective of the fact Javier Peña spoke Spanish and English, you doubted his language skills spread into Lengua de Señas Colombiana or ASL. Something you weren’t about to put to the test, time ticking, case mounting—there was little need in getting attached. In forming anything outside of polite behaviour and yes sir. Even if he had softened, even if he saw something in you that was worth keeping around. 

Not that he shows that all too much to you, barely letting a glance fall in your direction. Occasionally, he’ll look, ask if you got that, whether he needs to repeat it. 

With others, you’d have bitten back that you can hear him perfectly, but with him, you swallow it. Let it erode a hole on the tip of your tongue, suspecting he didn’t mean it as condescending as it came out. 

You still do respond with a gesture—a thumbs up, an okay sign, just to stick the point in. 

It seems he’s wired to keep everyone at arm's reach, you assume. Likely making up for something, a wrong or a right—you can’t be sure. So, you don’t assume, you’re too busy, too much needing to be checked, typed.

The more transcripts come in, the less it all makes sense. Your fingers typing, trying to find some pattern, so no one has to risk involving the wife. 

It’s easier to fake being a workaholic as the reason you don’t look up at him when he walks past. When you keep your chin dipped when the end of the day arrives. 

Because even if you’re here to help process legal paperwork, to be the middle person and keep the peace, you couldn’t help but notice that he was good-looking. Somewhat reserved, but handsome. 

Something you get to see firsthand a few days later, finding him standing at your desk, fingers tapping against the wood. 

At first, you don’t dare look up. Your stomach drops, your implant thrown in your bag—the lump in your throat from your earlier sob all returns.

You had known the day would end badly from how your morning began. An overslept alarm, a coffee-stained blouse and your lunch on the floor in a mess—and that was before you got in. 

Then it was rushing, snagged trousers on a desk end and no batteries for your cochlear implant in your bag. 

You reach for a pen, for paper—glancing up again, and it’s like the lights have been switched on, suddenly seeing what everyone else falls for.

The brown pools in his eyes—how they coax you in. Call for you. They make you forget how to think, breathe and recall. Mainly because, unlike usual, they’re soft, wide and large. They’re full of empathy and pleading for forgiveness—

Shit. He’s speaking. 

His lips moving. Your brain quickly, and already, works a translation out as your forehead creases and your lips slide up into your cheek. 

He’ll remember—you think. He’d stared at it enough in the moments you’ve been around him that he must. 

But, the longer he talks, the more you fear that won’t be the case. 

It’s why you stop him. 

Racking your brain for the sign in ASL before slowly raising your index finger, moving it to your cheek near your left ear—to a spot close to your lower cheek, and signing to him.

His lips stop moving, sliding to a halt as he stares. And you grab a scrap piece of paper, your pen gliding over the sheet in the neatest you could get it:

I can’t hear you. Ask someone else. 

Javier considers it. Leaning more so on your desk.

Doing so with a tilt of his head and a stroke of his jaw, the sleeves of his jacket rolled up—allowing you to see how his veins twitch and his muscles flex as he thinks. 

Gesturing for the pen, he takes it, adding in neater writing than you banked on: 

You don’t want to help me?

You smirk, looking up and finding him watching you—smiling. 

Suddenly, you’re unsure whether you should remind him you can lip-read. That if he sticks to one language, you’ll be able to keep up. 

Instead, you take the pen back, seeing something dance in his eyes, you know you should run from. But you don’t. 

Can you sign?

Biting the inside of his mouth, he at least attempts to look guilty as he shakes his head. Gesturing, taking your pen, fingers brushing against yours ever so delicately. Likely purposefully. 

But I will learn. 

You snort. In all of your free time? you wonder, and from the way his eyes open a fraction wider, he reads your mind. 

Staring, wiping his thumb over his lips as you stare at the imperfect handwriting with the perfect Spanish. You write:

I caught one word. Ask again, but slower. In one language. 

It shifts, changes. Like day into night, like spring into summer. Things bloom. 

Days bleeding into a week, a week ticking up to a month. The hours together, even with his meetings, growing, rooting something down that you know should worry you. 

Because he’s not like this with Neil. 

Neil who can hear him, and likely always will; Neil who works here permanently, and won’t be whisked away when all is said and done. 

You let it happen anyway.

Watching it begin with him checking in, not just sending Neil to do so. His care spreads into offering you a drink, slowly mastering the perfect way you take it. 

He hovers, and you don’t hate it. 

An attachment forming, weaving itself between the two of you, pulsing—and you should stop it. 

There’s fleeting things, ones which seem obvious, but it’s better to ignore. The way he moves you to the side of the pavement away from the cars when you find yourself going out for lunch at the same time as him; when he realises that you find it easier if he sticks to one language, not doing an oddly beautiful mix of Spanish and English. 

You make him laugh, and he makes you smile. 

Something you’re sure countless others do, but you try not to linger on it. Instead, finding his eyes barely glance at the thing, which helps you hear the sound he makes, instead only looking at you. 

It’s why you don’t argue that you can’t go with him to Curaçao. Instead, you pack a bag—finding a rationale for the reason you’re on a plane, foot almost brushing his as you sit opposite. 

“You stay out of sight, you’re here for—“

“My tongue,” you bite back, not glancing up, but smirking at the way the air shifts. “I know, Javi. You don’t need to read me my rights.” 

He leans back, elbow meeting the armrest, studying you—thumb swiping his bottom lip. A movement you notice he does a lot, so frequently, you almost fear you’ll mirror it. 

“¿Qué?” you ask. 

He shrugs, thumb still tracing. “You’ve never called me Javi.” 

Closing the file, you cross your leg over the other, the tip of your shoe brushing his in the act. “Well, I’ve never been taken from my desk.” 

It’s chaos. 

An inevitable coincidence when he takes off in a run, and Javi follows. Pink shirt blurring in the distance, your feet slowing to a near jog, knowing you’d never be able to keep up. 

You try, because you’re stubborn, difficult. 

A person who should know better, and yet finds herself very much somewhere you shouldn’t be—just because he asked nicely, and did so following a flurry of compliments. 

You’re good, really good. You seem surprised.  No. Not surprised. Just… Surprised? Alright, you got me, muñeca.  You calling me muñeca cause I’m fragile?  No, just other names seemed inappropriate. 

It’s muñeca that circles your mind as you follow the mess the chase leaves behind—the shouts, the knocked-over furniture and the way the crowd parts like the sea. Your hands brush past people, guiding yourself back to him—to them. Your body catches shoulders, head almost knocks against walls as you try to follow. Running, fleeing—calves burning as the sun beats down on your skin. As your arm throbs from meeting a wall, a graze most likely being a badge you’ll wear for a few days. 

Chest burning as you reach the square, finding pink and a crowd gathered you let a breath soak into your lungs. Taking another and another, steadying your pulse as you watch him raise a gun. You brace, but find nothing. 

Just a shove and push of the crowd. 

And nothingness. 

Nothing. 

It dawns then, as your blood stops thumping in your head. It rushes through you, crashes and slashes the relief at catching Jurado, because you can’t hear. 

It rises like fire, spreading from your stomach and growing up your oesophagus. Disorientation mixing with loss, hand clutching the place it should be, eyes scanning the floor in circles as you pace and retrace. 

It stings—the tears which come thick and fast. Your hand remaining against your ear, unable to catch each gasp from a sob, doing so, even if you can’t see through the thick pain coated in your eyes—

You’re spun, finding brown eyes, tousled hair and a pink shirt. Soft, but slightly calloused fingers, slide down your forearm.

He spots your tears, taking the sight of you in as his other hand cups your chin, tilting you to face him. Those brown eyes, the ones softening second by second, making you swallow, making your brain empty—

He’s speaking. A blend of languages from the look of it, mixing from one to the other, jumbling whatever thought process you had. 

Lips moving quickly, fingers wrapping around your forearm, and you stare. It takes a second, your mind slowly engaging, before you lift your hand, tapping against your ear as you frown. 

It’s then you can read it. Now he’s slowed his lips and chosen one language. 

You can’t hear me?

You shake your head, unsure how to begin to explain, without sign language or paper, that you lost it somewhere in the chase. Your fingers pointing to your ear, moving your arm, signalling to him, but you could feel it—the dread. It creeps over you, half-expecting him to excuse himself. 

