#a stain that won't dissolve

[not-poignant]

Stardew Valley - 54/? - A Stain that Won’t Dissolve - Alex/Sebastian

Title: A Stain that Won’t Dissolve Rating: Explicit Pairing: Alex/Sebastian Tags: Hurt/comfort, aged-up characters (mid 20s), minor character death, angst, injury, grief, miscommunication, bullying, enemies to lovers, dubious consent, internalised homophobia, closeted character, past child abuse, dyslexia, antagonist farmer, unrequited love, pining, acceptance, top!Sebastian, bottom!Alex, power dynamics, happy ending.

Summary: Alex hates Sebastian – which is great because Sebastian more than returns the favour – and what starts out as revenge fantasy turns into unironic lust, which evolves into unrequited love. Alex gets a job, Sebastian marries the farmer, and both of them lose almost everything before finding each other again. A story of two mutual bullies who learn how to messily grow up.

A Stain that Won’t Dissolve - Chapter 54 - Winds of Change

In which Haley and Alex figure out their characters for Sebastian’s game, and then Sebastian asks to come to Alex’s, and Jodi turns up with some leftovers, resulting in an interaction which causes Sebastian to accuse Alex of something he didn’t do.

[not-poignant]

This is such a soft, lovely moment from A Stain that Won't Dissolve, I can so imagine them like this, in front of the fireplace, with Sebastian on the floor and Alex in his chair

also this is so amazing??? The art form - it being pixel art, just sdalkfjdas wow!!!!

with love for @not-poignant and his A Stain that Won't Dissolve, a little comfort moment.

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (1) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

we cannot change who we are at our core.

type: limited series, part 1 (6.4k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

Whenever she woke up marked the last day of the rest of your life. One moment, the world inside of your head was unnervingly quiet. The next, someone else was there, whispering in the dark, taking over.

You aren't proud of her. No, you hate her. There is no one you hate more, you don't think, because she lets the direction of the fucking wind distract her from what really matters. She paints her environment in a soft, glazed picture, and she tries to hold up her canvas and convince you that her reality is real. But then you blink, and you get flashes of how dull the sky really is and the dirt that stains your shoes, and you know that she's just a liar.

A controlling, desperate thief.

When you heard her voice for the first time, you begged your reflection in the mirror to just kill you already.

If you were an alpha, maybe you could've just drawn away into yourself and lived a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. If you were a beta, perhaps the weight of nothing would've given you a little more freedom to do the things you wanted to do.

But no. You're an omega. Nature's servant. A natural follower. Destined for nothing except to open your legs and say, "yes, alpha, all for you," because if you are anything but complacent, you're unwanted and a waste of your very being.

Your eyes stung when you took your first little pill. They rattled in different colors in a little orange bottle, and it felt like sand as it dissolved under your tongue. Even though it makes you sick, you take them anyways. Even though the pills change colors and shape and efficacy because you buy them from someone different every time, you take them because it makes your omega shut the fuck up finally.

You bury her. And you won't let her out.

The truth of it is that you're only fighting yourself. Your omega, she is you, isn't she? She's a part of you, she makes up your very genetic makeup, and to hate her is to hate yourself. But nature is cruel–it gave you years of freedom. Years to know what life was like without her, when she was dormant, asleep, just waiting for you to finally wake up.

Then your very self locked the cage. Your fingers claw at the bars, but it's no use. It's your very own punishment. So in turn, you bury her, too, silencing her cries, quieting what she wants most in the world, because it isn't fair, fuck you, you whiny bitch.

She's a pathetic puppy; and you are more than happy to step on her fucking neck.

Your aim is off today. The sound is muffled through the earphones you wear, but they've never thrown off your balance before. When you lean over the railing and squint at the target papers towards the back, you can see the bullet holes just a few inches off center.

You're never off-center.

"Getting rusty on me, Kit?"

You turn around, setting the gun down, and you smile wide when you see a familiar face. You pull the headphones off, putting them aside before making your way towards her.

Kate Laswell is surprised when you throw your arms around her and hug her tight. She smells good; she smells like chocolate, dark chocolate, something bittersweet. She's got that edge to it that they all do, something a little heady and all-encompassing, but she's the only alpha that you've ever found comfort being near. You see her nose scrunch a little when she embraces you back.

You must stink like synthetics. You care, only because you hate to make her nose sting this way. It's never been meant for her. At times, you thought maybe you could do a little convincing; maybe if you batted your lashes enough, she’d take pity on you, hide you away in some CIA shack with her deep on a Montana farm and play house. You’d cook, and she’d protect, and you’d be perfect little alpha and omega until the end of your days.

But Kate doesn’t like baggage. Not even the sweet kind, and especially not the kind that makes it even more difficult to make the hard decisions.

Kate isn’t a soldier. She makes choices based on the greater good, the lesser evil. She doesn’t get to be selfish. She doesn’t have that luxury.

When you pull away, she looks down at you strangely. She looks tired. Her dark hair is in a mess of a braid tucked under a cap, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Her attempt of a smile emphasizes the lines around her eyes. You open your mouth to tell her something, but she shakes her head.

"I'm not here as a friend," she says softly, and you frown a little.

"Aren't...haven't we always been friends?" You ask, and Kate lets out a shaky sigh, nodding her head behind her.

"We need to talk. C'mon."

You retrieve the gun and holster it, fastening it into your thigh holster before you follow her. She has a car waiting outside, a big, black SUV with the door already open for her. When you get inside, she knocks on the divider, and the car immediately starts moving. You brace yourself against the side of the car as it speeds off, reaching for a seatbelt.

"Jesus, Kate, what's going on? I-I have training later, I can't–"

"You're not...going back to base," she says evenly. You frown a little, leaning back in your seat, and you put your hands in your lap as you try and get a read on her. Even exhausted, Kate is hard to decipher. She has a stone-cold expression, calm and unbothered, and you curse her CIA training for making her impossible to understand, to even get a glimpse of what she might say next. Her face makes you anxious, and the scent in the car that changes puts you on edge.

"Okay," you scoff a little. "Then where am I going?"

Kate sniffs a little, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't break eye contact with you when she says, "Wheels up in 30. I have an assignment for you." She reaches under the seat, pulling out a manila folder, setting it down beside you. When you pick it up and flip it open, you narrow your eyes.

"I'm..." You shrug your shoulders, "I'm not really CIA. You don't give me orders."

"As of one hour ago, you're mine. And this...this is your duty."

Your eyes blur as you skim the text on the pages. You flip through the papers flimsily, getting more and more irritated until you throw it at her, your chest rising and falling fast as you pant, barely able to see her through your tears.

Program. UK. Field assignment. Mate. All the keywords to make your stomach curl and your autonomy shrink in front of your very eyes.

"Kate, don't do this," you beg her softly. You soften your voice, and you let your omega drip syrup into it. You want to see her eyes dilate–you want to make her protectiveness kick in just enough that she might just appease you. It’s desperate, and you know it’s wrong, but you do it anyways, you have to. "Please don't do this. Please. You fucking promised me, you promised–"

"You need to understand that I don't have a lot of fucking choices," she says sharply. She pities you, that much you can tell. She looks pained, but it doesn’t matter how pained she might feel because it isn’t happening to her. It’s happening to you, and she put you on that base so that it wouldn’t happen to you, and she tricked you into getting into this car, and now it’s her–

"Kate, I'll do anything, please," you gasp. You reach over and grab her hands, tugging her towards you. "You know. You know what...w-what I've been through, what this all is, you know...please. Please..."

You promised me. You gave me your word.

"I can't–"

But the CIA can’t be trusted for shit.

"I'll be yours," you try, squeezing her palms. Appease. Beg. Bare your neck. Give her what she really craves. "Just claim me yourself, a-and...and we don't have to do this, w-we can...I-I can go back to–"

Her face contorts, offended, disgusted. You try and swallow down the sting of her rejection, but you cannot help yourself. You would do anything to not be subjected to this fate, to the fate she promised she'd save you from. The only alpha you have ever trusted, and she's pulling away from you, bit by bit.

"I could never do that to you," she interrupts, shaking her head. "I couldn't."

"But you'll do this instead?"

"It's the lesser evil," she says finally, pushing your hands back. It aches. Despite you never leaning towards her, it is still an alpha turning their nose up at you, and the thing inside of you cries at the feeling; she begs you to do more, but you swallow her down, fingers itching for another pill just so you can really squash her singing. "And in my world, that is the best I can hope for."

"It's punishment!" You cry, and she reaches over, cupping your cheeks, pulling you close. You scrunch your face at her touch. Her hands are cold, and they do not welcome you. "A-And for what? For being something that I can't change?!"

"It's mercy," she whispers. Her thumbs stroke your cheeks in soft circles. "I can't protect you anymore, do you understand? They don't want you there, and I can’t take you with me. Even taking meds, even spraying yourself to shit, they don't want you, and I can't protect you if they send you away, do you understand me?" You start to cry, closing your eyes, and you hear the familiar voice in your head preening. She's desperate, slipping through the cracks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try and force her backwards. You’re panicking, and maybe she’s trying to help, but you hate her. "I have to get you out of there, and this is the only way."

"Please..."

"I can't protect you," she says gently. "But he can. And he'll be good to you. I promise, this...this I can promise."

You rip yourself away from her, curling into yourself as you scoot away from her as far as possible. You press yourself against the door, tucking your knees into your chest. Whatever passes by outside is a blur, and your brain doesn’t register any of it. The only thing in your head is betrayal, traitor, those sick, stupid bastard alphas, all of them–

"Fuck your promises," you whimper, and when she reaches out for you again, you flinch, burying your face into your hands.

Kate is a liar. She never keeps her promises; that’s her job, it is what she does. The CIA is nothing if they aren’t incredible liars–it’s what they’re known for, and Kate takes to it like a fish to water. As far as you are concerned, she lured you in with bait, and now she's shut the door on a trap. It is lined with padding, soft, delicate, but it still holds you back, it still keeps you still and stagnant and forever chained to an existence that you detest more than anything. She used you; it was in her best interest to keep an omega under her thumb, to do with you as she pleased when she needed one, and you suppose once you are taken, she will find another to do the same with. She will give another desperate one like you false hope, and when she needs another omega to keep someone else complacent and willing, she will offer them up with her signature on paper–just like that.

She tries to touch your hand before you board the plane. She tries to meet your eyes, get your attention, anything. You cower when she reaches out, and when she steps backwards, you walk on.

You never look behind yourself. Not even when you sit, and not even as the ramp closes shut.

Fighting is futile when you are who you are. It's unexpected. It's frowned upon. You are made up of something that is intended to be docile, to be big-eyed and soft. If you were a dog, they would want you to roll over and bare your belly and forget how to do anything but obey, but that is not the kind of thing that you ever wanted to be, even when you were small, even before you knew what you really were.

You hate what you are. You medicate yourself to the point of being incoherent, you bare your teeth and aggravate the submissive nature you inherit to deter any kind of match. You make yourself undesirable, not just in your physical nature but in the very essence of yourself.

You want to start over, as something else, or you want to never have been at all. You hate this place, you want them to cast you out, you want to be left to your own devices because dying alone and unwanted is better than submission; it;s better than the imprisonment that your kind subjects themselves to, willing or not.

It sickens you. You watch your own kind fall to their knees, close their mouths, and allow their very being to disappear just to make another satiated. Happy. Their entire lives, reduced to being someone else's waiting hand, someone else's property. It's sad, it's pathetic, it rocks you to the very center of yourself, and you demand more of it, you reject this life and the voice in your head that fights with you every single day of it.

She hates you, too, your omega. She claws at your insides and begs for something to drink, but you dry her out. You don't allow her to even breach the surface of the wasteland you've suffocated her with. She is naïve; she doesn't know what is good for her, she doesn't know that you are saving her from a life of constant torture. She screams for you to let her out, but you take another pill and force her back into the dark.

