#delirious army

[ultraflamz64]

H20 Delirious portrait drawing in my style

[ginger-mist]

Delitoonz

[gokyacetakal]

Best video from H20Delirious.

[ohcaptains]

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐚𝐲.

pairing. simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader.

synopsis. simon comes home. he's too tired to fuck you right. eventually, he manages to find the energy.

warnings. 18+ this is sexually explicit, do not read this or interact with my blog if you’re a minor. do not copy or use ai on my shit, i’ll find out. female receiving penetration, blonde simon lol, somnophilia, dry humping, pussy smacking, and crying during sex. i am not responsible for your media consumption.

an. :) life sucked so i found a new animated character to obsess over. please comment & reblog if u enjoyed !

When Simon comes back, he’s dog-tired.

As soon as his feet touch the welcome mat of your quaint little apartment, he feels all of his muscles relax – as if they’re unpinning themselves from his bones – and he has to give himself a pep talk to muster the energy to drag his hand up to ring the bell.

But he doesn’t have to, because you’re ripping the door open – shining like the sun – and pulling him into your body, rendering all 6,4 ft and 240 pounds of the super soldier to complete mush.

For five minutes, you don’t speak. Just hold him, as you gently rub the corner of his jaw, and brush your fingers through his dirty blonde hair. He clutches you to him.

His fat, paw-like hands hold your upper back, and you hold him with the same vigour. His body – wrapped in his black compression shirt and army pants – is rock solid.

It’s a weaving of muscles that have been tensed for the last two months. It’s going to take a minute for them all to soften, but like he always does when he’s been away, Simon lets out a deep and resolute sigh.

The breath warms your neck, causing it to tingle, and you grasp him tighter, your body waking up.

It’s been a long two months.

He manages to push your intertwined bodies through the doorway, using his boot to kick the door shut. His house smells like home -- funny how you can’t smell it until you’ve been gone a while.

Vanilla and a citrus fruit, mixed with the savoury scent of his favourite meal. He hums again, and you scratch the back of his head, sending shivers down his locked spine.

He knows the route to your bedroom like the back of his hand, and he maneuvers the pair of you inside.

The curtains are closed and the bed is made. You know him. You know him so well.

You let him push you back onto the bed – a blur of familiar limbs and hair – and he settles lower, burying his face into the crook of your neck. Immediately, you drag your legs up and cross them over the curve of his ass.

You’re all warm and soft and pliable. Dressed in a pair of simple cotton shorts and a vest top, he wants to grab fistfuls of you and remind himself of how you feel in his palms. Wants to drag his lips over your skin, bully his way between your legs and remind himself of how you taste.

Fuck, he wants you, in a carnal, almost primal sort of way, and you the same. He can smell it. A sweet but sweaty longing that melts from you and causes his senses to wake.

But he’s so God damn tired.

You know. Know this routine. Know that he has to settle back in.

In the meantime, you’ll just have to wait.

You fiddle with his hair. “There’s dinner if you want it,” you whisper into the dark bedroom, looping the strands between your fingers, committing the soft feel to memory.

Simon shuffles just an inch on top of you, but still, the slight movement of his clothes and hard, clenched body against yours makes you take your bottom lip between your teeth.

It’ll be chewed raw by the time he has enough energy to take you. He grunts something into your skin, and after a second, you gather it’s, tired.

His scent clouds you.

When Simon comes back, he always smells the same.

The soap at the barracks is pine scented – shampoo a strict lemon.

But there’s always a leftover grit to him. A hidden layer the soap can’t clean off, and it makes you delirious. Makes you flex your ass up – just an inch, a sweet, gentle inch that has you feeling the hard lines of his thighs and the metal of his zipper, and Simon’s breathing hitches.

You freeze. With your hips pushed tight against his, you stare at the ceiling, hoping that your worn-out soldier hasn’t felt you move.