But instead, he releases his hand from yours, asking with precise fingers and a concerned look if you’re hurt—if you can walk. 

Answering with head shakes and signs in response, your eyes still brimming with tears—throat choked by emotion and the lack of sound. 

There were moments, fleeting since you’d arrived in Colombia, where there had been no sound to the point it had hurt your head, and now you missed how loud it all was—missed the liveliness of it. 

That feeling sitting with you, drenching you as he leads you into a car, and then a car into a plane.

It’s only after take-off, the sensation of being in the air felt by every bone, do you think, do you replay it all. 

He’s lost in talking to Jurado. His words are not easily untangled, but his focus on him is enough to tell you that you can relax. 

That’s when it floors you: 

He signed. 

Not once, twice or even thrice. He signed a multitude of times. In the square, in the car—even as you boarded the plane. 

Your eyes look up, glancing over, finding his fingers wrapped around his chin, staring—as if waiting for you to notice.

He must read minds, concluding that you’ve figured it out. Not saying a thing. Neither of you is signing a vowel. 

Not doing so until the wheels of the plane land in Miami, the people waiting to take Jurado do so, leaving the two of you for a moment. 

He must wait for you to move, unbuckle your seatbelt and go over. But you don’t. The minutes collected, eventually finding him coming closer, sitting in the opposite seat—the table folded out without glancing at it. Pulling out paper and a pen. 

Then he writes: Told you I’d learn. 

You smirk, licking your lips, taking the pen—the one you realise is yours. You want a medal for learning a few phrases?

Tilting his head, he smirks back. Mirroring yours. The two of you sit in it, until you unbuckle your belt—shifting to the edge of your seat. 

Now we’re done, I’ll be sent to another office. 

He nods, smirk lessening as he takes the pen. I know. 

The sorrow etched into his face is one you feel thumping in your chest. A longing to stay, to help in some other ways, not that you’re sure how. 

Taking the pen, you offer a smile before you write quickly: 

It cannot hurt to do this, then.

His eyes glance up to meet yours as they register, watching you move close—confusion melting outwards just in time for you to lean forward and kiss him. 

A thank you, initially. 

All soft, delicate—more testing the waters than anything else. Until, his lips move with yours. Thanking him again, thanking him for the kindness in the square, for trying. 

Feeling that same palm cupping your cheek as he deepens it, as he holds you close, the other hand sliding along your knee. 

It’s wrong, most likely—a breach of some kind of contract you signed. But, then, you weren’t meant to have left, to have gone with him, faux-finalising other documents in the air when you should have been on the ground. 

So, this—giving in—kissing him, was minor. 

an: to the anon, you deserve the world. thank you for trusting me with this.

[imaginedreamwrite]

Not a request for your picture drop but could I request a little drabble on soulmates? Someone on my timeline reblogged a lot of soulmate fics today and I'm hooked again.

Maybe for Steve or Bucky?

It was the moment the door opened and they’d been cast into the decked out theme, that made them question whether or not they actually wanted to be here. It was the moment the smell of freshly made popcorn hit their noses followed by the shrieks and laughter of kids running as best as they could, that made them wonder if being roped into Stark’s charity event was as accidental as he claimed.

Neither Steve nor Bucky was opposed to being present at these charity events, neither one of them would truly negate the chance to give back however it was working closely with whatever whims Tony Stark had for them that was anxiety inducing.

All he had told the two super soldiers was to arrive exactly at 2pm and show up in their uniforms with their personas on full display. With the two men closely aligned, as being each others soulmates and just missing one third of themselves, they could detect more than most who were without any indicators of who their other half was.

“Its captain America!” A little boy with an oxygen tank being wheeled behind him had scooted toward Steve, and in a single bound had made all hesitations dissipate from the soldiers body.

“Sick kids hospital, didn’t Tony tell you?” Clint had slipped past the two, watching them as they were getting nearly bombarded with kids. “They’re raising money for new beds, new monsters, a new intensive care unit-”

“And the Winter Soldier!” Bucky was tugged forward, caught off balance and nearly stumbled flat on his face as a little girl reached for his arm in wonderment.

“Still wanna leave, punk?” Bucky teased Steve, looking back at one half of his soulmate with questioning gaze that centred entirely on Steve’s daze. “Steve? Ya alright, pal?”

Steve had felt the cusps of full colour slowly radiating into his field of vision, the hues of faint light hitting him with the all too real sense that he was in the same room as their missing piece. The kids around him were eager for attention and he was not one who wanted to disappoint them however he was held captive by a woman talking with Clint.

“Bucky-” Steve spoke his name, his throat and voice cracking as an air of suspense whipped around him and his world became brighter and more Saturday’s.

“Captain America! Captain America!” Kids scrambled to gain his attention as the world around him shifted into a new direction and dimension.

“Holy shit-!” Bucky cursed, coming to stand straight and tall, his eyes likely also becoming overwhelmed with colours that had never yet been see .

“THE WINTER SOLDIER SAID A BAD WORD!” The kids around them chortled, cackling and screaming in glee as Steve and Bucky were completely enraptured by a woman on the other side of the room.

Coney Island indoors, a fair inside for kids who may never have the chance to go. It was a fair to raise money for sick kids, and it was a cause Steve could get fully behind. He was a sickly child once, he was a child who could’ve died any number of times over and over again.

It was a Coney Island theme filled with colours and sensations, and yet all he could focus on was the missing part of himself and Bucky.

“Colours-”

“I never knew the world could be so gorgeous.” Steve inhaled and exhaled slowly, his eyes fixated toward their soulmate who was as equally shocked and in awe.

Steve’s smile was slow to rise, and he had awkwardly raised his hand to wave twice, back and forth to somehow acknowledge their soulmate.

Bucky had watched Steve, eyebrows furrowed and a soft chuckle threatening to spill from his lips. He was equally endeared by Steve’s continued awkwardness and embarrassed.

“It’s her.” Steve mumbled under his breath, falling back into his task at hand when he crouched and started interacting with the kids surrounding him.

He had only ever raised his head when two additional people joined their little space, and then Steve locked onto a gorgeous pair of eyes that stole his breath and his heart.

“Steve,” Clint addressed Steve and Bucky before introducing his friend, his fingers poignantly moving, “this is Y/N, a volunteer for the sick kids hospital. Y/N this is Steve & Bucky.”

Bucky stood from where he was crouching and inhaled sharply, just as captivated as Steve was.

“I lost my hearing when I was 16,” you used sign language to communicate along with your verbal explanation, fingers forming each word despite them not knowing ASL, “I had meningitis. I recovered but…”

You tapped your left and right ear and then shook your hand to signify your ability to only partially hear. It was a message that was received with the weight of the two soldiers finding out you were theirs, another layer to the life-altering news of the day.

“I can talk and I use sign language but-”

“Bucky,” Steve drew his hand between Bucky and himself, “Steve-”

“I think she knows, pal.” Bucky nudged Steve, attempting to save him from further embarrassment, only to falter himself when the sound of your laughter rang in their ears.

[gniteruirui]

Here my y/n (Chris) and sun/moon

Weird moments you will see me coloring the DCA (because I’m very lazy to do it and also because I suck at it) I would like to put so many things about them but I’m bad at writing in English lol

So I will draw about them more in the future (probably)

[cherry-pop-elf]

Breakfast

George Weasley x Reader

Summary: It was finally the weekend, which meant rest for you. Not so much for George, but that wasn’t an issue. He loved his job. Regardless, early mornings can be lonely. Luckily, he always does open the store later in the day. So today, you THREE get to spend time together. You, Georgie, and little Freddy

((Btw yes I’m using ASL instead of BSL. It’s easier to get accurate with research, and it can help teach more people to!))

“WHOOPSIE-!” Certainly a concerning word, in any house hold. Was what made you wake up. You didn’t want to, but oh well. The sacrifices every parent makes. George wasn’t in bed with you anyway. No fun being in bed, with out someone to cuddle.

You would pull yourself out of bed, while steal your husbands sleep robe, and proceed to try and figure out why your son was going Whoopsies. Because if he’s saying that, something’s probably on fire. Or exploded. Or currently trying to climb itself out of a trunk.

