myattt

any pronoun ⋆ 18yo ⋆ writer? we dont know

[yummymatti]

⊹ ꯭　　 ۪۪ٜ　░ུ　YUMMYMATTI ꒰ ͜ㅤ　ৎ𝄢

ㅤ the gold runs ★ in our blood myat

━━╋━ hot people are born on 2008 ░

ᘏ matti ── are on TOP being INTP and stupid and a lazy writer ꕀ deal with it

asoiaf one piece horror games films writing sailors stories bangtan tim maia rita lee twisted wonderland shifting law of assumption

[dracuthea]

DNI & UNFOLLOW ME IF

— y’all are into massive age gaps where it’s adjacent to a young woman in her early 20’s who looks like a child & a geriatric man in his 60’s (esp. white). had to unmoot someone bc they reposted bs. fuck that pedophilic shit. legal ≠ morally right. like how child marriages & incest were legal back then (& still now in some places). & they’re fucking disgusting. gtfo

— you romanticize lolita / want to be her. fuck you

— you make epstein jokes and/or are friends with people who make epstein jokes.

— you support infantilization to cater to men, e.g. sabrina carpenter supporters.

fuck you guys so bad. you disgust me & i’m ashamed some of you were ever in my friends list.

[hederasgarden]

Silver Tongue

Summary: After a petty quarrel, Gwayne offer his apology in an unexpected way.  Pairing: Gwayne Hightower  x F!Reader  Word Count: 1.4.K Warning: 18+ only, explicit sexual content. Oral sex (female receiving) and Gwayne being sassy.  A/N: Thank you to @aninhatatu and @writercole for looking this over.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Masterlist

You watch Gwayne’s reflection in the mirror as you prepare for bed. Your husband sits at his desk, shoulders drawn tight beneath the weight of whatever burdens his thoughts. Parchment lies scattered across the worn wood, ink staining his fingertips. The groove between his brows deepens as the quill in his hand pauses its frantic pace, something clearly troubling him.

Normally, you would have been beside him, helping him work through his correspondence, but not tonight. Despite the way you kept your hand tucked into the crook of his elbow and danced with him at Lord Tyrell's feast earlier that evening, you were still angry over his careless remark that morning. The sting of it had yet to fade despite his efforts, and you were not ready to forgive him, not that anyone else would have guessed anything was amiss tonight. 

"Are you still cross with me, little wife?" he asks, catching your attention through the mirror. 

A small half-smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, roguishly charming as always. Your own brows draw together in annoyance, and you purse your lips. Your lack of response is more than enough to answer his question.

He stands, clad only in his breeches and a half-tied tunic, the loose fabric hanging open just enough to reveal the hard planes of his chest. Flickering candlelight dances across his skin, casting shifting shadows that accentuate the lean muscle earned through years of training. You draw a slow breath through your nose, your fingers curling against the edge of the vanity as your gaze lingers on him for just a heartbeat too long.

“So angry you can’t even speak,” he muses. “Or does something else still your tongue?”

“I will let you know when I wish to speak to you again,” you reply airily, busying yourself with arranging the jewelry you wore earlier inside its carved wooden box. You fuss with each piece far longer than necessary, nestling rings and bracelets into place to keep your hands occupied. 

So lost in thought, you don't hear his approach. Instead, the clean scent of him, threaded with sandalwood and cedar, surrounds you moments before he comes to a stop behind you. His long fingers trails lightly over your collarbone and heat seeps through your thin dressing gown where he rests his hands against your shoulders. 

"Should I apologize again?" he asks, deliberately dropping his voice to a low, velvety murmur, close enough that the words fan over the shell of your ear.

You do not give him the satisfaction of looking up, though he can certainly feel the involuntary tremor beneath his hands and hear the subtle hitch in your breath. Offering only an indifferent hum from the back of your throat, you close the lid of the jewelry box and busy yourself straightening the row of perfume bottles with deliberate care.

“Perhaps more than words are needed to show you how contrite I am,” Gwayne continues. 

Before you can react, the chair scrapes against the stone floor as he moves it – and you – away from the vanity, stepping into the empty space. He lowers himself, one knee and then the other, looking up at you with such exaggerated seriousness that you almost resent the way it threatens to make you smile.

“I am at your service, my lady.”