Or at least you did. You haven't taken a pill in days. They won't let you, even when you asked, even when you began to beg. You promised to be good if they just appeased you. You promised to be quiet if they just slipped it under your tongue, even if they injected it into your very veins, anything, just please, please, I don't want to–

Everything is surreal. You feel like you're seeing everything in color. What used to be dull and uninteresting now sparkles in your very eyes, it glows under the sun. Everything is sharper and less blurry. Sounds are clearer. You can hear the wind more loudly in your ears and feel it under the soles of your shoes. But what dizzies you the most is your sense of smell.

Everything before had been so bland. You have been under the effects of suppressors for so long that you don't think food has ever smelled so bad and so good (eggs make you gag now, and the crisps they give you make your mouth water).

They keep you confined in a small room. You are not allowed in the presence of any alphas; you can smell them passing by the door, but whenever the stink of one of them lingers, there's loud voices, lots of heavy boots. A beta comes to collect you to do a daily workout and to shower, and then you are back in your room, your meals delivered on a tight schedule (and the food, after a few days of your tray being barely picked at, gets so much better–it's better quality than you've seen on any military base, and when you asked, all they said was "lieutenant's orders").

Today is different. Today, along with your breakfast, a large black hoodie is folded underneath the tray that they leave on the end of your bed. You set the food aside, picking up the hoodie, and when you unravel it, you spread it out, gawking at the size of it. Whoever this hoodie belongs to is more bear, more beast, than human. An enormous thing, but when you pick it up, you immediately pick up on its strong scent.

You press the front of it to your nose. Your eyes flutter shut, and you sink into the bed a little as you take a deep breath of it. Warm, but gritty, like charcoal. Cigarettes. Military-issue soap. Clean. Eucalyptus. Fire. Something with depth, something with teeth. You don't realize what's happening to you until it's too late.

Alpha. It smells undoubtedly like alpha, and you're certain by the size of it that it belongs to one. You nuzzle your face into it a little, instinctively, and you don't even register your omega knocking, peering through the door that's been cracked open for her.

She squeals with delight. She's getting dizzy, drunk, and you feel a soft noise in your chest bubble as she pets the back of your mind, keening at the introduction of it. She’s giggling. You can feel her tugging at your insides, whispering in your ear–See? I told you. I told you that you’d like it.

They smell strong. They smell capable. They smell pure.

When you put the hoodie down, your legs are pressed together, shaking from how hard your thighs are squeezed. When you relax, you refrain from the need to touch yourself, but you failed before you even started. You can feel how wet you are; your panties must be soaked, and you feel yourself pulsing with some sort of distinct urge to give in, give in, give in.

It's unnerving, the lack of control you have. Your omega has always been a few feet underwater, but she's breaching the surface now, her lips gasping for air.

You try to push her back.

Stay down.

When the clock strikes for dinner, you aren't surprised by the knock. But you are surprised that when the door opens, there isn't a beta in uniform holding your tray. Instead, you cover your nose a little, blinking harshly as a large man comes into the room. He's got a strange beard and a floppy hat, and when he smiles, he reminds you of a teddy bear. You can tell just by his physique what he is, but his eyes are kinder than you're used to.

You will yourself not to trust them. You trusted kind eyes before, and now you’re locked in a prison of your own making.

"'ello," he introduces himself, holding out his hand. "'m Captain John Price. 's nice to meet you."

You glare at him, not saying a word. When he figures you won't shake his hand, he just nods. He lets his hand drop, hooking his thumbs into his tact vest, and he rests at ease.

"I've come to collect you," he says lowly. "It's time."

You pick up your tray of food from behind you and hurl it towards him. He ducks just in time, moving one shoulder backwards as the metal hits the wall behind him and clatters to the floor in a splattered mess. John shakes his head a little, scratching the back of his neck, and he clicks his tongue. You’re unnerved and a little pissed off when a hint of a grin flickers over his face.

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes. "Yeah...you'll do."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Let's go," John snaps. "Won't ask again."

When he reaches for you, you swipe the fork from the bed, stepping close and sticking the little prongs up against his chin. You aren’t satisfied until you can feel his scratchy beard against it, piercing the skin just enough.

"If you touch me, I'll shove this right up your chin through your goddamn nose," you threaten, and John’s nostrils flare, his hands going up flat beside his head.

"Easy," he murmurs, and you feel like he’s talking to a skittish mare. "Just need to guide you, that's all."

"Well, I don't want to go anywhere."

"If you don't do this, I have to send you back," John explains. "And Kate made it very clear that is supposed to be my last resort. And you don't want to go back."

"Anything is better than this," you hiss, and he narrows his eyes.

"Not this. What they do to unruly omegas..." He leans forward, snarling a little. "Ones like you. Ones that bite. And scratch. They don't deal with them. They'll sedate you and use you as training practice. And while Kate might have a heart big enough to keep you outta that place, I don't have it. So get your arse moving. Now."

You put your hand down, dropping the fork, letting it clatter to the floor. He grips you by the collar of your shirt, urging you forward, and all the hairs stand up on the back of your neck as he gets dangerously close to scruffing you. It's enough of a threat that you immediately relax, your own body betraying your emotions as it tries to make itself smaller. To appease. To submit.

"This can't wait any longer," John mutters. "Has to happen today."

Your lip trembles.

"What has to happen today?" You ask.

"You're meeting your mate," he says. You know that was the answer, but you had to ask it anyways. You think of the hoodie you received all those hours ago. The smell of him, complete intoxication. "Simon."

Simon.

"Sounds like an asshole," you snap, irritated, and John chuckles a little.

"Mmm. He is. You'll adore 'im."

You flinch at the flickering fluorescent lights as he leads you down a narrow hallway. When you pass other soldiers, John puts you in front of him, glaring and baring his teeth a little. You're confused by this sudden display of aggression on your behalf, but when you spot the looks in others’ eyes, you're grateful for it nonetheless.

You know your scent is strong; piercing the walls around you, displaying your displeasure, discomfort, fear so plainly. It's an awful thing to not be able to hide how you feel, to not feel like you have any control over how you present to others, but you have no practice masking any of it. You have been drowning your omega for so long that you didn't realize the strength of her building up behind the synthetic walls you had built. She's livid, angry, permeating the spaces in your mind that you thought were solid and now are broken and hollow inside.

You stop in front of an unmarked door. John looks over you, eyeing the jacket you wear.

"Take tha' off," he says lowly. You frown, stepping back, but he nods again. "Take it off. You'll get it back, just give it to me."

You shrug your jacket off gently, handing it to him. John holds out his hand for yours, and when you cautiously give it to him, he rubs the fabric against your wrists to soak it in your scent before disappearing behind the door. You wait outside, pressing your ear to the metal, but you hear nothing but low mumbles. You do hear a heavy gait, big feet moving around that don't belong to Captain Price, and you close your eyes as you try and see if you can hear his voice.

You don't.

The door is opened just slightly, John cocking his head to the side.

"He wants to see you."

You raise a brow.

"Your mutt?" You ask smartly, and John scoffs a little, kicking the door open wide finally. Behind it, you can see a small little office situated. Dozens of file cabinets, a stained wooden desk, a peeling leather chair. There are papers everywhere, a disorganized mess and walls filled with medals, plaques, letters, pictures of faceless men. And standing beside the desk, towering over it with his head nearly hitting the ceiling is a bear.

A fucking bear.

He's so tall. Over six feet of hulking man, big shoulders taking up too much space. You can tell just by looking at him that he has to duck his head and move his body sideways to get through the doorway you're standing in. He has big hands and thick thighs, and your lips part when you realize his thigh holster has been released as much as possible just to still fit snugly around him. He's wearing dark jeans and a thick black hoodie, and he looks even bigger with a strapped tact vest that holds numerous little gadgets, weapons (fuck, he looks like he can kill you with the pencil laying haphazard beside him).

You can't see his face. He covers it with a mask, a snug covering tucked under his hoodie with the plastic front plate of a skull sewn to its front. He's holding your jacket in one hand, the other clenched in a tight fist as you step through the door.

"Is this your dog, Captain?" You ask finally. Simon doesn't speak. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing you, taking in the way you look from the tips of your combat boots all the way up over your head. His gaze lingers on your middle, the wideness of your hips and the curve of your body.

John crosses his arms over his chest.

"Suppose so," John shrugs, rolling his eyes a little. You blink, finally making eye contact with Simon. His eyes are dark and beady. He's intense, just as his scent had been. Your omega warms your throat and screams in your ear.

Grab him. Latch onto him. Don’t let him go. Do you see him? Look at him–

"Does it bark?" You wonder, glaring. Simon unclenches his fist, rolling his fingers out a little. They twitch beside his leg. His face twitches a little, too, you can see the mask move just slightly.

"When he wants to."

"Does it bite?"

John snorts. "Mmm. Afraid so." He opens the door behind him. "Don't kill each other. If I don't see her for supper, Simon, I'll hold you to it."

When you are alone, Simon still remains silent. He hasn't moved from his spot by the desk, still in a strange staring contest with you as you stand there trying to read him. Like Kate, he's impossible; this time, you don't even have the luxury of looking over his face, although you suspect even without the mask, he must have mastered some kind of expression of nothingness. He seems like the kind of brute to give nothing away. Not even his displeasure.

"Hope you're good on a leash," you say finally, crossing your arms over your chest. "I like to go on walks."

His face moves under the mask again. Finally, he moves. He unravels your jacket in his hand, holding it open for you to put on again. You eye him strangely before coming closer to fit your arms into it.

When you turn your back to him, you realize how much of his shadow you're tucked under. When he drops the fabric back on your shoulders, you still as he leans over one side of you, bending. Without thinking, your head tilts to the side, giving him more space into the side of your neck. You do it without even thinking. Your omega bleeds through you, and you feel her warmth everywhere now, making you move, but you let her this time.

Your scent gland pulses there under your ear. He can see it, hear it practically, rushing like the blood in his ears. You close your eyes when you feel him come closer, the cotton of his mask just barely grazing your neck as he takes a deep breath.

The growl he lets out shakes you to your core. Your pupils get blown wide at the sound, and your head flops back slow, exposing more of your neck. He uses the opportunity to bend just that much more, until the front of his mask is pressed against the gland, and he can breathe you in, right at the source.

He's snarling under the mask. You can hear his teeth knock together, his tongue wetting his lips. You shiver, leaning into him, your hand raising up to caress the back of his neck as he nuzzles his nose there, taking another deep breath. You step back enough that he presses up against you from behind. You can feel his pelvis right against your ass, and you arch your back just enough to fit him right where he belongs. A gloved hand catches you at your waist, and you put your free hand on the desk in front of you until his cock is right there between your ass.

Your omega is panting. She's clawing, right there at the edge, fighting against quicksand as she's desperate to meet him. The feeling of him, the scent of him so close, it's an aphrodisiac, potent, suffocating. Something warm is wrapping around you, sliding along your skin, tickling your toes. It's between your thighs, in your mouth, wetting your tongue. You're not sure what this feeling is, but it's thrilling.

He's purring. Big, rumbling sounds coming from deep in his chest. More animal than man as his tongue comes out under the mask, and you can feel him lick a nice stripe over the raised, warm skin under your ear. Your omega is being pulled to the forefront. She’s like a magnet to him. The closer he gets, the stronger she bites into you. Your mouth drops open when his hand falls between your thighs, gripping onto you and pulling you up against him in one, slow grind. You can feel the length of him, fucking enormous, and you’re leaking into your cargos as his fingers squeeze the fat of your thigh.

"Fuck–okay!" You pull away abruptly, turning to face him. You put your hands on his chest and push him back a little. He doesn’t move at your touch, but your voice startles him enough that he moves his hands up and away from you. He straightens up, blinking away the haze in his eyes, and you swallow hard. "T-Too much..."