“Hey, accidents happen. Don’t worry. Here, I’ll clean it up-“ That sweet voice would comfort, as you entered the kitchen. The smell of breakfast heavy in the air, and the windows open to the early morning noise.

What a sight it was. Seeing your handsome husband. That ginger hair all a mess in the early morning. Plaided pants, with hand me down shirt that was somehow surviving from either spite or love. (You bet it’s a mixture of both, with those Weasleys)

Little Freddy himself was in a bright purple pajama set. With the cutest little designs all over it. Just like his uncle, he just adored purple like no other. Like hell you wouldn’t let him enjoy such a color.

Your husband would wave his wand, and repare the broken plate on the ground. Nothing magic couldn’t fix. Seems like the two of them were making breakfast together. George teaching little junior how to cook, and clean. Made your smile, as you leaned on the door frame.

“See? No harm no fowl. You did the right thing, though. The plate was hot, and you let go before it could hurt you.” He would encourage, as to make sure little Freddy knew that everything was alright. Gentle, calm, and soothing. No need for yelling, after all.

“Can you sign Hot-?” He would ask Freddy, as he quickly nodded. His tiny hand would make a claw shape towards him mouth, before turning it away. As if eating an apple, and placing it down.

“That’s right-! Good job-!” George would cheer, as he yanked his son into his arms. Got him to giggle, as he was attacked in kisses. Such a proud father. You swore you might cry. George just adored his son to no end. It reminded you of the many, many, reasons you fell for him.

“Well now, look who’s awake-!” George would smile at you, before your son made grabby hands at you. That was your que, and you happily took it.

You would steal your bouncing baby boy, and pepper him in kisses all the same. A good distraction for George to make the plates for breakfast. Just laughter, and the sizzle of food.

“What has my little trouble maker been doing this morning?” You asked your son, as he gave a big smile. One that echoed the likes of his father. Helped that the ginger curls were over those chubby freckled cheeks.

“Daddy and I made breakfasts together! And he’s teaching me how to sign stuff that means breakfast!” Freddy would giggle, as you gave a wide eyed expression of curiosity. A means to encourage such behavior.

“He’s gotten so good at it. He’s gonna be better the me even. And I’m the deaf guy-!” George would snort, as you rolled your eyes at him.

Did have a point though. Being raised to learn sign language is alot different than having to learn it later in life. Luckily, though, George is far smarter than people give him credit for. Just look at the empire he made. Even with Fred’s help, it’s no easy task.

“We made waffles, and pancakes, and and-“ Freddy would babble on, and you listened to each little word. Cherishing it all, as you helped him sit at the table. Making sure he was secure in his seat, before sitting next to him. With George on the other side of him. Your shared bundle of joy, between his parents.

“You did a good job. It all looks so yummy.” You praised, as you gave his chubby cheek a kiss. Had him giggle, before he grabbed his sippy cup. Happy to enjoy some morning juice, as you reached behind your little boy.

“Just perfect.” You almost whispered, as you held George’s hand. The grip was returned, as he stole your fingers to his lips. Kissing them over, and making you blush all over. As if just an early year again, and admiring his skills on the quidditch team.

“Terrible.” You tease, as he gave an eyebrow wiggle at your manners. Had you snort, before he was quick to lean himself over. Had to make sure his partner got a kiss too. A kiss you oh so happily returned. All to the ‘gross’ babble of your son.

That soon had you both pamper his face in kisses, as he squealed at such an attack. Flailing little fingers, as you made sure he was adored in all the love you two could muster. That was quite alot, mind you.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” You asked, as George gave a groan. Had you giggle that he never truly gave up all his childish habits. As if you would want that. You needed to smile, after all.

“Work, work, and more work. Love the job, I do. Wouldn’t trade it for anything, but I wish I could just close the doors for one day…..I mean, I can do exactly that. I’m the boss here. Hm…..Maybe I should do that. ‘Closed for a family picnic’ and all that. Yeah, yeah I should do that-“ He spoke out loud, as he enjoyed his waffle.

“We can see uncle Fred!” Freddy would shout, as you would wipe the syrup off his face. Messy eater he was, but you savored it. Just was nostalgic, after all. A messy eater like when his father was young.

“The cemetery normally has, like, no people this day in the week. That could work, honestly. Just a private little family get together like that.” George nodded, as he showed he liked the idea. Made junior grin, with such pride.

“Sounds like a plan then. A nice picnic to see uncle Fred, and just a day to spend with us three. I love it. Good job.” You would add to George, as Junior was just all smiles. So much like said uncle, but certainly George all the same.

With the plans all set, the three of you enjoyed the breakfast between you all. With plenty of George teasing his boy. With silly faces, and stories of his youth. Was just divine to watch. To see him so happy again.

“All done-!” Freddy would suddenly shout. Was followed by placing both his hands to his chest, before bringing them back to the table. Multiple times, as to practice what the sign meant. Warmed your heart. Smart like his daddy.

“Good job, Freddy. Now, what do we say next?” George would ask, as Freddy had to think. With his little brows furrowed, as he huffed. Trying his best to remember what to sign next.

“We clean….” He muttered, as he gave sign language babble to himself. Trying hard to figure it out, as you both waited. With no rush. No yelling. No pressure. Just waiting, and letting him breathe.

“Clean….” He muttered, as would place his right hand on his left hand. Then he made a swiping motion, as if trying to wipe something off his hands. It wasn’t quite as smooth as it should be, but he still remembered it regardless.

“Got that right. We clean up. Well, try to.” George would give that awkward smile, as you gave him a knowing look. No yelling, like Molly would. George had a bad habit with his messes, but no one is perfect. He had quirks to make up for it. Much like yourself held your own bad, and good, habits the same. The goal was to try and prevent such to junior. The best you could, anyway.

“Yeah-! Clean up!” Freddy nodded, as he would stumble out of his chair. Adorable little waddle was made to the sink, only to realize he was to short. Made him frustrated, as he gave an angry little stomp. As if that would somehow make him grow.

“I’ll never get tired of that.” You sighed, as George nodded. The both of you enjoying the sight of little Freddy trying to figure out how to reach the sink. Just enjoying the moment, while you could.

“I’ll help him. You go out the sign up.” You said, as you stood up. He was quick to do that same, before stealing you into his arms. Just to hold you a moment, and savor it. Savor the bliss of the morning. With his head resting against yours. No words were needed, as you cupped his face. Tracing the scars, and admiring him in his entirely.

“Love you to, you big trouble maker.”

[pillowprincessbee]

Deja blue x hearing impaired reader

(For @dyingofcookies . I’m simply going off being hard of hearing and also my experience being around people who are deaf and use hearing aids and do not use them)

Being a scientist for the RDA was a dream of yours you never thought you would be a scientist for the deja blue team. You treasured your work, as the team treasured you. there was a catch though being hearing impaired and wearing hearing aids in an environment where you constantly needed to listen made it hard. The Deja blue team always made sure u heard correctly even writing things down if you didn’t sign. If you did sign due to being deaf they would probably learn to sign especially Lyle who would go the extra mile for you. Even in the quarters, you shared when you struggled to make out words they would be patient and speak slower and louder to ensure you heard.

If you are shy and sometimes do not speak up when you didn’t hear they would speak up for you and have the person speaking repeat even if they can’t tell if you understood. In the quarters when you maybe are not wearing your hearing aids taking a break from hearing miles would probably get upset with you for ignoring him even though u simply don’t have your hearing aids in.

[chronicsymptomsyndrome]

Nobody’s pretending. Vision is absolutely inherently subjective. Your first interpretation might be okay as the description if the image were in a collection of stock photos. Your second interpretation would be more appropriate if the image were posted on an Arrested Development fan blog. You have to ask yourself where the image is going, who is the target audience, what is the massage, etc. Context will always change what is appropriate for the description, so you’re right, interpretation is required. Additional information not at all included in the image, however, is not required regardless of context. Auxiliary information that supplements the visuals should go somewhere else. These accessibility tools need to be accurate reflections of the material being made accessible. Do not include new information. Here are some sources.