There’s a secret kind of thrill to seeing a knight of the realm kneeling before you, hands bred for steel and battle made soft just for you.

Though you do not speak, your chin lifts the slightest fraction, the unspoken invitation all he needs to part the robes of your dressing gown. Roughened fingers curl around the back of your calf and he guides you to spread your legs for him. There is something endearingly annoying in the way he watches you from beneath his golden lashes, utterly certain that, given enough patience, your resolve will crumble.

You give him nothing and he smirks, pressing a kiss to the inside of each thigh. Distracted, you miss the moment he cups your hips and drags you forcefully forward. The unexpected movement draws a startled little sound from between your pressed lips. Left precariously perched on the edge of the chair, you instinctively reach for his shoulders to steady yourself.

He looks up at you with a smirk and urges you to spread your legs until you are on full display. Only then does his gaze drop to the most intimate part of you. The blue of his eyes deepens, his lips parting as though he has forgotten to breathe. You squirm despite yourself, the cool air grazing your skin in sharp contrast to the warmth of his hands.

Gwayne does not put his mouth on you like you expect. Instead, his fingers trace the length of your inner thigh, his touch deft and unhurried. Goosebumps rise in their wake, and a shuddering sigh escapes you when he finally reaches your core. There he finds that delicate bundle of nerves and rubs slow circles with the pad of his thumb. Your sensitive flesh catches on the roughened edges of his calluses, the sensation enough to make you seek more. 

You tilt your hips forward and he rewards the movement by teasing your entrance with two of his fingers, a slow, deliberate exploration of your warmth. His blue eyes remain fixed on yours until you can bear them no longer. Your gaze slips to his forearm, following the play of muscle and flexing tendons beneath his skin as he works. 

“Eyes on me,” he whispers, though it sounds less like a command than a plea. “My beautiful wife.”

Heat blooms in your chest at the quiet praise. You hate how easily those three words soften your resolve, the reason for your anger growing hazier and hazier with each passing moment.

“Am I yet forgiven?” He questions.

When you do not answer he crooks his fingers, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure through your belly.  Words fail you. Your lashes flutter closed, breath catching in your throat as you hover on the precipice, so achingly close. Without thought, you raise your hips, seeking more until the deliberate scrape of his thumbnail over your bud tears brings you back to the present.

“I need an answer, if I am to continue my apology” he whispers, his voice rough with want. 

“Yes, gods, please Gwayne,” you keen.

He smiles, victorious, but the faint flush creeping across his alabaster skin tells you you are not the only one so affected. 

“Please,” you beg a second time, unashamed and needy. 

“Whatever my lady demands,” he agrees, removing his fingers. 

You have only a moment to mourn their loss before Gwayne buries his head between your thighs and his tongue deep in your cunt. As in all things, he is relentless in bringing you to your peak.

One hand remains braced on his shoulder while the other falls to his head, fingers threading through his hair. You’re unable to resist the need to anchor yourself to him, as if he could abandon you in this moment of any other.  

He devours you as though your taste is the very air he needs to breathe, the water that sustains him. It is enough to undo you. Ribbons of pleasure unravel inside your belly, sweeping up into your chest and washing through you. 

Your fingers tighten in his hair, nearly painfully so, yet Gwayne only answers with a deep groan, the sound sending another wave of aftershocks through you. He stays between your thighs for a moment, content to worship you further. Only when your hand slips from his hair does he finally draw back. His blue eyes are bright, his cheeks warmly flushed, and a sheen of perspiration clings to his brow. He looks utterly undone,

“I am worried, my lady,” he says with feigned sincerity, “that I have not apologized sufficiently.”

“Gwayne,” you begin, trying to gather your wits, but he is quicker. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he catches your hand and gently draws you to your feet. Your legs are less steady than you would like, and he slips an arm around your waist.

You feel utterly spent, and whatever argument had sparked this morning's quarrel is little more than a distant memory now.

“I must apologize more thoroughly,” he continues, reaching to loosen the ties of your gown. 

The rich fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. Gwayne's gaze lingers on your naked form, so full of hungry devotion that it fans the embers of your desire.

“I am quite cross,” you lie, slipping your arms around him and drawing him close. 

You rise onto your toes and kiss him, slow and lingering, your fingers curling into the front of his tunic. Perhaps, you think with quiet amusement, you ought to quarrel with your husband more often.