Simon stays quiet. His breathing settles. You go to apologise, but Simon doesn’t grumble or make a sly comment. Listening closer to his breathing, you gather that he’s asleep.

Jesus, you think, that’s a record. Barely in the door and he’s asleep, he must be burnt out. Figuring that you won’t be able to crawl from under his weight, you decide it’s your bedtime too.

Sleep comes fast.

Hours later, you blearily blink awake. Not much has changed – the room is still dark, Simon is still heavy on top of you, yet now, you’re sticking to him with sweat.

He’s usually a human furnace, but this is different.

Your skin prickles, vibrating at a frequency that has nothing to do with heat. No, this is…you feel a pulsating between your thighs, and wiggle, feeling your slick coating your underwear.

Fuck, why are you so wet? You clench, and the resulting ache forces you to hiss and push your head back against the pillows. What did you dream about? Thinking back, you come up short. Then why--

Simon shuffles on top of you. It’s a slight movement, but it continues, and all at once, your heart clenches.

Holy fuck, he’s—

“Simon?” you whisper, and your boyfriend whines into your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, the words wet and desperate. The puzzle pieces lock into place.

He knocks his hips into your crotch once more, and you gasp, clenching, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Simon’s apology comes out again, except this time, it’s christened with a “s-shit – fuck.”

Blinking at the ceiling, you huff and try and glance down, and in the dark, you just about manage to see the outline of his burly body grinding into yours.

You take stock of the situation.

Feel his fat palm around your hip, and squinting, see that he’s got your shorts pulled down around your thighs, and has the band of your underwear looped around his fingers.

Jesus Christ. You fall back into the pillows. “How long have you?” you whisper. “Five – fuck – minutes,” Simon grunts, continuing to roll his thick hips against you. His bulge knocks the edge of your throbbing clit, causing you to gasp again. There’s been no build-up to your want, it’s just there, humming electric, and spread tight over your thighs.

Simon meshes his wet mouth against your chest. He’s tugged your vest top down, too, and his lips close around the skin of your breast. Jesus. He was undressing you as you slept.

“Thought about fuckin’ you, but couldn’t get my pants down, so – shit -- tired. Jus’ woke up and you were just so fuckin’ soft. And wet, Christ, felt you through my trousers.”

Your whole body goes numb. “You were gonna fuck me as I slept?” you whisper, belly flipping. You’d told him – ages ago – that he could, but he hasn’t been here. You’d forgotten.

The image of him pulling your underwear down as you slept streaks across your mind. Imagine waking up with him inside of you, so full and wet and just on the precipice of coming.

Simon grunts. He tugs at the band of your underwear, “I’ll fuck you right, at some point. Just –”

In your delirious state, you manage to finish his sentence, “Tired, I know – I know baby.”

You kiss the crown of his head and whimper into his hair. “Just use me until you’re ready.”

Simon groans out deep and loud. It rumbles against your chest. Echoes through your heart, and you’re so turned on that you begin fidgeting.

You try and squirm away from the stifling ache of your pussy, but Simon’s built like a brick shithouse, so you can’t run from it, just gotta take it and take it and take it, until you can’t anymore, and you break.

You’re so fucked that you don’t even announce that you’re coming, but Simon knows, shit, and as your pussy clenches up tight, he growls low and hard, mumbling, that’s it, that’s it, that’s it, until his movements go sloppy, and his breathing goes laboured, and he’s coming into his pants and mewling your name.

When he finally does manage to get inside of you, he doesn’t last long. No, he pushes all the way to the hilt, and you tighten up.

“Stay” you gasp, clenching your pussy around his shaft, and Simon grunts deep and long into your throat.

“S-Stay there,” you moan, then, in case he didn’t hear you, “Stay,” you whisper, and push the ball of your palm into his thick, scarred shoulder. 

You were teetering on a knives edge.

You’ve come once since Simon was home, and your second orgasm of his return was right there.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Simon groans into the shallow of your throat, “Did we do enough prep?” 