“alt text for more info” “turn on cations for more info” no actually this is not where more info goes. These have a very distinct purpose. There are plenty of other places for more info. If you’re going to make your post inaccessible, the least you could do is not use accessibility tools at your own leisure for whatever purpose you see fit.

[machveil]

Reading glasses Simon.

Reading glasses Simon.

fluff and nsfw (my first crack at nsfw ever so pray for me). dividers from @gild-ui! CW: fem!reader, fingering (fem receiving), oral (fem receiving)

Simon doesn’t need glasses for day to day life - his vision doesn’t impair his job. but, when it’s getting dark out and he’s picked up a book he’s been meaning to read? he’ll break out a pair of reading glasses

he doesn’t wear them around you for a while, not out of shame or embarrassment. when he first started dating you he simply forgot about the book sitting on his dresser, he was too busy with you to pick up that dusty, thick book

but once you’ve settled into your relationship? you come across him one night after a shower, a sleek, black pair of reading glasses resting over the bridge of his crooked nose. they aren’t fancy, just something to get the job done

but they’re so charming against his scarred face, a perfect match with his stubble and short-cropped hair. and when dark irises, nearly black in the dim lighting of the bedroom, look up at you behind those lenses? it’s enough to make your knees go weak

Simon insists that he only uses them for reading, he can see your pretty face just fine. he’s got a roughed up, black case for them - neatly tucked into his bedside table. he wouldn’t say it out loud, but he loves seeing you walk around with his glasses on. he doesn’t care if you nab them from his bedside, he’s too busy admiring you

he’s had the same pair for three years, lost the last pair on a deployment - he doesn’t bring them with anymore. he smiles when you offer to buy him a new pair, but he shrugs it off, “S’fine, don’t have a reason to get new ones, love.”

at night, when the stars and city are closed out by thick curtains, Simon loves settling down with you in bed. after a life of not receiving love, these little intimate nights make his heart squeeze with adoration for you

while you’re unwinding, phone in hand, Simon has his book. reading glasses idly resting on his nose, he can’t help but glance your way - eyebrows slightly knit as he studies you. taking in your relaxed shoulders, steady breathing, the slight upturn to your lips as you smile at your phone

he can’t help it when he moves his hand under the covers, eyes going back to the page he was reading. rough hand settling on your thigh, he gives it a small squeeze - innocent

but when his hand shifts down towards your core, pointer and middle finger grazing the edge of your underwear, his loving touch becomes a little more intimate

thumb smoothing over the skin between your hip and thigh, his fingers dip past the thin material - all the while he’s still reading

just when you’re about to question him, playful smile tugging at your lips, his middle finger dips down - touch light as he rubs at your clit. any words that you had die on your tongue as you shift your hips

“Don’t let me distract you, lovie.”, he hums, voice gravely as he flips a page, “Go on, keep lookin’ at y’phone.”. he cracks a small smile when he hears a little whine from you, finger pressing a little harder, tight little circles against you as he keeps his gaze down - he’s read the same line about three times

he doesn’t care when you set your phone down instead, canting your hips up slightly to meet his touch. he can’t help it, soon enough his hand is dipping past your underwear - the heel of his palm pressed to your little pearl, his ring and middle finger simply smoothing over your lips

he has to bite his tongue, cheeks heating up a little when he feels your slick - as much as you feel good, Simon’s getting off on just feeling you, his pretty little thing that loves him unconditionally

and, as a man that thrives off acts of service, he can’t help himself when he dips his middle finger into you. the soft gasp that leaves you falls on deaf ears, his own groan rumbling in his throat as his eyes flutter shut

he’s holding back a little, gripping his book a little too hard while you squirm - as much as he loves making you feel good, he’s a little selfish. he’s a little greedy, doing this more so for himself. and if greed is a sin, then he’ll atone by worshipping your body

bending the top corner of the page he’s on, Simon’s quick to close his book. halfheartedly shoved onto his bedside table, he turns his focus to you - your legs a little twitchy and lips parted as he dips a second finger in, “Look at you, doing so good f’me.”. low, murmured words as he leans over, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. a small, gruff chuckle leaves him when he pulls his hand away, hearing you huff out a complaint. he’s quick though, one last kiss to your jaw before he’s pulling the covers back, “Don’t worry, love. I’m not done.”

moving to sit between your legs, he brings his fingers up to his mouth - a low moan rumbling in his chest when he tastes you on his digits

true to his word, Simon’s not done with you. reading glasses still perched on the bridge of his nose, he shifts to lay down against the sheets. moving your legs so your calves rest over his shoulders, he looks up at you, “Gonna be good, doll?”. a genuine smile on his lips when he hears you plead for him, and who’s he to deny his darling?

pressing a kiss to your clothed cunt, he pulls your underwear to the side - left hand holding your thigh while his right holds the thin fabric to the side. he loves this - the sight of you flushed and pretty for him, looking down at him. it makes his stomach twist with need, a warmth settling in his gut as he leans down

“Course you’ll be good f’me—“, he hums, lips pressing to your clit as he closes his eyes, “Always such a good girl f’me, aren’t you?”, he mumbles against you, deep voice dripping with love. eyebrows pinched as he groans, gently lapping at you as he presses his hips to the mattress. “Pretty little thing, always treatin’ me right.”, holding you a little closer to him as he grinds down against the bed

hearing your sweet gasps and moans sets a fire in him, and when your hands find their way to his hair and tug? sparks fly, a whine of his own resonating in his throat. despite his quiet demeanor, his reserved nature and curt sentences in public, Simon finds his voice in bed

grip firm on your thigh, his mouth settles against your cunt - thumb moving to your clit again, “Wanna see you cum, lovie—“, he murmurs, drowning against you as his hips writhe

you’re not faring any better, hands rooted in his dirty blond hair. between his hold on you and his mouth - his thumb making quick circles, it’s all too much. and when he glances up at you from between your slick thighs, reading glasses fogged up and slanted? the tight, drawstring tension in your stomach is close to snapping - Simon’s not letting up as he moves his left hand under your shirt

can you blame him? sweet moans tumbling from your lips and thighs squeezing around his head, his hand settles over your tummy - gentle, careful pressure as he holds you down. Simon would have a pillow under your hips if he hadn’t been in such a needy rush, but he’ll just do that next time

eyes half lidded as he presses a kiss your thigh, he’s diving in again - lips and chin soaked. he knows you’re close, so is he, the fabric of his sweatpants and the friction from grinding against the mattress pushing him to the edge. but when you give a sharp tug of his hair, thighs pressing against him a little too tight, he feels the temple of his readers snap

disconnected from the hinge, the right side of his glasses break and so does Simon - sweatpants ruined as he pushes two digits into you, loud moans tumbling from him as tries to push you over too

it’s not long before you’re following after him, your heels digging against his back as you ride out your orgasm. Simon doesn’t quit though, not yet - lets you ride it out against him, grinding your hips against his mouth, not that he minds

breathing steadying as a moment goes by, Simon gently moves out from between your thighs, a kiss pressed to each knee before he’s moving to the bathroom. a warm, wet towel in hand he walks back, leans over to press a kiss to your forehead, “Did so well for me.”, he hums, a soft smile on his lips as he gently cleans your thighs. the mattress dips with his weight as he settles back into bed, towel dropped to the floor - he’d get it in the morning

broken readers left in your shared bathroom as Simon holds you close

[alnilaem]

a more fleshed-out version from the third prompt of this post of mine.

cw for emotional manipulation, breaking in, stalking, smut, babytrapping, and dubcon to be safe

simon riley/reader

-

Something is wrong. 

Your suitcase is halfway past the threshold of your front door, halfway past your new grave, when you notice the hum of salt and tobacco in the air. Discomfort licks your insides and binds to your skin so heavily that you begin to sweat. A tinny sound peals out as you rearrange your keys between your knuckles, clenching it, and step inside your flat. 

Your heels are at the foot of your shoe rack. Your coat isn’t where it’s supposed to be, crimped in a pool on the floor. Your framed photographs are all inched to the left—you know this because you committed their placement to your memory—because you feared this would happen.

Something is seriously, gravely wrong. 

You feel like you’re lost at sea. Dull-headed and impaired under the alluring melody of a blood-thirsty siren. Walking towards their call, your legs moving before your mind can, spit in the presentiment of fear the same way insects get caught in spiderwebs. Stuck, and about to be eaten.  