He huffs, moving forward to bury his face into your neck again, but you step back, putting a hand on his chest firmer this time. You have stepped out of the cloud that surrounds him, but you can still taste it, and it’s pulling you back, and you’re losing control.

"Simon," you say his name gently, and he stops, his face scrunching a little under the mask before he stands back up again. "If I have to be your mate...we need to set some boundaries." He blinks, saying nothing. "Like...a-asking for permission."

You can tell by the way his mask twitches that he doesn't usually ask for permission. He wants, and he receives.

Typical.

“What?” You ask, scoffing. “You don’t talk?”

He doesn’t move. You crane your neck to look up at him a little better, and you smooth your hands lower on his chest. You can’t help but appreciate what you feel. He’s wearing a tactical vest, but you can still feel the deep breaths he’s taking, the strong, fatty muscle under your palms. He is the epitome of sheer strength and undeniable ability. Your omega draws your hands back up his chest, over his pecs that pull taut, and they wind up around his neck as you stand up on your toes and lean into the curve of his jaw. You put your nose to it, barely. Simon moves his hands down, cupping you under your ass and picking up your weight with not even a grunt until you can press your face deep into him.

Fuck, it’s like a drug. It’s addictive. His scent impales you. He smells like war. Like chaos and smoke, and your mouth starts to water as you keep breathing him in. You pull back just enough, blinking up at him. You look a little dizzy and intoxicated, and he squeezes your ass to hold you steady as he puts you back onto your feet.

“Uhm…” You sniffle a little, holding onto him. Your hands curl around his shoulders, and you keep yourself upright like this. “I didn’t wanna be here. I don’t…I don’t want this. I never did.” You blink away tears, but he sees them when you draw your eyes back up to his. “T-They made me. It hurts.”

“Wot hurts?”

His voice scares you when you finally hear it. Your lip shakes, and when you blink again, your tears fall down your face. Simon snarls when he sees them, reaching up with hands too rough and wiping them off your face, but they keep coming.

“I’ve never been o-off my meds–” You gasp, and your breaths start to come in panicked and too fast. “Everything hurts. T-The lights are too bright, everything hurts my nose, the sheets are too itchy, and I-I can’t breathe–”

Simon moves away from you immediately. He closes a fist and pounds the lightswitch, and only the yellow glow of the lamp on his desk illuminates the room. You curl into yourself, hugging your own arms, and Simon comes back to stand in front of you, narrowing his eyes.

“I did not want you either.”

“That’s just grand, this is perfect,” you hiccup, and Simon grunts.

“But I have orders.”

“You act like your Captain is just debriefing you for a fucking mission,” You snap, glaring at him. “I’m a fucking person. I know your kind may not see us that way, but I am. I’m not a mission. I’m not something for you to win or to conquer, you fucking asshole!”

When you raise a hand to hit him, he catches your wrist before it lands. He squeezes just enough to hold you at arm’s length, and you lean forward and spit on him instead. It wets the mouth of his mask, and he nearly loses himself as his eyes flash with something dark. He looks away from you for a moment to collect himself. When he turns back, he uses his other hand to cup the back of your head, silencing you.

“You listen ‘ere, omega–” The way he says your title makes the fight in you shrink. Your omega squeaks, ducking her head, that bubble of submission pilling in your throat as he holds you so close to your naked scent gland. “Dunno wot anyone told you, but I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” He ducks his head, pulling you closer, and you freeze when he presses his masked mouth at the base of your pulsing scent gland. It wafts into his nose, dilating his pupils, and he snarls. “And when you inevitably lose control of yourself–you already fuckin’ are, you reek of it–I’m goin’ to sink my teeth right ‘ere, and then it won’t fuckin’ matter ‘ow you feel.”

Your eyes blur with angry tears. You gasp, your breaths hitching, and Simon seems to feed off of your fear, your misery. If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you imagine he’d be licking your tears for a chance to taste your sadness. The worst part of it all is that your omega adores it. She’s been aching for so long for this kind of authority. For that edge to tickle her right under her chin where she likes it. The whiff of alpha that she’s getting is driving her out of control, and you don’t know how make her quiet down. She’s so loud in your head, banging against the walls–give it to him, give it to him, give it to him.

“You’re a fucking monster,” you whisper, glaring up at him. It’s no use–you will never scare him. Simon is what scares other alphas into submission. In one paw, he could crush your windpipe if he wanted to, with just a squeeze. Simon hums, and you imagine him smiling under that mask, some kind of vicious grin that you would love to smack off of him.

“Tha’s right, swee’eart,” Simon mutters. “I am. ‘n now you belong t’me. Everything that you are–” He smooths his hand down your neck. You seize when his hand slides over the curve of your waist until it cups under your ass and forces you up against him. “‘s mine. Your omega–’s mine. Your mouth–mine. Your arse–mine. That cunt that’s going to take my knot like a good little omega should–mine. So y’r gonna get y’r things, and y’r gonna move them into my quarters, and then we’re gonna go get supper, and y’r gonna shut y’r fuckin’ mouth.”

“I hate you. You’re the biggest son of a bitch I have ever met in my entire life, you are exactly the kind of asshole I knew you would be, you are no different than I thought. You’re a terrible, awful, horrible–”

“I can smell you,” Simon snaps. “Don’t try to be fuckin’ smart with me, I can smell how wet your cunt is, so why don’t you just be a good girl and do as I say?”

You bare your teeth a little, and Simon sticks a gloved thumb into your mouth. Without thinking, you relax. You suck it into your mouth and sigh, and Simon rubs his thumb against your tongue, shutting you up nice and well. He traces your teeth with it, and you start to cry. You cry because you don’t know why you can’t fight. Your grip his forearm, but your nails won’t dig. Your feet are planted to the ground, and you can’t move. Your mouth sucks, and he pushes, and you’re frozen here.

He knows what to do. Doesn’t he taste so good?

He seems to like your teary eyes. The big, fat tears. His eyes crinkle, and you know he’s smiling, and you wish you could rip that expression off his face, but all that stares back at you is death. Simon growls, and every bit of resistance in you fails. Slow, like molasses, your knees buckle, and he catches you. He pets your mouth, and when he leans in and presses his mouth to your ear, all you can do is cry.

“That’s it. Good kitty.”

NEXT

[apocalypseornaw]

Shaky Ground

Dean Winchester x Reader

When Dean accidently hurts you during sex it leads to you feeling unsure about your relationship because for the first time ever he won't reciprocate your attempts at intimacy even after you're healed

Cursing, mention of a bruised cervix, body parts being bruised,supernatural level of violence, NSFW happenings

Requested by @fullbelieverheart This ended up longer than Sam's version... sorry I love Sammy but Dean has my heart

Dean's jaw ached from how hard his teeth ground together. The hunt had been too close. You'd nearly...he didn't want to think about it. He couldn't think about it. He followed you into your shared hotel room, greatful Sam had the foresight to get two rooms. He couldn't imagine having to share the room with his brother right now.

When you turned to face him he felt his anger dissolve into that underlying fear. You didn't have any serious injuries, no more than him or Sam but the fact that if he'd been a little slower or a little weaker or if you'd had a little less fight in you.... "come here" he barely got out before scooping you up into his arms and walking towards the bed. What he couldn't say with words, he could say in other ways.

------------------

You woke up slowly, the small amount of light from the curtain hitting your eyes. You could feel Dean's arm tucked tightly around your waist. As much as you wanted to cuddle up against him you could tell from the discomfort you were in that something was wrong.

You tried to move his arm without waking him but the moment you touched him his eyes fluttered open "What's wrong sweetheart?" You smiled at the concern in his voice "We didn't clean up before we fell asleep last night. I feel gross" he chuckled lightly and pressed a kiss to your shoulder "Good point. Let's grab a shower then I'll go wake Sammy up"

You felt him move out the bed so you moved to do the same but felt a harsh pull through your lower body. At first you assumed it was the usual post sex soreness, Dean was well endowed to say the least but when you had to bite down on your lip to not cry out you knew it was more and when you saw streaks of blood on the sheet you cursed lightly under your breath. Dean looked back from where he was pulled fresh clothes out of his duffle "Something wrong?" You smiled stiffly "No"

His smile dropped "Don't lie to me baby. What is it" you swallowed hard then bit back a grimace as you stood out of the bed and pulled the cover back "I um apparently bled a little last night?" He walked over and looked at the stains "You don't have periods because of your iud" you nodded slowly. His eyes went from the stain to your face then moved slowly down to your body "Did I hurt I hurt?"

You shrugged "Not really" you watched his throat move as he swallowed hard "let me rephrase the question here. Are you in pain right now from something I did last night?" You let out a breath and let your gaze drop to the floor "My pelvic area is really sore and it kinda hurts to move fast and I think I'm gonna bruise on my hips"

Dean moved slowly towards you and you felt his hands touch your body gently, his fingers tracing where you knew bruises would be. "Dean" you spoke his name softly and started to cover his hand with your own but he pulled away "I'm gonna go shower in Sam's room. There was an urgent care a few towns over. We'll stop by and see what's wrong" "It's not that serious Dean" you tried again but his face had already taken on that hard mask "I hurt you, inside and out. At least let me take you to a doctor"

"Just shower with me" your voice was nearly a whisper but he shook his head "I need to wake him up anyway" you watched him dress in yesterday's clothes and grab his clean ones before slipping out the door, only taking time to lock it behind himself.

"I needed the help" you whispered with tears in your eyes before slowly bending down to pick up your duffle bag. You hoped nothing was serious because the look in Dean's eyes was enough to snap your heart in two.

You sat in the backseat absorbing the silence that filled the impala. You had a bruised cervix and some mild bruising on your hips and thighs. The look in Dean's eyes when the doctor asked if you were safe at home...jesus.

You closed your eyes and laid back against the seat, holding your stomach where the heated patch Sam had found at the pharmacy was helping to soothe your muscles. You knew Dean would never hurt you on purpose and its not like you were exactly complaining, hell you'd been begging him not to stop as a matter of fact.

You tried not to let any discomfort show because outside of holding your hand while the doctor had done a pelvic exam he hadn't shown any physical affection. Anytime his eyes found yours in the mirror you would give him a small smile and he'd look away. What was going through his head?

-----------------

Deans head was anything but silent as he drove. What kind of man hurt the woman he loved? Intentionally or not? He glanced back at you in the mirror and this time you didn't notice his attention. You'd stolen Sam's flannel as a pillow as was using his jacket as a blanket. The anti inflammatory meds along with antibiotics had meant all of you had needed to stop for lunch to make sure you had food in your stomach but he hadn't been able to eat much.

His thoughts were filled with the fact that he'd hurt you. The one person you should've been able to trust to protect you was the one who hurt you. You must have finally gotten comfortable because you hadn't stirred in the last few miles and it seemed like you were asleep. "She's ok Dean. She's strong and heals fairly fast" Sam spoke softly, ignoring the daggers Dean glared in his direction "Sam they looked at me like I was abusive or worse. I bruised her cervix. I've never done that to anyone. Not even when I was a kid figuring out what goes where. I'm a grown man. How do I fuck up this bad? And bruises on her hips and thighs?"

Sam shrugged "Dean you're strong as hell man and she's got a high pain tolerance. You two were amped up from a hunt. Adrenaline was high. Just don't let this come between you" Dean glanced back at you again as you moved around in your sleep, a slight twinge of discomfort flashing across your face twisting his heart with guilt "Easier said than done"

Bruises fade internally as well as externally. What proved to be harder to heal was the ever widening gap between you and Dean. When he finally started sleeping in the bed with you again he'd wear a t-shirt and either sweatpants or loungepants to bed.