“Yes,” you immediately whisper, not wanting him to pull out. 

He’s thick and pulsing inside of you, hard and heavy on top, and God, he kisses at your throat — soft and gentle. You try to swallow down the ball that has swelled in your throat, but tears prick at the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill. 

No no no no, you think. Not now. Not now not now. You try to stifle the tears, but you unconsciously sniff, and despite Simon being perfectly still, he still manages to freeze.

“Sweetheart?”

You inhale, “Yeah?” 

Simon looks up; and seeing tears on your cheeks, his face falls, “Did I hurt you?”

You furiously wipe the tears away, shaking your head.

“M’just overwhelmed,” you whisper, and he presses his forehead against yours, going to kiss you, but the movement causes his hips to flex against you, nudging his cock, and you whine, immediately gripping onto the back of his dirty blonde locks. 

Simon drops his face into your chest and lets out a pained rasp, “Tightening around me, kid.” 

You unclench, “m’sorry.” 

“Gonna come quick.” 

“S’okay.” 

“I’ll fuck you right, just gotta…” he trails off and grabs fist fulls of your hips.

“Fuck,” he huffs wistfully, “This pussy. Missed this fucking pussy.”

You go dizzy with need. Shake your head, and bend to kiss him, tasting his wet and swollen lips. Gently, you knock your hips up into his, and when he lets out a surprised grumble, you flex your hips higher, trying to stuff his cock deeper, further – till you can see it pressing into your belly.

Catching onto your plan, Simon grunts and pushes your hips with his fat palms, pinning your ass to the mattress. 

“Stop,” he orders, and the demand goes straight to your cunt. Jesus. He hasn’t been very dominant since his return, and that little instruction has you chomping on the bit.

“Want you, Si.”

“One stroke and I’ll be fucked.” 

“Just gotta practice.” 

He chokes on a laugh, muttering, “Practice.” 

You try another tactic. Clench around his cock and pout, “Want you to come inside me.”

“Fuck,” Simon cuts. You curl your legs back his back and push your foot into the dense muscle of his ass, at the same time rocking your hips up. Simon lets you. Let’s you try and fuck yourself on his cock. With wet lips, you push your mouth into the shell of his ear, shakily uttering his name.

“Gonna fill me up, Si?”

“Fuckin’ filthy, you know that?”

Simon pulls back, and your heart stutters.

You think he’s going to pull out, until he uses your hips to pull you tight against his cock -- your ass nearly sitting on his thighs. His thick, scarred chest is puffed up.

Cheeks red, and he’s got that animal glint in his pretty eyes.

It knocks you for six.

“Where you want it?” he asks, and you’re confused, until he presses the heel of his palm into the middle of your tummy.

“Shoot my load here, huh?”

Your body goes numb. Eyes white out. It happens so suddenly that it scares you, and you’re a mixture of turned on and frightened, but the fear turns you on even more.

All you can do is blearily look up at him as he slides his paw to the other side of your tummy, “or shoot it here. Fuck it so deep that you can taste it.”

He pretends to think about it. Even hums, before he drags his palm up and stuffs his thumb into your mouth. “Or just directly here, huh?” He snarls a smile, “know you like it when your mouth is full.”

You suck at his thumb, and tighten your cunt around his cock, causing his mouth to open, and eyes to flutter, and just like that, you’ve won.

He comes in record time.

But Simon keeps his promises.

A couple of days later – on the seventh day he’s back -- he fucks you so good, that when you wake up the next morning, you get shy just thinking about it. 

Lay in bed, staring at the ceiling – your boyfriend fast asleep on your chest -- remembering the debauchery you’d gotten up to the night before. 

The pair of you are a little tipsy, drunk on beer and wine, but all it’s done is heighten your senses, and made you fully aware of your desires, so much so, that they pulsate behind your eyelids like a migraine.