You trek further into your flat, following the telltale signs that someone has been here—is here. A general shift in air. The stench of stale herbs and metal. A trail of silt on your hardwood floors, that of which could only be caused by certain mud-clogged boots tracking into your flat.

Here, you pause. On the threshold of your kitchen. Your stomach turns inside out and if it weren’t for your ribs, your heart would have burst out of your chest. 

It’s like you’re walking on glass. Every thin sliver that pokes your skin, invading you, is a splinter of fear. And it also makes it so that you can’t walk away—you’re frozen in place, watching him above your stove, setting a kettle to boil. 

He hears your squeak. Simon turns around, cotton-plated in his civvies, and hums. 

“Welcome home, Love.” 

The moisture leaves your mouth and rushes to your eyes. A film of dew materialises on top of your waterline. It’s thick and pearlescent and clouds your vision, turns Simon into an incorporeal blob in your vision, turning him into a trick of your eyes that you hope will go away after you blink.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Simon rests himself against your kitchen counter. He crosses his tattooed arms over his chest, tilting his head, and bends his lips into an unseemly smile.

“How was your friend’s place?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Simon?” You try getting your anger across, but your voice betrays your emotions. It’s heavily distorted by fear, waning, so much so that it makes him blandly chuckle. Like he can smell the terror roiling off of you. Like he feeds from it.

“How did you get in?”

Simon shrugs. “I’ve got a copy of the key.” 

“I changed the damn locks.”

“I got new ones,” he says.

“We broke up.”

“You broke up with me,” Simon snarls. “When I was at my fuckin’ lowest. You broke up with me and I didn’t agree to tha’ shit.”

“Simon–” a gust of disbelief cuts your sentence short. You grip your hair at its roots, tugging it, twisting it, coiling your face in frustration. “Simon, you need to leave.”

“You’re talkin’ like that ‘cause you’re mad at me. Give it a few minutes, and you won’t be.”

“Are you fucking insane!?” You yell. You draw towards him and slam the kettle off the stove. “You broke into my flat!”

“I had a key,” Simon says. He steps towards you, bullying you backwards until the hind of your spine catches on the cold granite of your countertop. Until your back bends over it, Simon, looming over you. “I’ve always told you to use the deadbolt.”

You bite your lip. The blood sticking to the roof of your mouth isn’t as bitter as Simon’s eyes. His are cold, depthless. 

“Fuck off.”

Then, Simon flips. His expression shifts in a whirlwind of seconds. Now, his brunette eyebrows are pursed and his lips are pointed down. His head is ensconced on your neck, his shoulder suddenly laden with an invisible weight as he kittens into you.

“Just came ‘cause I wanted to talk…” he mumbles. “One a’ my men died on me yesterday. Got early R&R for it. Thought you’d be happy to see me...”

You’re motionless as Simon clemently begins kissing your neck. You split your hands on his chest and try shoving him away, but he doesn’t move. He’s as solid as rock. Pushing himself into you, grovelling into your sleek skin. 

A phantom chain is tightening around your throat. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you can say. You feel that with any words that poise themselves on your tongue, Simon won’t take kindly to. 

“Simon… I’m sorry for you. I really am,” you slip out from under him and step back. “But this isn’t the way to go about it. We’re adults. And I’m asking you to leave.”

Simon raises his head, lukewarm. He stares at you through his half-lidded eyes, breathing heavily, clenching his fist around the lip of your countertop. Thickly, you swallow. You fidget with your cardigan and hope it will offset the discomfort hanging in the air. Simon takes a deep breath, sucking it all up—the discomfort, the presentiment—and you expect his huffing to precede an explosive reaction, but it doesn’t come. He just slips himself off the island and turns around, quiet when he speaks.

“Yeah,” he hums. “My old man didn’t want anythin’ to do with me, so why should you?” 

Your eyes widen. Though you’ve spent so much time trying to bury it, trying to familiarise yourself with Simon’s sick gambits, a pang of guilt hits you hard.

“Don’t say things like that,” you point an accusing finger to his chest, “it isn’t fair.” 

“No, no,” he grumbles. “Makes sense, does’n’it? My old man walked out on me, so I should handle you walking out on me, too.”

Simon shudders with a long breath. He slaps his face into his hands, and it’s at this point, does your knee-jerk impulse to comfort him take hold of you. The last of your even-tempered brain screams at you—he’s trying to ply you with a humanised side of him, but that side died a long time ago—but you press forward and awkwardly bring him into your arms, patting him on the back. 

“Simon, I’m… sorry, okay?” He buries his head in your neck, nips at your skin. “I’m sorry.”

“Can’t you jus’ yell at me tomorrow?” He asks. Simon slips his hands into the depression of your waist, pulling you against his chest. Against the ever-rising tent of his jeans. 

Your mind protests, but Simon keeps you close. He stinks of sweat, impairing you with it, spinning you around and pushing you against the counter. 

“Simon–”

“Shhh,” he hums, catching his fingers on the hem of your leggings. “Y’said we can talk later. ’m tired, Love. Just need you right now.” 

Any protests rot on your tongue because the wind is knocked out of you as you’re folded over the counter. Simon’s hands travel, gripping every part of you, rekindling old bruises left behind and making space for new ones. 

He ruts into you, cock fattening in his boxers and stressing against his jeans. He slides a hand over the divots of your spine and bends it around your neck, hoisting your head back, huffing into your ear. 

“You’ve no idea how much I missed y’Love,” Simon’s humping you now. Rutting himself against your ass with unrestrained vigour. He bites the husk of your ear, flattens you against the counter, and sinks a hand below your waistband. He spreads your pussy open like the shell of a fruit, pushing his thick fingers into its flesh, knuckle-deep and kneading you. 

“How’s here?” He grumbles. You whine, and he twists himself deeper. “What about there?” 

Your mind and body wrestle between pushing him away and yielding under his touch. Simon fucks his fingers a little deeper, a little meaner, into you, and chuckles when you squeal. 

He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you see a sliver of bared teeth as his lips hitch up into a gnarled smile. “Ah, so that’s the spot, innit?”

You’re dew-skinned and fuzzy when Simon throws you over his shoulder, carrying you to your bedroom. Your tongue is heavy and numb and bootless against any objections as he throws you on the mattress, standing balefully at the foot of the bed. 

If you were a child, you’d hide under your sheets until he disappeared. But you’re not a child, and Simon doesn’t disappear. He sinks his knees into your bed and swipes his shirt off over his head, unbuckling his belt in one slick motion. 

He unzips his jeans and doesn’t even pull his balls out, just cups the gauze of his boxers beneath it and leans onto his hands.

A pearlescent bead of precum slips down the slit of Simon’s dick and drools onto your comforter. He wraps his hand around it, slips his palm up and down, tugging down your pants.

Your legs kick into a paltry complaint, but Simon pins your legs down. 

“No reason in fighting,” he says, rubbing his cockhead against your clit, “You’re so wet, Love.”

Simon nudges your panties to the side and thumbs your clit. Leans in for a biting kiss and swallows your moans, slapping his fat cock against your puffy, wet cunt. 

“Missed me just as bad, eh?” He huffs, setting his dick against your winking hole, pushing past your first ring of muscle and rolling at the sticky sound of your cunt spreading open.

“Simon–” you hic, latching onto his forearms. Trying to offset his bruising grip on your hips as he falls into a steady, deep rhythm. “At least wear a condom.”

He’s so thick, so heavy between your legs. Hoisting you onto his thighs and leaning over you, snapping his cock into you. He screws his face tight, pellets of sweat running down his marred collarbone. Congealing into the spindly, blonde threads of hair on his chest. Down to the wire of steel wool that thickens on his pelvis, pinching your clit each time he slams into you.

“You’re stayin’ with me, Pup,” he pants, kissing a stripe up your neck, suckling on your pebbled nipple. “Gonna gimme a litter, ain’t you? Just like we talked about?”

A little, lone tear slips down your hot cheek. Simon leans in and licks it off. He stuffs himself to the hilt, shuddering with abrupt pleasure as he skips to his feet and folds you in half, pounding into you, biting down on your shoulder.