He'd kiss you but it would never go past a quick kiss. No tongue would ever even make it into the picture and he'd rarely even hold you when you slept. You were losing your mind. You'd tried everything you knew that would normally have him begging you but he'd either curl up behind you and go to sleep or make an excuse about helping Sam.

You fought back tears yet again as Dean barely brushed a kiss to your lips before heading into town to pick up needed things for the bunker. You grabbed a bottle of water and headed for the library to help Sam do research, maybe getting your mind off the growing doubt in your heart would help.

----------

You sat down at the table and Sam glanced up "You didn't go with Dean?" You scoffed "and have him accidentally touch any part of my body? The scandal" you hadn't meant to say it but it slipped out. His eyes widened "Guess he's still avoiding a certain subject"

You covered your face with your hands "Fuck I shouldn't be talking to you about it" "Hey, if it helps then talk" Sam offered and you let your hands slide down to offer him a greatful smile "I love him so much Sam and I know relationship are so much more than that but I miss the connection. I miss being in his arms. I miss feeling like I'm completely his and that he's completely mine"

You wiped your eyes before the tears could spill. He nodded slowly "He's scared. He won't admit it but he is. He felt so horrible when he realized he hurt you and the way he was treated at that urgent care... he doesn't want to risk hurting you again so you're gonna have to put the foot forward and make it intentional. All cards on the table thing"

You nodded after a moment "Thanks Sammy" he smiled "Of course"

You knew Dean had purposely stayed up late tinkering around in the garage. Baby didn't need tuning up, neither did your car. He kept them in top form. He was avoiding you.

You walked around the room you shared with him, stretching your legs and wondering just how to approach the subject without him feeling like you were pushing him into a corner. Dean never reacted well if he felt like something was an ultimatum but this wasn't fair to either of you.

You were healed up, inside and out. You hadn't blamed him any, even when you'd still been sore to the touch. You'd always known Dean was strong. Hell he fought monsters for most of his life, hand to hand and won. That required physical strength. Mix with the fact that you had a pain tolerance that Bobby had called insane...well you were surprised it'd taken this long for an accident to happen.

You loved Dean's strength, he was normally so gentle with you but that one night you'd almost died. You'd known it just the same as him. The adrenaline hadn't even faded from your system to acknowledge it when you'd gotten back to the hotel and you needed to feel like you were still alive and he needed the confirmation you were still alive as well. Dean out of every person on the face of the earth would die a thousand times over before ever intentionally hurting you and you knew that to the bottom of your heart. If only you could make him see that.

You laid down on the bed and curled your legs up under you. You felt defeated. If you couldn't win the fight for your relationship, how the hell could you win any others?

--------------

You heard the door crack open after a while and started to pretend like you were asleep but turned to face Dean was was standing next to his dresser. He smiled softly "Did I wake you?" You shook your head "No, I haven't exactly been sleeping good"

He dropped his gaze down "Are you hurting again?" "Physically? No" you replied softly before turning around again, giving him your back. You didn't want to hurt him but you had no clue how to give voice to your own fears in the moment either.

You choked back a sob when the bed dipped behind you right before you felt his arm slip around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. "I'm so sorry sweetheart" you gently laid your hand on his arm, fingers lightly trailing over the skin because you were honesty starved for any touch from the man now holding you "It's ok Dean"

He leaned his forehead over to rest between your shoulders, warm breath hitting your skin where the shirt you slept in had slid down "I would never hurt you please tell you know that" "I know" you whispered.

You laid there for a few minutes just enjoying the fact that he was holding you before he moved around. You thought he was getting comfortable to go to sleep but his lips brushed against your neck. Your breath came out in a harsh shudder "Dean" you started to turn to face him so he loosened his grip to let you turn in his arms.

He kept one hand on your hip, lightly tracing the patterns on your shorts "Can we talk?" He asked and you nodded. "I'm terrified here sweetheart. The night I hurt you... I almost lost you that night and I was blinded by the what ifs...we should've showered...got some food or something to calm down first...I know that now..."

"I wasn't exactly telling you to stop Dean" you cut him off and he smiled slightly "I know but still it's my job to protect you, even if it's from me" you picked at the front of his shirt and nodded "You do protect me Dean" he gave you a look and you grinned before pretending to lock your lips.

"Seeing blood on the sheets and knowing I caused it. I hurt the woman I love bad enough she bled?" He closed his eyes for a moment so you took the opportunity to move your hand from his chest to his jaw, cupping it gently and letting your nails scratch the scruff covering it from the days he'd missed trimming it.

"Can I talk now?" He opened his eyes slowly and nodded "you do protect me Dean. That night, yeah we could calmed down and not let adrenaline run us but lesson learned. I was never mad at you, if I hadn't been hurting I would've kicked every last one of those doctors asses for even thinking such of you but I did yell at them"

He laughed, resuming letting his fingers trace patterns on your hips "Yeah I remember you yelling excuse the fuck out of him for having a big cock I know it's not like any of you or any of your husbands have to worry about that issue" you smiled at seeing him relax even just a bit "I'm not made of glass of Dean but I do acknowledge the fact that the man I'm in love with is extremely strong. I also know that the man I love with would never hurt me intentionally but Dean I miss you. I've been healed up for weeks now and you'll barely kiss me"

-----------------

He leaned closer to catch your lips in a gentle kiss. Just when you figured he would move away he gripped your hips gently then rolled over onto his back so you were left straddling him. When you gasped from the sudden movement he deepened the kiss, rolling his tongue against yours in a way that had your head spinning.

When you were forced to break away from his lips he grinned up at you "I miss you too sweetheart. I'm still worried I'm gonna hurt you" you rolled your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment then shrugged with a playful smile "Face your fears Winchester"

When you slipped your shirt over your head his eyes darkened "You gonna lay back and let make sure you're good and ready for me?" One of his hands teased up your side to graze over your breast. After so long with no intimacy every little touch had small gasps leaving you and it was clear from the weight growing against your thigh that the sounds falling from you were having an effect on Dean.

You nodded so he pulled you down to him, his mouth finding your left nipple. Teeth barely grazing the sensitive bud. A low moan of his name escaped you as you rolled your hips against his causing a low groan to leave him.

------------

He released your breast then turned the two of you over so you were on your back and he was now over you. You watched him as he slipped his shirt over his head and tossed it. You didn't waste any time letting your hands find his chest, fingers exploring the expanse of skin that you loved. His eyes closed at such an innocent touch but you knew it he was as starved for your touch as you were for his the touch was anything but.

When his eyes fluttered open the look in them made your stomach flip. He caught your lips in a searing kiss that wasn't rough but wasn't chaste either. It made heat flare through your body as his fingers teased the waistband of your shorts "I need to feel you" he whispered as his fingers disappeared under your shorts.

One of his fingers teased through your folds and he groaned when he felt how wet you already were "Oh baby, I've been neglecting you haven't I?" His words were teasing but his tone wasn't as he moved from your lips to your neck, kissing and nipping every place he knew would make your body react. When he finally slid one finger into you, you gasped at the feeling.

He curled his finger up and easily found that spot inside of you, adding a second digit as your arousal grew even more. The sound was lewd as he worked you to an orgasm, marking your neck as chest as he did. You were embarrassingly soaked when he used his thumb to rub circles on your clit that was all it took to push you over that edge and you came with a loud moan of his name.

He caught your lips in another passionate kiss before pulling his fingers to his mouth, holding your eyes as he licked them clean. "I need a taste" he murmured, moving to hover over you. He started at your lips,letting you taste yourself on him before starting down your body kissing and marking every inch of skin he could.

You were a fucking puddle under him before he ever got to your shorts. When he settled himself between your knees he smiled at you "I love you sweetheart" you smiled weakly "I love you Dean" he pulled your shorts off your legs and started at your left ankle, kissing up to just shy of where you needed him before repeating the action on your right leg.

Just when you thought he was going to tease you more he licked a long line into you and when your response was to tangle your fingers into his hair he dove in like a man starved.

--------------

You'd already came two or was it three times? Hell you had no idea. All you knew was your legs felt like they were made of jello, your entire body felt soft and Dean still hadn't let up. "Dean, please baby I can't"

He leaned back from you, chin glistening with your wetness "Tapping on me?" You nodded "Come here please" for the first time you saw hesitation in his eyes. "Please" you repeated and he left another kiss on your clit before making his way back up your body. When he kissed you, you tasted yourself on his lips.

You could feel his hardened cock through his sweatpants and hooked your leg around his waist to pull him down to you "I want you" "Sweetheart.." "I trust you" you whispered and saw something shift in his demeanor. Was that what he needed to hear?

He stood up long enough to kick his sweats off then climbed back up the bed, holding his weight on his arms. You could feel his cock sitting against your thighs "You won't hurt me" you whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips before lining himself up with your entrance.

When he started to push in you both let out a harsh breath. He froze, eyes searching your face so you laughed breathlessly "It's a normal you're big and we haven't had sex in a while reaction. Don't stop" he kept going at your encouragement until he was fully inside of you.

Once he was buried inside of you, you felt his hand shake slightly when he brushed the hair out of your face "Are you ok?" You nodded "I'm ok baby. You can move" he let his lips find yours as his hips gave a tentative roll. When you moan lightly he moved down from your lips to your neck.

----------

He buried his face in your neck as he found a pace that had your hands gripping his shoulders and praises of him falling from your lips. "You're the perfect one sweetheart. Look at you. All spread out for me, loving me" he groaned into your flesh and you knew he was close. He was holding back to make sure you found your own release.

He slipped one hand between your bodies and when his fingers found your clit your orgasm had you screaming his name. You could feel his hips falter and knew he was close. "I'm not gonna break. Nothing hurts" you whispered and his thrusts got just slightly deeper as he chased his own release. When he finally came and buried himself inside of you with a final thrust he pressed his head over onto your chest as both of your heavy breathing filled the room.

--------------

When Dean gently pulled out of you his eyes tracked the sheet under you so you smiled sleepily "We need to get cleaned up but I promise that's just a wet spot. No blood"

He pressed a deep kiss to your lips "I'll go start a bath. You get in first and I'll change the sheets then come join you" you raised an eyebrow "Dean we hadn't had sex in weeks. You just wrang like four orgasms out of me. Are you gonna wrap me in a sheet and carry me to the bathroom?"

He nodded as he slipped his sweatpants back on as if it was ridiculous for to you to think otherwise. You knew arguing was pointless so why not enjoy the brute strength of the man you loved? You shook your head with a laugh "I love you Dean" he grinned "I love you too. Now arms up"

[samdeancass]

"I Love You"

Pairing: Derek Hale x fem!reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Characters: Derek, Y/N

Description: Derek and Y/N are having a fight about how careless he has been lately. This fight leads to Y/N threatening to leave and Derek admitting his feelings.

You sat on the sofa across from Derek, your elbows resting on your knees and pinching your nose with frustration. Not two minutes earlier, he burst through the door covered in blood with cuts and scrapes all over; now he looked like nothing had happened, other than the blood stains on his clothes.

"Derek, we've talked about this. You need to be more careful. You could have gotten seriously hurt, or maybe more. You need to stop taking risks like this." Derek huffed from across the room, causing you to look up and lock eyes with him. "What?! Am I not allowed to worry about my boyfriend's safety?" He rolled his eyes. "Not when he's a werewolf, no! You know I can take care of myself. Tonight, I was protecting someone. Another werewolf who has recently changed. They needed help! What was I supposed to do?" You stormed over and stood toe to toe. Even though Derek towered over you, you didn't back down. "I'm not saying don't help them, I'm saying be more careful about it. I worry about you being out there. I know you can protect yourself, but you have a big target on your back Derek and I'd like you to come home to me."