Simons got you face down, ass up, and as he pushes you face first into the mattress, he presses his thumb against the tight, fluttering hole of your pussy.  

“Gonna let me inside, baby?”

You sink into your thighs and spread yourself wider for him, humming into your crossed arms. Simon watches your pussy spread further, and he can’t help himself, he has to slide his thumb deeper.

He presses, just barely pushing the tip of his thumb into your wet hole, and you gasp, trying to chase the feeling by inching back against his fat palm.  He laughs at you. “Look at your pussy sucking my thumb in, baby. Wish you could see what I’m seeing. So fuckin’ sexy.”

You hum, the words making you wetter – dripping over his thumb.

“Been dreaming of fucking you right, gonna take you whenever I want.”

“Okay,” you whisper, so delirious that you’re not sure what you’re agreeing to. Simon raises a brow,

“Yeah?” he asks, tone breathless. Thought he’d get some pushback on that one, but for a second, he forgot that you said the nastiest shit with his dick inside of you.

You nod into your crossed arms, and Simon laughs again, “Free use pussy,” he sounds, then lightly smacks your sodden folds, causing you to flinch, bucking forward. 

“Oh fuck,” you choke, eyes rolling back. Heat ricochets through your crotch and swamps your belly, before settling back in your aching pussy. Once you manage to collect yourself – and it takes a second -- you huff. “Bein’ mean.”

Simon snorts, grabs your hips, then rams the underside of his cock against your pussy, grinning so big that his scars stretch, “don’t know the half of it, babe.” 

You sob, real tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. Your desire is visceral, enough for you to taste it on your tongue. Simon pulls back, and your slick coats the length of his dick, earning yourself another light smack to your cunt.

“Soakin’ me,” he grunts, and you sob into the sheets. “Please,” you whisper, then, please please please, and Simon hears your breathing hitch. 

This time, instead of checking up on you, he chuckles, “Crying again, baby?”

You sniff and wipe your eyes on your wrist, face heating.

“No,” you mumble, and Simon sighs.

He reads you like a book. Always has. Always will.

“Lying to me,” he grumbles, then he steers the uncut head of his cock between your folds, whispering, “Lie to me again, and I’ll give you something to cry about,” before bottoming out in one thrust.

[sistertotheknowitall]

Danny is Some Guy being followed

Part three? I guess, cause apparently it’s not content to stay in my head. Part One, Part Two

To say Danny was awake when he fist met these guys would be true, but to say he was fully aware would be a lie, and to live in Gotham one needed to be constantly aware.

If not, they would end up in this exact situation. Being stalked by vigilantes.

Him, Danny “Phantom” Fenton, Ghost King of the Infinite realms, was being constantly followed by a vigilante family. At least Danny assumed they were a family after hearing Red Hood call Nightwing “little brother.” (“I’m older than you.” “Yeah but you’re shorter.” “That’s not how that works!”) Also there was a child and at least three teenagers running around in spandex and armor. If they weren’t a family Danny wasn’t half-dead.

Anyway, Danny was pretty-sure they were watching him. His only guess as to why, well it started with a comment he made when slightly delirious. Because on that night when he was awake but not really, he called Batman the the fury-vigilante. In front of who the young king now realizes might be the bat’s son.

Danny understands that it might have been embarrassing but also it was just a comment and not even an original one! A lot of people called him that! And sure, not always to his face but still it could not have been his first time hearing it.

So Danny saw it as unnecessary to send out his army of (admittedly nice) children to harass Danny whenever they could. It was getting old and they always looked at him as if he was the odd one. Which he was but they didn’t know that. Like, Danny is just trying to get to where he needs to go, you people are the ones squaring up to random thugs on a school night.

Not that Danny didn’t appreciate the constant rescues, but he knew the life of a teenage vigilante and it wasn’t an easy one. Danny had a list of regrets and the scars to prove it. Hell, Baby Ninja looked younger than Danny when he first started.