It hits you like whiplash when Simon pushes himself so deep that you feel him swelling under your skin. He gives you no warning before emptying his balls inside you, flooding you with a white-hot come, clutching your jaw into a wet, messy kiss.

You’re blinded and eclipsed by pain as your orgasm shoots through you. The pleasure is numbing and makes you quiver, tremble, until you’re gushing around Simon’s cock and swivelling your hips to get away.

You’re shaking when he pulls back, giving your pussy no time to soften. Simon gives it a swat and flays himself off of you, heading to the bathroom. You hear the cellophane of your birth control peeling open, and the successive thunk as Simon tosses it into the bin. 

You try getting up but Simon flattens you back as he crawls in bed next to you. There’s a hand of his on your waist, seemingly benign, but tightens itself each time you try slipping away. Your sniffles are piercing and Simon pulls you close. Brushes your tears away, kisses your eyelids. 

“You’re not gonna leave me now, eh? You can’t,” he whispers, “you’re all I’ve got. You and our baby. You can’t leave me now.”

A pitiful cry escapes you. Simon takes that as agreement.

[moonstruckme]

hi, just wanted to mention that i love ur fics—they’re all vv sweet and creative <3

for the snow angels could you write a ice-skater!reader x ice-skater marauder (either sirius or even poly!wolfstar)

also if you’re open to doing it, could you write it so the reader is deaf (and uses sign language? if not that’s perfectly fine ♥️♥️)

Hi sweetheart, thank you so much! That's really kind of you <3

cw: I don't have a ton of experience with the deaf community so if anything in here is inaccurate or offensive please feel free to let me know and I'll try to change it

figure skater!Sirius x hearing impaired!figure skater!reader ♡ 464 words

You come out of your spin, and your eyes seek Sirius immediately. It’s a habit, an instinct, and lately almost a magnetic pull. You find him watching you from across the rink with a fond uptilt to his lips. There’s a look on his face that lets you know what he’s going to do even before he signs, “Hold on.” 

You huff a laugh to yourself but do as he says. Sirius does this more and more often lately—fretting over your cold hands, wanting to warm them in his own. It’s like he forgets you’ve been skating without gloves your whole life, or somehow forgets that his hands are just as cold, since he goes without them too to sign at you. 

“Aren’t you freezing?” he signs, mouth forming the words as he does, just before he gets to you. He rubs his hands together, taking yours between them. He blows a loose strand of hair away from his face. It floats right back. 

You know it’s only a matter of time until Sirius tries to coax you back off the ice for a hot chocolate. “Come on, sweetheart, my treat,” he always says, as if you’re going along for the free watery hot chocolate and not just to spend time with him. Lately, something has shifted in the dynamic between you and Sirius. He spends maybe half his time at the rink actually skating, the other half signing to you from across the rink and warming your hands. And you spend most of your time thinking about him. 

You pull your hands from his. “Did you see my layback?” you ask, mouth pulling sideways into a grimace. 

Sirius mirrors your expression, though you can see his smile peeking through. “I saw. You’ll get it, you just need to get your back leg in the right place.” 

You push out a sigh. You’ve been trying to do that all morning. “Help me with it?” 

“Now?” Sirius’ nose wrinkles. “I was thinking we could break for hot chocolate.” 

You suppress a smile. Predictable. 

“Come on,” he signs at your reluctance. “You’ve got to be freezing. My treat.” 

You laugh. “Help me for a little while, please? Then we can go.” 

Sirius rolls his eyes at you, but his expression is fond. “Fine. Let me warm you up first, though.” 

He takes your hands again, cupping his around them and raising them to his mouth to blow hot hair into your palms. You smile and let him. The warmth is nearly as nice as the feeling of Sirius’ hands cradling your own, of his lips brushing the sides of your thumbs. You wonder, sometimes, if this is really only an excuse to touch you. 

You’ll have to ask him when your hands aren’t so pleasantly occupied.

[rjalker]

[ID: A black and white, digital painting of the narrator from Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions, sitting in a jail cell writing in a book.

A Square is a square with one large eye and eyebrow, and very thin arms.

First, he is looking up to the side with stars and a tear in his eye as he says, pen lifted above his journal:

"O, dear reader, happy friend of the Third Dimension!

I am haunted by the ingorance of my countrymen, to scoff so readily at new ideas, and to imprison, (for life!) those of us attuned to more revoluntionary thinking!

The brainwashing of the Circles is truly boundless, and I pity the inability of my contemporaries to question what they've been taught."

In the second panel, he has his eye closed calmly, as he writes,

"BTW, I hate women and disabled people so much it's unreal." With a heart at the end.

End ID.]

“i never thought the circles would take away MY rights!” cries the man who spent the better part of his memoirs gleefully backing the “let the circles take away everyone’s rights” party

[qdrntln4]

LILLY.

pairing: lando x fem!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: mentions of a deaf daughter, y/n and lando's son being a menace to their dog 😭

wc: 560

notes: im the younger sister of a girl who was born blind and mentally impaired, so i know the struggles of managing a family when people from the outside pity you for something that you can't control. i hope that anyone who's in a similar situation finds comfort in this fic.

The fans were in despair. Their favourite couple, their favourite mum and dad had just found out that their daughter — their first baby — was deaf.

Lando and Y/n weren’t worried though.

┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .

Lando walked into his daughter’s room, leaning against the door frame. She was playing the piano like she always does. How amazed of his daughter he was; she couldn’t hear yet she still practiced like no tomorrow.

Lando turned the lights on and off a couple of times before Lilly turned around. she smiled at her father,

“Does this sound right?” Lilly spoke. She was always a good speaker. Even after she became deaf, she relied on her vocal chords to do the work for her. Lando always knew that she would be amazing.

Lando pulled his hands out of his pockets, signing to her,

‘It sounds amazing, beautiful. I think you need to go up one note at the end, though.’

Lilly nodded, turned around and played the same tune again, adding in her father’s advice. Once she had finished, she turned around seeking her dad’s approval. Lando gave her a thumbs up before closing her door to where it previously was.

┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .

Out in the living room, Ash was crawling around on his play mat. He was picking up his toys, throwing them around and giggling to himself.

Y/n sat on the couch with the television on. She had a magazine in her hand and rollers in her hair. She had another month off of work so she had every right to spoil herself while she could.

Daizee — their dachshund cross jack russell (…george? 😟-) — was also watching the television. She diverted her attention to Ash every once in a while, being the big sister of the house. Their golden retriever, Charlie, was lying down with Ash and letting the baby play with his ears.

┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .

Lando sat down next to his wife, giving her a kiss on the cheek before pulling her into his side.

“How’s Lils?” Y/n looked up from her magazine to look at her husband before placing the book down.

Lando nodded, tracing small patterns on her biceps, “She’s doing good, playing the piano last time I checked.” At that, Y/n nodded before turning her attention to the television.

Speak of the devil, Lilly emerged from her room with a skip. That’s what Y/n and Lando loved to see. Even after given the news by the doctor when she turned three, she never let her condition bring her down.

She stopped in front of her mum and dad before doing a little dance and running off to grab a snack from the kitchen. Typical Lilly.

When she returned and sat down on the long end of the couch, she looked over to her parents to see if they needed her attention. As if she knew, Y/n signed to her daughter,

‘How are you feeling today my sweet?’

Lilly nodded, smiling her famous bright smile that even the sea of papaya loved.

“Good!” She answered before turning to watch the show playing on the big screen.

Lando and Y/n shared a look. A look of knowing, of pride. That was their daughter. The fighter that they created.

…And on the floor was Ash, climbing all over Charlie. That poor dog.

┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .

a/n: thank you all so much for the love and support ive been recieving recently! i cant thank you all enough. here's the fic of the idea from my previous post, i hope it's up to your standards! this is also for @ladyladybuggg who wanted to read this, so i hope you enjoy my love!

[all-the-fish]

Oh, you know, just the usual internet browsing experience in the year of 2024

Some links and explanations since I figured it might be useful to some people, and writing down stuff is nice.