He narrowed his eyes at you. He opened his mouth to speak, but you didn't give him a chance. You just turned and shook your head. You knew he wouldn't listen. "I can't cope with the constant anxiety that you won't come home to me. I'm packing a bag and I'm going to my parents. Give you some space to figure out what you wanna do." As soon as you took a step, Derek gently grabbed your arm and turned you, fear evident in his eyes. "Please, please don't do that. There is nothing that I want less than being without you. I'm sorry." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I love you." Your eyes widened. You hadn't realised how strongly he felt about you. "What did you say?" A smile spread across his features as his hand found your hips. "I love you." Your hands wound around his neck and you pulled his head towards yours, resting your foreheads together. "Then prove it. Be more careful out there. Don't go out unless you have to. I want you to come home because I love you too." As you both stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, a sense of relief washed over you. The tension that had threatened to tear you apart began to dissolve, replaced by a renewed understanding of each other's fears and desires. In that moment, you realized that love was not just about passion, but about being willing to change and grow for the sake of the one you cherish.

Derek pulled away and pressed a kiss to your lips, one that was full of love and promise. He tucked a stray hair behind your ear and looked you softly in the eyes. "I promise you, baby, I'll be more careful. Whatever it takes to keep you here with me." His voice was low and sincere, and you knew he meant every word he spoke. You felt your heart swell with emotion. You pulled him in for a deeper kiss. You both knew you were in this together.

Tags: @bxoken-heartss

[not-poignant]

litchrally

[wild-lavender-rose]

I wish you could write a fic where.... Y/N gets injured and tries to take care of her wounds on her own but Legolas finds her and tries to take care of her but she is scared to let him see. Lots of hurt/comfort fluff??

(You don't have to but it would be so cute!)

Okay, this is actually one of my favorite tropes to write so when I saw this I got so excited lol. Hidden injury? Not wanting to ask for help? Extra fluff? Yes please <3 I hope you enjoyed this, I haven't written for Legolas in several months and don't feel like this is my best work. But I hope you enjoy, anon!

Promise

Warning: description of injury

Your back connected with the tree, the fabric of your shirt catching on pieces of bark as you slowly slid down to sit between its roots. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were setting up camp and beginning to prepare dinner. You had made the excuse of going to find firewood and separated from the group, going much farther than was necessary before finding this old tree to hide behind.

You had been injured by the orc attack while attempting to save Boromir. In the flurry of events that followed it had been easy to hide the blood stain on your left side. You hadn't looked at it for two whole days, convincing yourself that it was just a small scratch. But after hours of hard travel with barely time for breath, you had been forced to admit that it was much worse than a scratch.

Breathing hard, you grit your teeth and lifted your shirt to reveal the dirty bandage you had wound around your waist. It was soaked through and dripping with blood.

You cursed the sight of it and the orc who had wounded you, going to dig through your bag for another bandage when the sense of someone watching stopped you cold. In one smooth movement you were on your feet with your knife at the ready, waiting for the one you sensed to appear.

"Easy, my love." Legolas stepped into the clearing. "I thought you were collecting firewood."

You lowered your knife. "I am."

Legolas's eyes narrowed as he regarded you. The impact of moving so quickly made you sway, putting a hand against the tree for support as the knife slipped from your fingers. "Go back to camp."

"You've been injured."

You shook your head. "It's nothing."

"I see blood." Legolas was by your side in an instant, taking hold of your arm as you continued to sway.

"Legolas, please," you leaned until your back was flush against the tree. "I can handle it."

Legolas's gaze was piercing. "Your reason is tainted with pain. I see it in your eyes."

You opened your mouth to object, but instead whimpered when Legolas touched your side. "Stop," you slid down to the ground once more. "Please, I must...I must handle this alone."

"You are not alone." Legolas knelt beside you. "You will never be alone. Let me help you."

"I will slow down the group, we won't save the hobbits," you began to ramble, a bloody hand reaching up to push the sweaty hair from your forehead. "I cannot, I cannot be injured now."

"Legolas?" Aragorn's deep voice rang through the forest.

"Here, Aragorn. Come quickly!" Legolas called.

"No, my love," you grabbed at his arm but it was already too late.

Aragorn appeared in moments, his dark eyes taking you in before he sank to the ground. "How long have you been injured?"

You shook your head. "It's nothing."

"Lift your shirt for me."

"I will not."

"My love, look at me," Legolas reached out and cradled the side of your face, guiding your eyes to his. "You do not have to hide this from me. Aragorn has herbs that will heal the wound, and we will not leave you before you are healed."

Tears filled your eyes. You reached up, fingers encircling his wrist. "Promise?" You whispered.

Legolas gave a solemn nod. "I promise."

Something inside you snapped. The fear and anxiety of being discovered dissolved, allowing the true weight of pain to show on your face. Already weak, you grew dizzy and slumped back against the tree.

Legolas raised your shirt and ripped off your haphazard bandage. Blood flowed freely from your wound. Aragorn began to work, muttering soft words in elvish to Legolas as he applied pressure to stop the bleeding. You screamed and tried to thrash, but Legolas held you still while Aragorn whispered his apologies.

"Easy, my star. Easy," Legolas held your hand and wiped the sweat and tears from your face. "I have you now. I'll take care of you."

And you believed him.

Fanfic Masterlist

[missvainillapudin]

Fuck 'em all, Fuck 'em all but us part2:

Prompt: Here is the second part of the first writing about Vance Hopper x fem!reader, sorry if the first one was very short, I'm still new to this and it's difficult for me to navigate Tumblr's options! ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ

•You looked at him somewhat agitated and surprised, you honestly didn't think he was going to pay attention to you so you limited yourself to lowering your gaze and fiddling with your fingers uneasily. "Uhm, well, there are these kids at school that always bother me and I was wondering if you could teach them a lesson, you know? Something like bullying them and telling them to mind their own business." You said with a sigh and quickly added, "B-but don't hit them! Please, I don't want to get into trouble!" He looked at you bewildered before smiling in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? You think I'm their fucking mother to go and give them a verbal lesson on what they should and shouldn't do? I'll finish it faster with my fists, I assure you," he said, letting out a nasal laugh with an air of slight arrogance and rolling his eyes. You looked at him with a hopeful smile. "So you're going to do it?" You said excitedly. He looked at you without a hint of grace and returned to his rude attitude "Just to make sure you don't say shit, don't even think that we are friends" he spoke irritated before turning around and walking with his hands in the pockets of his jeans as you hurriedly followed him and gave him the details about who those boys were, the next day after class you were calmly getting ready to go home but the sound of bustle and encouragement of students in a circle towards something or someone caught your attention, you frowned in displeasure, it was a fight between one boy against three more, you were going to turn around until you recognized the blonde hair of the boy who was in the fight and seemed to have the advantage between the other three boys who were now on the ground, their noses bleeding "Vance, Vance!" -some students shouted in unison, that only confirmed your suspicion and you hurried to get to that scene, the fight had already ended with Vance as the winner and the other three boys unconscious on the ground, as the round of students began to dissolve you could see how Vance put his backpack on one shoulder and walked away from the place, you ran towards him and pulled him by the arm to a corner behind the school where they couldn't see them "What the fuck!- Ah, it's you" he said without surprise and I put that irritating expression of indifference on his face while his hands went to the back pockets of his jeans and he watched you from above calmly, his calm only disturbed and irritated you more, as if the fact that minutes before he had given those boys the beating of their lives, yes, they were your bullies, but he hadn't kept his part of the deal yet! You looked at him annoyed "You! Ugh! I told you not to hit them, you brute!" You raised your voice angrily, pushing his chest with your hand gently and moving him even a little, he quickly stopped your wrists in his hands, lowered his head towards you and spoke in an intimidating tone that sent chills down your spine "You wanted them to stop didn't you? Well there you go, they won't get close to you again okay? For God's sake, you have to make people respect you, not give grandma lectures" he said abruptly releasing your wrists roughly but without hurting you, you were going to say something else however your attention was directed to your hands and wrists which were stained with blood, you frowned in confusion and then you saw Vance's knuckles which were open and dripping blood.

"Vance! Your knuckles!" you said with concern bringing your hands closer to his almost as a reflex to get a good look at his wounds, he must have gotten them from hitting those boys, maybe his teeth cut his skin…, you felt bad and he felt his heart flutter a little, he abruptly pulled his hands away from yours with a frown trying to act impenetrable “I'm fine, it's nothing” he said stubbornly trying to downplay the sharp pain his knuckles were sending throughout his arm “no you're not, wait-” you said with concern and opened your backpack to take out some first aid supplies you had taken from the nurses' station when you were going to help your mother at work, you cleaned the blood off his knuckles and bandaged them carefully and delicately, one that Vance had lost the luxury of enjoying, at least until now, you promised to heal them better after they got to your house and so it was, you kept your word and let's say he kept his but that doesn’t matter anymore because right now you’re wondering why you’re lost in those blue wounds. orbs located on his face or why you remember every golden curl of his wild mane, you just know that he started kicking the ass of everyone who wants to mess with you (even if you haven’t asked him to) and you’ll rush to heal his bloody knuckles after he finishes his job. Sometimes you can see how the other students notice the unusual closeness that someone like Vance and you have developed these past few months, but what does it matter? You’re both fine with whatever you have so fuck the rest of them, fuck ‘em all, fuck ‘em all but us.

🍉: Fortunately, a third part wasn't necessary and I was able to finish the whole writing in the second one! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it, if you liked it I'll be happy to publish more content like this in the future! (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)📝

[rottenpumpkin13]

what if lucrecia were to find her son one day? before nibelheim, when he was at his lowest after genesis and angeal left. lucrecia, freed from her crystal, just bumps into him in public and they finally meet…

The reality of knowing her son exists somewhere in the world haunts her differently than it haunted him. For years, Sephiroth searched for her face in every crowd, in every woman he passed on missions, in remote villages and busy streets. He would lie awake at night after losing her photo, squeezing his eyes shut to draw her face from memory, until eventually resignation and mourning set in, and he forced himself to stop looking.

Now Lucrecia is the one searching, armed only with her last memory of him: a tiny baby behind sterile glass, wrapped in white, little green eyes with dilating pupils staring back at her in confusion and fear. So small, so defenseless, and Hojo wouldn't even let her hold him.

She doesn't know what face she's looking for anymore. She stumbles through Nibelheim again, just as she did all those years ago, with mako clinging to her clothes like a second skin, drawing wary glances from locals. His name has become a prayer on her tongue: Sephiroth, Sephiroth, Sephiroth—not a name she chose, but one she'd grown to love, one she should have been there to teach him to write.

The locals exchange concerned looks when she asks about him. "Sephiroth? The war hero? He's here inspecting the reactor, but word is he's holed himself up in the Shinra mansion for three days now."

Her legs, weak from years of disuse, carry her toward that dreaded mansion—the place she should have fled from with him in her arms. The thick dust makes her cough as she pushes open the door, but she knows these halls by heart, every corner embedded in her memory from years of research. "Sephiroth?" Her voice echoes through the empty corridors as she descends to the basement.

She finds him there, her poor little boy, hunched over a book, dark circles beneath his eyes, cheeks stained with tears, looking far too thin. "Sephiroth," she whispers, and he looks up. The sight breaks her heart—the way he stares at her for long seconds, his trembling hands rising to rub his eyes as if trying to dispel a hallucination.

She steps carefully over scattered books and messy space, crossing the space between them. Three days, the villager said. Three days her baby has been here alone, lost in whatever truths or lies he found. It's nothing compared to the decades she left him, but it hurts all the same.

Tears spill uncontrollably as she embraces him, and the moment her warmth seeps into him, his arms wrap around her with desperation, as if she might dissolve if he let go. They remain silent, her mind racing with questions, of whether he forgives her, she forgives herself, or if he even wants her at all.

Then she hears it: his sobs, small and vulnerable, more befitting the baby he once was than the man he became. Guilt pierces her heart as she holds her little boy tighter, shushing him softly, pressing kisses to his forehead and whispering, "I'm here now, and I won't leave you again."