In the first month of being shadowed Danny was sure he had met all of Batman’s children, either by rescue or confrontation. (How was he supposed to know he wasn’t allowed near that wearhouse?) He decided that Red Robin and Signal were his favorites, they spoke to him as a fellow person. Dickwing was his least favorite. After the incident with the Fenton anti-creep stick and four creeps, Dickwing started to lecture Danny on self-preservation and “being too young to put himself in that kind of danger.” Danny had stared pointedly at Baby Ninja on the fire escape (not that Dickwing noticed.)

Danny didn’t really now what their goal was, so far outside the three a.m. gun fights, the hypocritical lectures, and Baby Ninja’s prickly nature, the Batkids weren’t so bad. Still Danny wasn’t going to tell them his name. Hello? they were following him. Yes they were vigilantes but they were also stalkers and Danny had rights.

[novaursa]

Legacy (the march)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: cold winds

- Next part: of dragons and gods

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

You sat in the chamber Tywin had claimed for his private work, a large map of Westeros splayed across the heavy oak table before him. He stood with his hands braced on the table’s edge, his sharp gaze fixed on you where you sat in the high-backed chair across from him.

It was quiet for a moment—strained, calculating. The silence stretched just long enough to feel deliberate before Tywin Lannister finally spoke.

“Why were you gone so long?”

You lifted your gaze to meet his, your fingers gently pressing against the bandage still wrapped around your forearm where one of your worst cuts had festered. The pain was dull now, but the memory of it lingered, burned into your flesh. “I told you before,” you began carefully, “I needed to go to the High Heart.”

Tywin’s brow furrowed slightly, his skepticism evident. “The High Heart is a hill in the Riverlands. Nothing more. What held you there for so long?”

Your lips pressed into a thin line before you replied, your voice calm but steady. “My wounds turned. I was ill, Tywin. In and out of consciousness for days.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, and you could see the flicker of something—concern, frustration, maybe both—cross his face. “You allowed yourself to become vulnerable. That is not like you.”

You tilted your head slightly, your tone edged with quiet defiance. “It was not my choice to fall ill. Dragons are not gentle beasts, and I was not prepared.”

Tywin straightened, folding his arms across his chest, his presence looming over the room like a shadow. “And what did you see in your ‘fevered dreams,’ Y/N? You speak of them as though they were real.”

“They were real,” you said sharply, holding his gaze without wavering. “I saw things I cannot explain—things I was meant to see.”

Tywin regarded you with cold calculation, his green eyes narrowing slightly. “You expect me to believe that visions visited you while you lay delirious with fever?”

“I don’t care what you believe,” you replied, your voice rising just enough to catch his attention. “But I know what I saw. I saw the Wall. I saw shadows moving beyond it, crawling toward us like a tide of death. I saw the Long Night, Tywin—ice and fire. The end of everything.”

Tywin’s expression hardened further, though he said nothing. His silence was heavier than any retort.

You pushed forward, emboldened by his quiet. “You ask me why I left. It wasn’t just for me—it was for all of us. The world we know is on the brink of something far greater than your wars, your armies, or your precious crowns. And you, for all your wisdom, refuse to see it.”

Tywin’s lip curled slightly, his voice cool and clipped. “I deal in what is real, Y/N. Fleeting shadows and the words of fever dreams do not win battles.”

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the stone floor as you leaned toward him across the table. “Then what will you do when those shadows are no longer fleeting? When they are real and they are here? Will you still dismiss me then?”

For a moment, the air between you crackled with unspoken tension. Tywin stared at you, his gaze like steel, but you saw something there—a flicker of doubt, the faintest hesitation. He was a man who measured every decision, every threat, and now you continue to place something in front of him that even he could not easily dismiss.

Finally, he broke the silence. “And these visions—this Long Night you claim to have seen—what do you expect me to do about it?”