First of all, get Firefox. Yes, it has apps for Android/iOS too. It allows more extensions and customization (except the iOS version), it tracks less, the company has a less shitty attitude about things. Currently all the other alternatives are variations of Chromium, which means no matter how degoogled they supposedly are, Google has almost a monopoly on web browsing and that's not great. Basically they can introduce extremely user unfriendly updates and there's nothing forcing them to not do it, and nowhere for people to escape to. Current examples of their suggested updates are disabling/severly limiting adblocks in June 2024, and this great suggestion to force sites to verify "web environment integrity" ("oh you don't run a version of chromium we approve, such as the one that runs working adblocks? no web for you.").

uBlockOrigin - barely needs any explanation but yes, it works. You can whitelist whatever you want to support through displaying ads. You can also easily "adblock" site elements that annoy you. "Please log in" notice that won't go away? Important news tm sidebar that gives you sensory overload? Bye.

Dark Reader - a site you use has no dark mode? Now it has. Fairly customizable, also has some basic options for visually impaired people.

SponsorBlock for YouTube - highlights/skips (you choose) sponsored bits in the videos based on user submissions, and a few other things people often skip ("pls like and subscribe!"). A bit more controversial than normal adblock since the creators get some decent money from this, but also a lot of the big sponsors are kinda scummy and offer inferior product for superior price (or try to sell you a star jpg land ownership in Scotland to become a lord), so hearing an ad for that for the 20th time is kinda annoying. But also some creators make their sponsored segments hilarious.

Privacy Badger (and Ghostery I suppose) - I'm not actually sure how needed these are with uBlock and Firefox set to block any tracking it can, but that's basically what it does. Find someone more educated on this topic than me for more info.

Https Everywhere - I... can't actually find the extension anymore, also Firefox has this as an option in its settings now, so this is probably obsolete, whoops.

Facebook Container - also comes with Firefox by default I think. Keeps FB from snooping around outside of FB. It does that a lot, even if you don't have an account.

WebP / Avif image converter - have you ever saved an image and then discovered you can't view it, because it's WebP/Avif? You can now save it as a jpg.

YouTube Search Fixer - have you noticed that youtube search has been even worse than usual lately, with inserting all those unrelated videos into your search results? This fixes that. Also has an option to force shorts to play in the normal video window.

Consent-O-Matic - automatically rejects cookies/gdpr consent forms. While automated, you might still get a second or two of flashing popups being yeeted.

XKit Rewritten - current most up to date "variation "fork" of XKit I think? Has settings in extension settings instead of an extra tumblr button. As long as you get over the new dash layout current tumblr is kinda fine tbh, so this isn't as important as in the past, but still nice. I mostly use it to hide some visual bloat and mark posts on the dash I've already seen.

YouTube NonStop - do you want to punch youtube every time it pauses a video to check if you're still there? This saves your fists.

uBlacklist - blacklists sites from your search results. Obviously has a lot of different uses, but I use it to hide ai generated stuff from image search results. Here's a site list for that.

Redirect AMP to HTML - redirects links from their amp version to the normal version. Amp link is a version of a site made faster and more accessible for phones by Bing/Google. Good in theory, but lets search engines prefer some pages to others (that don't have an amp version), and afaik takes traffic from the original page too. Here's some more reading about why it's an issue, I don't think I can make a good tl;dr on this.

Also since I used this in the tags, here's some reading about enshittification and why the current mainstream internet/services kinda suck.

[bandgie]

Can You Really? | Armageddon Event

Request: Patience | Lee Know (SKZ) by anon song!

warnings!: MDNI18+, bdsm themes, fem!reader, paddle use, impact play, pussy spanking, edging, bondage, nipple clamps, pussy eating (implied), blindfold use

1.1k words

Somewhere in the dark, he hushes you. The sound is meant to be helpful. To soothe your jittery nerves and trembling body. But when you’re tied. When your wrists are bound to your ankles, forcing your legs to bend the knee, it’s anything but. You only shiver more.

It doesn’t help that a blindfold impairs your vision. All you have is your hearing and sense of touch. But that damn hushing. It makes you break out in goosebumps. You even arch your back a little, causing the nipple clamps that attach to your collar by the chain tug.

“Ahhh,” you breathe a light moan from the pull. “D-don’t do that.”

Minho giggles and you imagine his bunny teeth poking past his lips. “Do what? I’m not even touching you.”

You might’ve laughed with him, his giggles are contagious, but you can’t even crack a smile when your body anticipates anything and everything he might do. “ ‘m sorry.” You’re not sure why you’re apologizing. “I just…fuck…I need to cum.”

He hums at that. You swear you’re about to orgasm from just his voice when you feel the acrylic texture cool against your skin. The paddle has a small, plastic rectangle Minho uses to slide against your body. He trails it between the valley of your breasts, swooping to one boob and rubbing your nipple in small circles.

Your bud is already so sensitive from the constant pressure of the clamp, but the paddle adds pleasure you thought you couldn’t feel. Small whimpers pass your lips and you will yourself to keep your neck still so the chain doesn’t yank.

However, that’s exactly what Minho wants you to do.

The paddle leaves your body for a second before crashing back down. Your nipple takes the landing, a loud slap sound emitting throughout the room. Pain that you blur with pleasure spreads in your body. You throw your head back so forcefully that the clamps pop off.

“Fuck!” You can feel the tears welting in your eyes. “Oh shhhit. I-you-no-” 

Minho snorts. “Eye you know? Forgetting how to speak already?”

You wish you could be snarky back, but Minho drags the rectangle lower and lower until it reaches your pelvis. All you can do is beg for mercy at this point.

“Y-you’re being mean.” The paddle stops just above your cunt. You swear you can hear his eyebrows pinch together. “I’m being mean?”

Crap, maybe you shouldn’t have said it like that. It would be smart of you to try and take it back, but sense is starting to leave you with every drop of arousal your pussy drips. You nod frantically instead.

“Ah. I think I get it.” Minho’s calmness is unsettling. The paddle travels a few inches lower until it catches your clit. You gasp, briefly thrashing against your restraints from the texture. The object has barely been on you for a second, but you're already wildly thrusting your hips for friction.

Surprisingly, Minho lets you. He keeps the plastic in place while you grind away. Your breasts giggle and you can hear the soft jingle of the clamps near your ears. There’s so much arousal on your pussy that there’s no need for lube when it rubs your clit repeatedly. The paddle grows embarrassingly wet, white cream beginning to collect on the surface. It doesn’t take long before slick sounds start to fill the room. 

Minho tuts annoyingly. “You just wanna cum. Can’t get you to stay still and pretty for me without you humping like a dog.” The paddle presses harder against your cunt. The extra pressure makes you whine. His words do little to stop your hips. You only grind harder, trying to find that right angle to get yourself to cum.

It feels like bliss when you find it - having to plant your feet flat on the bed and ignore how your shoulders scream from being tugged on. Minho’s putting just the right amount of pressure. Your clit catches the paddle just right and begins to feel that warmth pooling in your tummy.

Just as your orgasm builds, Minho pulls away. The paddle leaves your soaking lips and you whine desperately. You can’t even complain about how close you were when harsh slaps land on your cunt. 

You arch your entire back off the bed, thighs still apart as you twitch and gasp.

“I haven’t cum either, you know.” Minho’s voice is cold. “I know how to hold out. I know how to be patient. Something a slut like you obviously can’t understand.” It comes back again, this time, hitting your bundle of nerves right on the spot.

You cry out. Tears seep into the fabric of your blindfold and you can feel your pussy throbbing. “I'm sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll be good. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

Minho tilts his head, though you can’t see. “You promise, huh?”

You shakily settle your hips back on the bed, nodding. “Yes. Yesyes, I do. I can wait.”

Something shifts in the room. That teasing, playful atmosphere turns dark. You can taste Minho’s terrible thoughts in the air. You can feel how he drags the paddle a little more cunningly on your inner thigh.  

He continues to trail it along your leg as he says, “We’ll see about that. I think if I just keep slapping this cute pussy of yours, you’ll just cum anyway.”

“I won’t.” You don’t even believe it yourself, but maybe Minho will buy it.

He laughs. “Right. How about this? You keep your legs open for 10 minutes - just 10 minutes - and if you don’t cum, I’ll let you tie me up.”

Him? Left helpless and deprived like you are? It’s almost too good to be true. A trick clearly disguised as a treat, but you have to ask. “What?”