[lindsay00000008]

Ghost x Fem!Reader

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley x JustAFriend!Reader

A little worldbuilding for ya. Enjoy! Maybe next will be a how-they-met drabble.

Part 3 (Prev)

CW: cursing, reference to solo hanky panky

“Beer?”

“Beer.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

So it turns out a honey glaze can catch fire in the air fryer. Who knew?

The Thursday Dinner Experiment dissolves into a slapdash affair of side veggies (sautéed onions, broccoli and peppers) with frozen beef and bean burritos as the main course. You and Simon settle on a movie to offset the stress of dousing the flames, have a couple more beers on the couch, and talk about the project Simon wants to complete before his next gig.

“Built-ins.”

“Incredible. Love a good built-in.”

His fixer-upper has been the highlight of his time off, it seems. Not a distraction, per se. You get the feeling he likes the act of creation, healing the house and seeing the effect of his work in measurable ways. He says he intends to sell it for profit, but those times you see him at work it’s a bit hard to believe.

“The roof is all fixed then?”

“Mm,” he gives a more-or-less wave of his hand, and you snicker.

“Remind me not to sleep over. Or would you hold an umbrella for me?”

He huffs and takes a swig of his drink.

“Oh, hey have you heard from Johnny lately?”

He gives you a look that seems to say o‘course I have, and you continue.

“Ok yeah, I just meant I haven’t been able to get ahold of him in a bit.”

“Some’n you need?”

“Um, it’s more like I owe him,” you chuckle. “He told me I could buy him dinner but he’s been slippery.”

Simon snorts, covering his mouth and nose before beer can spout forth.

“What?” You smile, bewildered at his sudden humor.

“Hmm. Johnny... yeah, you could say he’s slippery.”

“Is this a sex thing? Cause I remember that story Johnny told at the bar and it really-“

“Nah,” Simon can’t hold in his laugh this time, “Nah it’s not a sex thing. It's a... work thing. Inside joke.”

"Oh, haha..." You laugh faintly, that familiar, outside-looking-in feeling creeping up. You're not exactly sure what Simon does for work. You've been friends for two years now, and see him constantly for those periods of time when he's home, but there's still so much you're in the dark about. You don't need to know these things to enjoy your time together. And Simon seems comfortable separating his work from his daily life. Besides his attachment to his coworker Johnny, of course, the two closer than brothers.

Sometime you think they're in some kind of international mafia. Simon shows up after a month away looking like he's been steamrolled and blown up, with trinkets and treats from places far away. Specialty coffee, a tiny stained glass lamp, an ocarina engraved with a lily. The military maybe - but you've had friends in the military, a cousin who joined the marines even, and this feels very different.

Simon rubs his mouth, slotting the bridge between his thumb and forefinger beneath his nose, an action you've noticed seems to sooth him. Perhaps he's thinking the same things, feeling the secrets between you. You want to pull him away from the thought, show him you're fine with however much he can give you. Your friendship is all that matters.

"So he's good yeah? Just busy, then?"

"Hm. Bloke's fine, probably just joined a knittin' club or sum'in. I'll ask 'im."

"Hah. Well like I said, it's repayment, for that time he spotted me at Hooligan's. Don't want to be a bother."

Simon levels you with a serious look.

"He'd be a big idiot to turn down your offer."

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"Why are you avoiding her, ya big idiot?" Simon accuses Johnny when he phones him later that night.

"Oh 'am the idiot? Yer the one who can't see 'am tryin' to give ye room to make a move on the lass."

"Fuck righ' off Soap, we're just friends. Thought the two o' you were friends too, but you're making her wonder."

"She'll ge' over it. But you won't ge' over it if she goes out with me and falls for my charms, no' will ya?"

"Gimme a break."

"Look. I like her. Which is why I'm backin' off. It's no' so rare for me to have a wee crush. But the second I saw you makin' goo-goo eyes-"

"I do not make-"

"Hush it, LT. 'Am just tryin'a give ye yer best shot. She's the first thing ye think of when comin' off deployment, yeah? 'Ah know, I see it in ye every time. One day you'll thank me."

"Look, just..." Simon speaks through a raging blush, his voice a grumble that sounds grumpier than he really feels, "call her back, would ya? Go grab a coffee or something. I'm not pressed. If she likes you... I'll deal. Don't count on it though. She's too smart for you."

"Sure LT. I'll do it for you, alright? Kisses,"

"Soap..."

"Yeah, LT?"

"Fuck off."

"'Night, LT."

"G'night."

Simon tosses the phone to the floor beside the bed and curses up at the ceiling, rubbing his hot face. His mind turns back to the wrestling that afternoon. The way he "accidentally" fell atop you when you tripped, how you were enveloped perfectly beneath his body, the way your eyes widened and cheeks flushed when you both looked at the salacious packaging spilling out of the nondescript cardboard box. Oh, how he wanted to tease you relentlessly. Give in to the desire to drag your pure, ladylike demeanor through the mud and then lick it all off. If he said the things he was itching to say, would you cover your ears, or laugh? Would you bite back? What would happen then, on that couch, if you hadn't scurried away when you did? The images take him away.

It's a long time before he finds sleep, his hands too rough and knowledgable to truly satisfy.

He can't go on like this. Not forever. But what else can he do?

Taglist:

If you've given me love in the comments or reblogs I've added you too! Thanks for the support! Lmk to add/remove.

@littleghostbride, @cmbghost, @anotherrickinthewall, @etherealinthewoods

P.S. About Simon's mask

My sister told me she was confused as to why Simon doesn't have a mask in these drabbles. I have the idea that he keeps his civilian life so entirely separate from work that he can't wear a mask all the time for fear people might make that connection. People know him in the field as the guy who always wears the mask, right? He has two identities. With the mask, and without. Ghost, and Simon. He does still wear a plain black KN95 on errands, citing health awareness (it's really his anxiety). But when he's comfortable at home or with friends (even at his favorite bar, sometimes), he takes it off. That's my headcannon, anyway.

[lady-of-tearshed]

Mother knows best

Nessian & Platonic!OC!Nessian's daughter (Briana)

Cassian Week 2024

Day 3: Family

@cassianappreciationweek

Sumarry: When Cassian encounters a hair issue with Briana, he can't help but wonder through his despair in this situation: "What would Nesta do?"

Warnings: None. Really, pure fluff

Word count: 804 words

Divider by @tsunami-of-tears

“Bri… I’m trying so hard…” 

“But it huuuuurts!”

Cassian pulled the brush away from his daughter’s hair. He didn’t have a fucking clue how she managed to get that much fir sap in her long shiny hair, so much like his. He kept staring at the nest-like mess her hair was in right now, and sighed, trying to find any inch of remaining patience left in him. 

When he became a dad, Cassian thought nothing could ever test his patience more than the dashing Illyrians recruits he had to train every once in a while. This exact moment he was in just proved him the opposite. He was exhausted, Briana was too, and mama was away to enjoy her girls’ night, the first she had in a good while. She deserved it, and Cassian could handle it here for once.

What would Nesta do… 

“We won't chop them off, right daddy?” Briana whimpered, her eyes shined with tears as she looked up at her dad, and escaped them to roll down her perfectly rounded cheeks. 

“Of course not sweetheart… Daddy won’t let it come to that. Huh… here,” Cassian said matter-of-factly while he picked her up into his arms, not missing to notice how big and tall his baby girl was getting. He kissed her tear stained cheeks, and filled the tub with warm water and vanilla scented oils, in hope it would help dissolve the sticky substance from his daughter’s beautiful, yet currently very tangled, curls.

“You’re going to sit and soak in a nice, warm bath and relax for a while, sounds good?” Bri nodded quickly and shimmied out of her dirty Illyrian leathers before jumping, inheriting all of Cassian’s grace, into the bath. The water splashed everywhere, covering Cassian from head to toe before he could even think of protecting himself from the splash. 

He wiped a hand across his face, and caught his daughter's amused glance. “Ha.Ha. So funny,” He rolled his eyes, sitting beside the bathtub to dip a finger, making sure the temperature was okay.  

An amused grin formed on his lips when his daughter attempted to roll her eyes at him, too. “Funnier than you and your “We don’t bite unless you ask us to” boring joke.” 

Sassy, just like her mother.

“You and your mother just don’t have any sense of humor,” “What did you say?” Cassian jumped a little, Briana followed the movement as their head pivoted to the bathroom door. Cassian threw the dirty leathers in the laundry basket, trying to hide the evidence, although the biggest one was currently sitting in the bath, of their wild and quite messy adventure. “Nesta! My love, I… uh…” 

Cauldron, Nesta looked like the Mother herself. A pure, raw, enticing beauty emitting from her.  

And he fucking missed her. 

He rose up to his feets, quickly closing the distance between him and his mate, and captured her lips into a searing kiss, flooding the bond with his relief of having her here now. 

“Mama, my hair…” Briana's pouty lip wobbled, and her whimpering tone made Nesta quickly pull away from her mate's arms.  

She walked up to her daughter and offered her an amused, yet reassuring smile. Nesta stroked Briana’s cheek and looked up at the mess her hair was in. “I assume you and daddy had lots of fun tonight?” 

Briana nodded, her eyes closing in content as her mother’s way more skillful fingers threaded through the knots and spread shampoo to melt the sap tangled in her long locks. “Yeah, we went flying!”

“Near the snowball fight field?” Nesta guessed, since there were lots of pines and firs there. 

“Yup! We made a gigantic snowman, we raced through the trees…” Her hands were flying everywhere, splashing water on every wall of the bathroom, and Nesta struggled to keep working on the knots on top of Briana's hair.  “Oh oh! Guess who won the race?!” 

Nesta chuckled “From how excited you sound princess… I'm going to assume you did.” 

Cassian faked an outraged expression, his hand snapping to his chest as if he'd been stabbed, and Brianna smiled widely. “Yeah, I did!!” 

Nesta smiled, thinking to herself how lucky she had been to be blessed with such a mate. She could never express how grateful she was for Cassian to fill her and their daughter's head with those joyful memories. 

“I'm proud of you Bri.” Nesta kissed her daughter's soapy forehead, then rinsed off the excess of soap covering her hair with water. “All done! No more big knots.” 

Briana launched into her mother's arms, hugging her tight, not caring that her movement made the water spill over the side of the bathtub. “Took notes to know what to do next time Dada?” 

Cassian laughter booming through the small bathroom. “Yeah, baby. I took notes.” 

A/N: Short Lil one, but I love it sm 🥹💕

Acotar Taglist: @lilah-asteria @mybestfriendmademe

Cassian Taglist: @acotar-lover @ladybookstan

[not-poignant]

February 2025 - Update Schedule

February chapter update schedule:

(Tier+ = This tier or any higher, as every higher tier accesses all rewards in lower cost tiers)

-

Sunday 2nd - Constellations 15 (18 (last chapter!) @ Patreon/Ream)

Tuesday 4th - Underline the Gold 13 (14 @ Patreon/Ream)

Thursday 6th - Underline the Black 109

Sunday 9th - A Stain that Won't Dissolve 54

Thursday 13th - Underline the Black 110

Tuesday 18th - Underline the Gold 14 (15 @ Patreon/Ream)

Sunday 23rd - A Stain that Won't Dissolve 55

Thursday 27th - Underline the Black 111

-

Stories with updates as yet undetermined: Palmarosa

Most chapters go up between 6-7pm GMT+8 (or the time that you’re already used to me putting chapters up, lol).

~

As always, you can support the stories you love by subscribing over at Patreon and Ream! In exchange you can get early access to a whole bunch of chapters (9 extra chapters currently!) that aren’t currently on AO3, chapter commentaries which often include small spoilers, and even merch!