If you’d like to see more drabbles about Gwayne or Ormund Hightower, feel free to drop ideas in my inbox!

[machy-march]

"perhaps the seeds of madness are sown in the womb as the maesters says, but aerion was quite the glad child once. he like fishing"

[agentmilayawithshield]

in Westeros, you're not allowed to be the eldest son with a facecard they immediately end you

[dracaria-dracarys]

Freddie Fox as Gwayne Hightower

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON S3E1

[gwaynes-hightower]

FREDDIE FOX as GWAYNE HIGHTOWER HOUSE OF THE DRAGON // 3.01 Salt and Sea, Fire and Blood

[kurosqki]

⤷ boyfriend yuuji who…

fem!reader ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

bf!yuuji who gets excited whenever you talk about your interests, even if he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.

bf!yuuji who always walks on the side closest to traffic. always treating you like the princess you are.

bf!yuuji who gets distracted halfway when you’re telling a story because he’s so mesmerized about how gorgeous you are. you’ll ask him what’s wrong and he’ll snap back to reality and say, “nothing, you’re just really pretty.”

bf!yuuji who accidentally starts talking about you in every conversation. “oh, my girlfriend likes that too,” “yeah, my girl told me about that”

bf!yuuji who loves buying you two matching items. matching bracelets, matching keychains, matching socks. his favorite holiday is halloween because he looks forward to the cutesy matching couple costumes.

bf!yuuji who is always willing to spend money on you. you’ll be staring at something in a store and he’s already pulling out his wallet. “nah, it’s okay. i got you.” he loves spoiling his perfect girl.

bf!yuuji who gets a little embarrassed when his friends tease him about how in love he is. everyone around him can tell he’s completely whipped for you.

bf!yuuji who hypes up every achievement you make.

“woahhh an 82 on your exam? let’s go!”

“but, it’s not even an 100…”

“okay and? you still did amazing, baby”

bf!yuuji who never shuts up about you after you start dating. enough that one day megumi groans and says, “here he goes again.”

bf!yuuji who loves physical affection so much. his arms around your waist, your hand intertwined with his, etc. if you’re next to him, he’s going to want to touch you somehow.

bf!yuuji who loves making out with you slowly. cupping your cheek while he leans in, his warm lips pressed against yours, his tongue exploring the inside of your mouth. there’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now.

bf!yuuji who always has thoughts about marrying you someday. he sees an old couple holding hands at the parks and wonders if that’ll be you two one day.

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© kurosqki

something quick to post since i’m graduating tomorrow. i’m so excited :D

[yummymatti]

he's my man

[labisfinete]

ొ💭ᣟ݂ how i am percieved by fandom + others vs close friends+fam in my fame drs . . . ⏝⏝ #shifting trend | credits to @nachimbagjwi

🗒 note: i have so much fame drs archived on my notion that just did choose theese 3 that im cr focusing on scripting for my #tiredd adhd brain dnt explode~ but i have much fun doing it!! thanks for the idea <3

ill be starting a debate here, should i turn my royal dr into a reality show dr too? idk fgh

taglist, just interact to be added or removed 🫶🏻 . . . @dreaming-bella @lostvenuss @parisamorie @cloudimahi @nailvr @coerazon @yavoi @julisecondstar

[sunoovamp]

COME ON, EVERYBODY TO THE BOARDING SCHOOL

( @virtualfangs333 ) Get down like your tutor taught you to.

[yummymatti]

POR FAVOR escrevam "x leitor masculino" pro yoongi estou cansado de não ter conteúdo com o meu marido😭😭😭😭

[crazyboy123n]

How is the feeling of finding a headcanon/fanfic blog that write for male readers:

[strawbewiebaby]

[yummymatti]

eu indo decorar meu blr de brasil depois daquele empate vergonhoso

[yummymatti]

não existe nada mais vagabundo e tirânico do que site de manhwa falar q vc precisa PAGAR pra ler um manhwa que o site piratiou, vai se fuder né

[minyoonjin]

cutest inflyooencer 🥺

[quokkaine]

sou meio tóxica quando se trata de ask pq demoro 20 anos pra responder as minhas mas se mando uma quero que a pessoa responda na mesma hora ou ent fico stalkeando o perfil