You feel the paddle back between your thighs. Minho soothes your swollen flesh in false gentleness. “What do you mean ‘what’? Just imagine our roles reversed. Think of it as getting revenge. That’s if you can manage, though.”

Minho would look beautiful bound. His smirking face fading into lost pleasure. His cocky attitude turning needy. Domming isn’t really your thing in this relationship, but you’d be damned to pass up on this opportunity. 

You’re already nodding before the words come out. “Yes. Fuck yes. I can do it.”

When he laughs, it sounds far more genuine this time. Like the idea of you merely thinking you can win is hilarious to him. “Really? Okay then.” Minho pulls the paddle away again and you immediately tighten your body. You wait for the sting, the pain, the blinding pleasure, but all you feel is soft lips.

He giggles into your folds, “Good luck.”

[kingkatsuki]

— a helping hand

We’ve been talking about this constantly on here, but Togame gets first dibs.

When you can’t find any of your girl friends to take with you to the bathroom at a party, the guy you’ve been making out with for the evening will have to do.

Pairing: Togame Jou x f!reader.

Warnings: 18+, piss, watersports, semi-public sex, hinted sorta established relationship.

Word Count: 1.5k.

Togame is convinced he’s the luckiest man in the room.

Your playful laughter is enough to coax him behind you, his large palm squeezing your ass as you weave through the house. Completely unbothered if anyone’s looking, why wouldn’t they when you’re dressed so pretty?

“Where ya takin’ me, sweetheart?”

It’s as though Togame holds some grand prize that every other man covets as you pull him inside the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a swing of his foot as he has just enough sense to lock it behind him. The few beers he’s had aren’t enough to impair his senses, only cause an incessant throb in his bladder as he watches from his position at the door as you hike your pretty little dress up over your hips and shimmy those tiny black panties down your thighs. He’s positive he can see silvery lines of your slick stained against the fabric, and he wonders if that was because of him.

“I can’t find my friends and I have to pee, silly!”

God, you’re so fucking pretty.

His cock pulses in response when you move to sit down on the seat and almost miss, squealing in surprise before your hand reaches out for the sink to steady yourself. The tiny downstairs bathroom barely has enough space for movement as Togame takes a step closer when he hears the familiar tinkle as you sigh in relief, your head thrown back as you groan softly. Your kiss-bruised lips pouty as he takes note of the glitter streaked across your cheeks glistening under fluorescent light. The same glitter that’s probably smeared along his face too from the stolen kisses earlier this evening. He’d thought that was the most that he’d get off you tonight, but he hadn’t expected this.

And he can’t seem to take his eyes off you. Staring at you as though he’s dropped a coin in a box in the red light district to sit in a box to watch one of those fetish shows, swallowing thickly as you heave a saccharine sigh of relief. Your breasts look just about ready to spill out of the top of your dress as you stay completely unbothered that Togame is staring at you so brazenly. Were all the girls that hung around Bofurin like this, or was he just lucky?

“You’re staring, Togame.” You giggle as you give him a sly smirk, spreading your knees further apart to give him a better view as you bite down on your plump bottom lip.

This is the first time he’s ever seen a girl pee, and Togame can’t deny it’s hot. From the blissful look on your face down to the way the tight skirt of your dress bunches above your hips and lets him see the pudge of your belly as you relieve yourself. It has his cock stirring beneath baggy pants as he shifts from toe to toe to try and alleviate the ache in his balls, lazy eyes focused on your soft mound as he’s just able to make out the folds of your cunt.

“Is this what you and your girlfriends do—?” Watch each other pee, Togame thinks as you laugh at his question.

“No, silly.” You laugh, “We make sure no freaks watch us.”

Perhaps you’re the freak, Togame thinks as you reach out to fiddle with the tie at the front of his sweatpants, loosening it as you continue to pee. His eyes are focused between your thighs as he watches the liquid pour into the bowl, but he makes no attempt to stop you as your slender fingers curl beneath the fabric to tug it down his thighs. He wonders if anyone from Bofurin has got to see you like this, or whether he’s just special.

“Careful, I have’ta piss too, sweetheart,” Togame drawls, his semi-hard cock pulses as you wrap a warm palm around the base of him, “Wait, and I’ll bend you over the sink.”

“So pee.” You giggle, and it has Togame groaning low and deep in his chest. Swallowing thickly as his tongue darts out to try and wet his lips as you position his cock downwards towards the bowl.

Togame isn’t even sure he can piss while you’re holding him like this, your touch is a complete juxtaposition to his rough movements as you angle him gently. The sight alone has another pulse in his pelvis as he tries to ignore the throb of his bladder— maybe he can hold it in.

You reach a shaky hand up to press against his pelvis, fingers dipping into the skin and it’s all he can do but let go as a warm stream begins to trickle from his soft cock. Letting out a squeal when you feel it splash against the bottom of your dress, letting go of his cock to hike the fabric further up your tummy as you shift back on the seat to give him more space.

Togame hisses when you let go of his cock, changing the angle of the stream as it misses the bowl completely and hits the floor as he’s quick to resume position. Angling back to the toilet as the stream hits your pelvis, dragging a sultry moan from the back of your throat as the heat splashes your skin. Spreading your thighs wider to feel him against your body as Togame watches your skin begin to glisten because of him. Your abdomen all the way down to your pelvis streaked in slick lines of his warm piss as he deliberately angles his cock lower to focus the stream against your mound. Marvelling in the debauched gasp you make when you feel the warmth of it catch your clit, his aim focused and persistent as though winning a prize at the fair.

You’re a menace, he reckons when you slip a hand between your thighs to spread your folds between your index and middle fingers. Butterflying yourself open as you pull back the hood of your clit until Togame’s piss is spraying against it, your thick lashes flutter as you make another desperate sound akin to a whimper as your thighs begin to shake. Grinding your hips to increase the friction as the warmth spreads through you all the way to the tips of your toes, his name tumbling from your lips in a needy whimper.

So you were as much of a freak as him, Togame grins as the stream begins to dwindle to nothing. The last few drops dribble out of his slit as he shakes his cock to give himself some much-needed stimulation as he feels himself begin to harden at the sight of you. Slender fingers now pressing tight circles into your soaked clit as you rub his piss into your body, feeling your walls clamp down around nothing as you lean forward to swipe your tongue against the swollen head of his cock. Prodding the tip of it against his slit as a groan rumbles deep in his chest, his other head reaches out to hold the back of your head as he leans down to kiss you. Tongues salving languidly against each other as you tilt your head to deepen it, gasping into his mouth as he takes the opportunity to run his tongue against your teeth when his fingers slide through the mess he made between your thighs.

It’s depraved and nasty as his fingers feel his piss beginning to cool against your skin as he delves further, pressing against your quivering hole to find your cunt wet and needy for him. Your slick drooling out of your cunt like molten lava as he feels the way you pulse around nothing, eager to be filled.

“Didn’t know a pretty girl like you was such a nasty freak.” Togame gives you a lopsided smirk, as though he wasn’t just as much of a freak for pissing on you in the first place, and enjoying it, “If you wanted me to piss on ya, you only had to ask.”

He catches you off guard by pulling you upright, chuckling at the way you stumble over your heels as your panties stay circled around your ankles. Barely able to steady yourself as he moves to push you against the bathroom sink, bending you over it as you look at his reflection through the mirror.

“Promised I’d bend you over the sink, didn’t I?” He groans, running the tip of his cock through your soaked folds as it catches against your fluttering entrance.

“Should’ve just pissed inside me.” You laugh, wiggling your ass back against him as you try to salaciously coax him deeper.

And it doesn’t matter that it’s probably the alcohol speaking, that you would probably never utter those words to him sober, and if you did they wouldn’t sound so vulgar — yet the thought alone has his balls aching and desperate to drain themselves inside you too.

“I’m not sure you know what you’re asking for, pretty girl.” He coos, stealing the breath from your lungs as he slides his cock into your eager hole as he ignores the heavy banging on the door outside from someone trying to hurry you up that sounds suspiciously like Hiragi.

“I think I do.” You coo as Togame’s forehead hits your shoulder with a guttural grunt.

Oh well, Togame thinks, he could always have a few more beers—