You can also follow over there for free, and just get email notifications of news and other things that I release to everyone - and get the schedule and round-up in your email inbox so you don’t need to look for them later. :D

[arminsfavoritepookie]

Just thinking about Dark Ex Megumi who stalks you after you break up with him.

He won't stop staring at you. His fingers twitch at his sides, eyes devoid of remorse, and his body freezes with a predatory concentration on you. You can feel his grating gaze across the room, the party dissolving as your awareness of him intensifies.

A tremor wracks you, your heart plummeting. It feels like a physical violation, a cold, slick sensation slithering down your spine and constricting your insides. You dare to meet his stare. The color nearly drains from your eyes. He's just glaring, his deep, hollow eyes like black, ghastly pits, monitoring your every move, daring you to do something. His jaw is clenched tight, a silent threat, a warning.

Then your eyes slowly notice his shirt's dark, inky red stains, and dread starts to bloom in your chest.

It's only then you notice the blade clutched in his hand.

[scaly-freaks]

cherry wine stains 8.0

playing it a little differently and rewinding back to their school years but with an Aegon POV this time.

all previous parts in pinned.

"I like your knee-high socks."

"I like the chain you wear like a crucifix."

"Strange way to describe it."

"I don't know. It just - it hangs around your neck like the absence of something."

Her words dissolve like sugar into the cup of his mind.

Clever people don't realise the riptide of their soul is not being fed until they meet another clever person. Aegon's currents slow to a whispered crawl as his eyes trace Amara's profile, creating images in the tangle of her windswept curls.

She's left a lipstick print on his mother's favourite mug. When he sees it, his soul unhooks from where he keeps it folded away, right there at the base of his neck where the silver chain fastens.

Later, he'll kiss that print, see if the measure of his mouth is enough.

Helaena told him in private: You can't! You can't, you can't, you can't! You ruin everything!

The frantic protests of a younger sister who thinks - knows - that her older brother getting involved with one of her friends is going to end up in a loss for her. He's dated one of Helaena's friends before (it ended in the kind of operatic disaster you only ever see on Eastenders).

He does not want to date Amara as much as he wants to pry her open like a game of cat's cradle and weave apart the strings that keep her mobile. Half the time, Aegon suspects she isn't truly awake. Some part of her is drowning in slumber, deep as Briar Rose. He catches that moment sometimes, as she blinks at him with those sleepy eyes.

The texture of her thoughts - when she gives them up - slips like satin over his fingers.

"Do you want a smoke?" He flips the mint-green box in his palm and grins.

Her gaze is longing. "I told my mother I'd quit. Besides, aren't menthol cigarettes banned here?"

He shrugs, slipping one between his pinched lips to hold it steady. "Nothing's banned if you squint."

"Flawed logic," she laughs.

"She said to a drug dealer."

That makes her laugh harder. He likes making her laugh. Feels worthwhile somehow. Not much in his life feels that way these days.

The younger siblings are all growing up, leaving school, moving onto greener pastures, where the chaotic drudgery of the council estate turns into a crystalline vision in the rearview, something to put into personal statements and add what rich tossers would call flavour.

They don't need him like they used to. He and his mother have raised them to become self-sufficient and now Aegon has to figure out what he wants to do with himself because where the kids are going, they won't want to admit what their brother does - has done - for a living to ensure their survival. He predicts he'll be the family embarrassment every Christmas, the uncle that shows up drunk, with a sliver of something in his eyes that suggests he could have been something once.

He knows he won't end up that way. His need to be someone, get somewhere, is far too aggressive. But he does fear no longer being needed by the people who have relied on him so long he can no longer extricate himself from the identity of protector.

Maybe it's why he likes making Amara laugh.

She doesn't have siblings. Her eyes still dart around, nervous, as if aware her protection in this world is lacking compared to that of others. Her parents won't always be around. When they are gone, there won't be siblings to divide her grief up with. It'll just be her.

If his subconscious is turning her into his new surrogate sister, it doesn't reconcile well with the instinct that stirs when her skirt rides up an inch.

Alicent's stained glass lamp flickers, bulb on the brink of permanent death. Aegon reaches over to ensure it is screwed on properly and it affords them a last burst of weak light. Amara reaches out her hand under the dappled glow of its illumination, slipping her fingers under the violets, yellows and greens, as the crook of her elbow turns rose pink.

"I've always liked your mother's taste in furniture."

"Yeah? Take it. She wants to throw it out."

"No. If she's decided it's dead, it should go. I'll just be keeping the corpse if I took it."

Aegon's eyes wrinkle at the corners, smile disguised by the inhale of the cigarette. "It's not organic material. There's no corpse."

She glances at him, as if aware of his mockery despite the affection he delivers it with. "I think some inanimate objects come alive if they are loved enough. Alicent's had this lamp since I've known her. It's lived with her, and now it'll die. We shouldn't interrupt the process."

No wonder Helaena adores her.

They are both odd creatures, his little sister, and this intense, doll-eyed mirage that turned up at their doorstep one day, hungry for oven chips and love. She reached out her cold hands to Alicent, and found herself overwhelmed with the warmth and affection given in return.

He's known her so long, she should feel like a sibling.

What does it say about him if he can't stop wondering what it must feel like to graze his lips over her stomach and tongue that bellybutton ring she got in a short-lived fit of rebellion?

Aegon flicks aside the cigarette, mouth acidic with guilt.

He isn't the kind of person who wants. Other people want. Aegon goes out and gets. There isn't enough time to submerge in the feeling of want and understand the true depth of craving the human soul can achieve.

But he sees the whorl of soft hair at the nape of her neck and the feeling crawls up the rungs of his ribcage like a creature possessed. He pictures being small enough to curl up in the soft folds of her clothing, to soak in the scent of her until he passes out from exhaustion.

That feels like enough wanting for today.

"I'll see you downstairs, yeah?"

If she looks disappointed, it's just wishful thinking on his part. She knows he's not going anywhere. He'll be in the living room with the rest of the family who've put on Shrek and are split into two groups - the half that sings along, and the half that won't.

"I'll be down in a bit."

"Cool."

A sudden gust of wind lifts her hair, and the flimsy ribbon comes loose. He catches it before it finds freedom. She turns, expectant, waiting for the inevitable return of her almost-lost property. He pulls it between his fingers, wonders if it also carries life inside the woven thread, the way she claimed his mother's lamp does.

The weight of her hair rivals Isolde's.

Irish myths were a rooted part of his childhood, laced into Alicent's quiet voice every bed time. She swears the Hightowers are mostly, if not fully, Irish. But she could never be sure of how far back, or of the intricacies of any bloodlines. Rich people have the luxury of unfurling a family tree across the polished mahogany of their dining room table. They get to find their eyes, noses and mouths in the faces of people who lived too long ago to care what has become of their DNA.

Poor people make do with maybes and perhaps because most of the time, the lives of their ancestors are of no interest to anyone but themselves. Unless a mining forefather was crushed in a collapse and the resulting riots tore down a political establishment.

So, his mother pulled them back to times so ancient, the ancestors became common for all, their bloodlines too distant to maintain individuality.

If Tristan and Isolde are in Aegon's ancestry, that past life becomes tangible when he runs his fingers through Amara's hair and tames it into a braid he's practiced on Helaena a hundred times.

"There's something mythical about your hair," he says, and then cuts himself short because he deals drugs for a living, and whatever fancy thought this was about to be would make more sense from someone more booksmart.

She cranes her neck back and gives him the brightest upside-down smile. "That's the best compliment anyone's ever given me."

Aegon bites the inner corner of his lip and nudges her to look straight so he can keep braiding.

Once her eyes are off his face, it splits into a smile. Warmth drains down his spine like gold egg yolk poured from its shell. Once the braid is done, he rests his chin on the top of her head, and passes it off as brotherly with a goldfish-squeeze of her cheeks.

He lingers, inhales deep, smells her, turns her scent into binary code that he will decipher in isolation later.

"Don't be too long. You'll catch your death out here."

[bi-writes]

so idk where i got this idea but mercenary!ghost x fem!reader because he's scary and mean and dangerous but then he sees some girl's ass in light blue denim.

notes about reader: as always, i tend to write readers described as curvy because im curvy and we deserve attention from 6'4 beefcakes who are soft only for us. reader is a civilian.

mercenary!ghost (part 1/?)

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, mentions of ghost's past canon trauma (domestic abuse + violence), mw3 spoilers, violence and gore + mentions of murder and extortion, mentions of reader + domestic abuse, protective!simon, size kink (reader is described as much smaller than simon, easily manhandled by him), pet names (luv, bunny + rabbit, puppy, angel face), reader learns she has a dark side and she likes it, nsfw thoughts about reader, suggestive touching (fem!receiving)

the sound of the burner phone pings on the desk in front of him. when he picks it up, he narrows his eyes as he reads the message displayed across the screen.

DEPOSITED.

when he opens his laptop, his eyes scan over the balance on an offshore account, and he relaxes when he sees the hefty balance climb just a little higher. he closes the device once he's satisfied with what he sees; and like always, he tastes the warmth of that satisfaction. it's a nice high, but it won't last, and then he'll need to feed the gaping hole that lives in him.

it remains hungry. he has never been able to close it--it has only ever gotten wider, ripped at the seams and torn at the edges every time another body close to him drops.

the high is poison. but even if it kills him, no one will miss him. so he picks up the handgun that lays haphazard on the bed, and he tucks it into the back of his jeans.

he passes by the mirror as he fits a dark denim jacket over his shoulders. he stares back at himself, a recognizable beast of a man staring right back. he pulls his hoodie up over him, and in the shadow of it, all he can see are his dark eyes, pale skin peeking through the eyeblack that has lightened up with the wear of it throughout the day.

he craves something strong and warm tonight. he itches for something soft, too, something that makes him forget the red on his ledger, even if for only a few hours.

there is nothing quite strong enough to wipe that kind of stain away. he is nothing if not a reaper, and he buries bodies with the same tenacity that he had when he wore his country's flag on his chest. this time, however, he does not take orders--he names his price.

he thinks something is wrong with him. some used to say that it was his courage that brought him back from the dead--that his heart is too strong, his will to live too much, and that is how he continues to open his eyes and live another day. but he doesn't agree with this thought, because he doesn't really think he feels anything at all.

he doesn't feel human. he doesn't feel alive. the only thing that makes him feel any sort of vulnerability is how red his own blood is when he bleeds. when his scars heal jagged and crooked, it is because there is something underneath the skin. but he feels nothing inside--no remorse, no guilt, he is not sorry.

he does not check to see if those men are innocent. he does not care about the names that end up on his list. he doesn't ask questions. and he thinks something is wrong with him because he sleeps at night just fine now; the nightmares have gone. he is alone, and it is peaceful.

there are no voices. there is only silence. and there is something wrong with him.

the pub is quiet. it is a weekday, and the only patrons are here after a long day's work, and they all look into the depths of their half-empty glasses hoping to find relief there. there is none, but they will finish their glasses hoping it might be dissolved in the alcohol.

he asks for two fingers of bourbon. it stings when it goes down, but then it settles warm. he is poured another two fingers of it, but before he can pick it up, someone else grips the glass and tips it back to swallow it down.

the glass hits the wood of the counter with an echoing thud, and you cough out a fuck as you settle into the seat beside him. you run a trembling hand over your face, and he notices immediately the red of your knuckles and the splitting of the skin there. they are fresh; the bruising is still new, and the blood is just barely beginning run down the back of your hand.

he leans over the bar, swiping the whole bottle of bourbon, and he silently pours more into the glass, hitting it towards you before picking up a new glass and filling it generously.

"who's the lucky bastard?" he asks, and your eyes flick to the cuts on the back of your hand before going back to the dark swirling colors of the drink.

"i'm sure he'll be coming in here any second to introduce himself."

the pub doors slam open, and there is a man coming in, chest heaving, dark hair falling over his forehead in sweaty curls that do nothing to hide the clear bruise on his face the split of his lip. his eyes move over the room before they settle on you, and his boots fall heavy as he makes his way over.

ghost sees his intentions clear immediately. the way his hand twitches at his side, the angry glare, the uncontrollable urge to hurt and to take and to control coming off of him like steam.

he has seen this kind of man before. this man was the one that kept him up at night as a child. this man was the one that scared his mum, that drove his brother to chase vices, that tore apart a house that should've been filled with something warm and sticky and kind into one marred with teeth, rotten and putrid and forgotten.

his hand goes for the back of your neck, and you close your eyes and tense in the anticipation, but it never comes. a strong hand grips his outstretched one, and the man cries out as ghost twists it behind his back and uses his other hand to slam his face into the wood of the bar, trapping him there.

the bartender does not even flinch, just continues to wipe down glasses. the patrons continue to stare into the abyss of their sorrow.

you jump a little, your head snapping to the side where the man squirms and sputters, his face going pale from the paw of a hand gripping him by the back of the neck and shoving his face into the counter. if he pushes any harder, you wonder if it'd splinter and fray, dig into the bones of his bruised cheek.

"this man botherin' ya, yeah?"

your eyes finally flick up. you do not know what you expect, but it isn't this. you can only see his eyes; they scare you. you do not lie because you aren't entirely sure how far his kindness will go.

"yes," you whisper, and when the man tries to spit at you, a rough gloved hand grips his curls and positions his head against the edge of the counter, forcing his mouth open until the top row of his teeth bite the wood.

"y'keep talkin' to her, n'it'll be the last time you talk, hear that, mate? y'talk to me, n'me only."

you swallow hard, and the man trembles. a strong boot hits the back of his knees, and then he's crumbling to the ground, his jaw straining as the counter is still forced against his mouth. hot, pained tears come down his face, and then he addresses you.

"what did he do?"

"bad first date," is all you can manage to sputter. he grips the man by the scruff of his neck before pulling him off to speak, tilting his head to the side as he observes the begging man on his knees.

"y'try to put your hands on'er?"

"i-it wasn't...like that! i-it was just a mis...a misunderstanding, please! please--please tell him--!"

"don't like fuckin' liars either," is the only warning given before his mouth is forced to bite the counter, and then a sharp elbow comes down on his head. you jump in surprise at the suddenness of it all, and you close your eyes when you hear the crunch of teeth being broken. his scream is enough to rattle the pub, but when you look around, it's as if nothing at all has happened. it is quiet, and all the bartender does is shake their head.

when you open your eyes, he's crawling on his hands and knees out of the pub, and what he leaves behind is a mess of blood and teeth and fluid that are splattered against the floor at your feet. you shake as you look up at him, stiff in your seat and soft tears coming down your face.

he towers over you. you have to tilt your head back between your shoulders to look at him face-to-face. you cannot see his face; he hides it behind dark fabric, but his eyes talk loud. they are dark, and they are dull, and you realize as you stare up at him that he is not phased in the slightest by what he had just done. in fact, he steps into your space, and the squelch of blood under his boot doesn't seem to bother him. he wears black, and you wonder, momentarily, if he wears such a color to hide the red hiding between the threads of the fabric. the red he can't wash away.

"let me look at ya, little rabbit."

you flinch when he knocks your knees apart, spreading them to make space for the width of him. he reaches up with one gloved hand and grips your chin, tilting your head to either side to see if you are hurt anywhere but your hand. when he is satisfied with his observations, he cups the expanse of your throat, smoothing those big fingers along the pulsing vein there and feeling the way you swallow.

so alive. so soft. a pretty little bunny, dropped into his waiting hands.

his eyes fall, and he takes you in. wide hips that take up the seat you're sitting in, hugged so nicely by light blue denim jeans. they curve over the swell of your ass, and he wonders how much of it would fit in his palm--he thinks about how it might feel to spread them apart and taste the succulent sweetness that he knows exists between your thighs and how your mouth might look slack jawed and wide open for him.

you look like a good girl, even with bloody knuckles.

then he follows the line of your shirt. it's a simple t-shirt tucked into your jeans, but the neckline gives a nice peek of you and the curve of your tits--they sit so nicely there, all perky, and ghost thinks they look lonely. they would be better off in his mouth or squeezing his cock between them or pebbling between his dirty gloved fingers.

filthy. disgusting. he is scarred all over, and you look so soft and sweet, with those tender puppy eyes and the way your lips tremble, and he bets you kiss all soft and slippery. he bets your cunt is tight and with enough coaxing, he could make you drench his skin with something decadent and slick, with whatever drools into your panties. he imagines it is there now, even as you tremble and shake and plead with your eyes for him to let go of your throat.

but ghost is not a good man. he does not feel; he is not a man at all. he is a beast in the shape of one, disguised, and he brings misery to everything he touches. he knows he will do it to you, too--touching pretty girls, he leaves them with burns. they are not the same after they are with him, and he wants to feel bad about it, he wants to feel something, but he does not. he feels nothing.

"you olright, luv?"

you nod frantically, putting a hand over his wrist that holds you, and he almost laughs. your hand is so much smaller than his own. if he squeezes his hand just a little harder, he figures it would not take much to break what lies beneath it. he leans in, and you gulp when your thighs trap his hips. he is warm, a furnace that burns, but you relax when the side of his mask nuzzles against your face.

he is a dog, and he is fond of you.

you should run. you should hit him like you hit your wretched date, and you should run, far, away from him, swear off men for good and never allow one in your space again lest they be as beastly as this. you should run while you can, but you are a bunny not yet in his trap, and you still have time to escape.

but then both of your eyes open at the same time, and his eyes meet your own, and then--oh.

the cage snaps shut. it rattles around you. it is small and confined, but you don't realize what it is yet because you can still breathe, and it is still warm, and you are still soft and alive and here.

your face softens, and his eyes flicker down to your lips as you lick them. maybe he was right. liars are bad. men like the one you were with before were scum. you had been with men like that before, you had seen the destruction they brought to those they thought they loved. when they wrought fear and made others bleed, they never got in trouble. no one cared to do to them what they deserved because they silenced their lambs and slaughtered the light out of them.

it is biblical--an eye for an eye. if they take from you, why can't you take from them?

it is brutish men like this one that do what others are too timid to. your thighs close around his hips, and you feel something digging into your leg, something metal and heavy tucked into his jeans. a weapon, but you imagine it is a mercy because you have an inkling that what he does with his hands is so much worse. bullets are clean and fast; his hands are not.

johnny would tell him to let you go. he does, over his shoulder, spitting at him to leave, to let you slip through his fingers and find your way out, to open the cage.

the wee lass--look at 'er angel face. let 'er go--not meant for this, LT. she scares. 's in 'er eyes. won't last.

but he does not feel. he is not human. there is something wrong with him, he knows it, but he doesn't care. he will ruin you, and he should feel bad, but he can't, he doesn't. and then there it is--your eyes are flickering low, eyeing the mask, and you are wondering how much effort it would take to push it up and lick into his mouth, taste him, suck the warmth of the bourbon from his mouth and replace it with your own.

he will kill again. the cage is shut, it is locked, and he is watching the bunny in its cage, watching as it becomes aware of its surroundings, takes in what is new. but just like he figures, just like he knows, this little bunny has no idea what this cage is. she has no idea she is even in one.

fuck what johnny says. if johnny was like him, if he was not skin and bone but steel and reptile, he would not have died. he would have come back. he would have moved his head, shaken the blood off, and gotten back up, but he didn't, and he's not here, and he's not real--so fuck what he thinks, fuck what he says, fuck him because he left me, and i'm all alone, and if i don't devour and eat and tear apart, i will wither away because i am not me, i am something else--

he smiles under the mask. you notice it, the slight movement there, and you smile, too, suddenly. his hand falls, and the back of his knuckles graze over the swell of your breast, down your stomach, and then he's gripping your waist. that hand slips behind you, and you brace yourself with both hands on his chest as he cups one side of your ass. possessive and suffocating--you think maybe you should run again, but you don't want to.

you want something more. you want something a little rough, something a little sharp. you want something to tell you that a little blood is good sometimes. that answering blood with a little more blood was exactly how it should be. that we don't have to be docile, to back down. you want to be told that it's okay to bite.

there is something wrong with you.

[greenunoreversecard]

Idk if you do requests but Could you possibly do a ninjago Cole x Baker reader

And maybe they meet in R bakery and it's just pure fluff <3

A/N: mix of two requests. Also this is prolly shit as it is almost 5am, I haven't slept.

This is a small lil drabble to feedz the peoplez

Layered Cakes and frosting Mistakes

I never thought I'd end up being in a long term relationship with one of the infamous ninja.

Yet here we are, our one year anniversary.

Cole has been nothing but a romantic since the beginning, when he first walked into my bakery. I remember how he tripped over his shoes when he first entered, the welcome mat having been misplaced and catching the tip of his boot. I remember how I giggled lightly, still trying to keep a professional facade. The entire time I took his order- which I ended up catering a party for him and his ninja buddies- he was staring at me, starstruck. I remember how he stumbled over his words, lightly twirling the string of his hoodie between his fingers. Which I now know is more of a nervous stim than anything. I remember riding my number on the back of the receipt I had handed him, his lopsided smiled and slightly nervous demeanor charming me. I know now that he was nervous because of me, but it was still so endearing to see. His slightly flushed face and dazed look as he ordered.

I had never considered myself attractive, but he always made me feel like the most stunning person in the world.

It's after hours in my bakery now, and Cole comes in through the back door. I'd given him a key a while back, after an incident where I got so caught up in work I forgot about a date.

He greets me, pecking my forehead, then my nose, and finally landing a kiss on my lips. I smile into it, giddy in a way I can't explain.

"Hello, darling" he says, breathing slightly erratic. One can only assume if he was fighting someone or ran here. I snicker at the thought of him bolting away from his friends, just to see me.

Simple little me.

"hello, baby" I say back, pecking his lips a few more times. "Ready to bake?" I ask eyebrow raised, seeing as he is a well-known klutz in the kitchen. But he insisted on helping bake the cake for our anniversary.

His grin widens, eyes sparkling.

"I'm always ready!" His hand slide around my waist, head resting on my shoulder. "What's our first step?"

"first, mister-" I wiggle out of his grasp, before putting a finger on his chest. Finally getting a good look at the grime that's accumulated on him throughout the day "I want you to go clean up and then get on apron"

He chuckles lightly, but does is requested. We both scrub up putting on aprons. I had taken mine off because I had started doing paperwork. I had the ingredients lined on the counter and I quickly lead him over after he's ready. Excitedly explaining what type of cake we're making and how we make it, the entire time he's staring at me, and eventually I realized that the look in his eyes isn't that of someone who's keenly listening, rather, it's the look of someone who's distracted, his eyes are sparkling again and they're soft with affection.

"and-.." I trail off, before smirking. "You're not even listening, are you?"

"Hm?" His gaze raises from my lips.

I chuckle, but can't find it in me to be upset with him.

"just do exactly what I tell you, okay?"

"of course, I won't mess this up!"

..

He did indeed mess it up. There's flour everywhere, and for some reason I can feel at least a handful of salt in my apron pocket.

Not even 15 minutes in, he couldn't resist throwing a bit of flour and it dissolved from there. My sides hurt from all the laughing and his hair has become lightly dusted and white as I had shaped it up into a mohawk with a floury-watery mixture. (He encouraged it, wanted to see if we could get it to stick)

My kitchen is in a worse state than we are, various white powders staining every counter top.

But he just looks too happy to be mad at. He has a wide gummy smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, and you can tell he's having the time of his life.

I probably look similar to him, I haven't stopped smiling since he entered the room, and covered in just as much flour as he is.

I don't think I would have imagined a better way to spend my one year anniversary then making a giant mess with the person I love the most.