You exhaled softly, your voice dropping as you replied, “Prepare. I told you before, Tywin. You may not believe in the threat, but you must prepare for it. Or everything you have built, everything we have… will burn or freeze to nothing.”

Tywin regarded you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You are adamant.”

“Because I know what I saw,” you said, softer now, but no less firm. “The blood of the dragon runs through me, Tywin. I may not understand all of it yet, but I know that I am meant to see these things. And I know they are coming.”

Tywin was silent, his sharp gaze fixed on yours as though searching for weakness, for any sign of doubt. He found none. Finally, he let out a slow, measured breath and straightened, his hands clasping behind his back.

“I will not act on dreams,” he said finally, his tone brokering no argument. “But I will not dismiss what you say entirely. If you are so certain of this threat, then prove it. Show me something more.”

You studied him for a moment, the flicker of progress—however small—giving you hope. “I will. And when I do, I trust you will listen.”

Tywin turned slightly toward the window, his gaze distant as he looked out across the sea beyond the Rock. “For now, you will rest. You are of no use to anyone bleeding and broken.”

You nodded faintly, knowing better than to argue further, though you allowed a faint smirk to tug at your lips. “You’re concerned about me, Lord Tywin. How surprising.”

Tywin glanced at you, his expression blank but his tone dry. “I am concerned about the future of House Lannister.”

“And so you should be,” you replied softly, turning to leave the room. “Because the future is changing—whether you’re ready for it or not.”

As you stepped into the corridor, you could still feel Tywin’s gaze lingering behind you, his silence a reminder of the walls he had built around himself. But for the first time, you saw a crack—a small one, but a crack nonetheless.

And you intended to widen it.

The clang of metal against stone echoed through the halls of Casterly Rock as servants struggled to maneuver the massive, heavy object up the stairs and into the solar where Tywin Lannister waited. Sunlight spilled through tall arched windows, illuminating the chamber as Tywin stood at his desk, his expression impassive as he oversaw the spectacle. By his side, Jaime Lannister leaned casually against the edge of the table, his one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“What in the Seven Hells is this?” Jaime muttered, watching as the servants carefully brought the large saddle—gleaming black leather, reinforced with steel and gold—into the room. The blacksmith, a gruff man with thick arms and soot-streaked skin, followed closely behind, wiping his hands on his apron.

“It is what I ordered,” Tywin said coolly, barely sparing his son a glance as he moved toward the saddle. “A proper saddle for a dragon.”

Jaime straightened, his brows rising incredulously. “A dragon saddle?” His voice carried a mix of disbelief and amusement. “So it's true—you’ve taken to commissioning furniture for her beast.”

The blacksmith cleared his throat nervously. “It is as you requested, my lord. The design took time—dragons are unlike any creature we’ve ever known.” He gestured to the saddle, his calloused fingers brushing over the polished leather. “The measurements are precise, as per Lady Y/N’s description of the creature’s back. Reinforcements were added to ensure the safety of the rider, and the straps can be secured to fit any variance in the beast’s size.”

Tywin ran his sharp gaze over the creation, his hands clasped behind his back. “It will hold?”

“Aye, my lord,” the blacksmith replied with confidence. “It will hold against water, wind, or impact. I’ve used only the strongest materials, with every piece of knowledge provided by the Citadel.”

Jaime let out a low whistle as he circled the saddle, inspecting it with faint curiosity. “And here I thought all those dusty books in the Citadel were good for nothing. Who would have guessed they still know how to outfit a dragon?”

Tywin ignored Jaime's sarcasm, his attention focused on the saddle. He stepped closer, his fingers running along the reinforced leather. “It will suffice,” he said with a curt nod before turning his sharp gaze to the blacksmith. “You will be compensated, as agreed.”

The blacksmith bowed deeply, his relief evident. “Thank you, my lord. It is an honor to serve House Lannister.”

“Leave us,” Tywin commanded, and the man quickly withdrew, his apron flapping as he followed the servants out of the solar, leaving the massive saddle in the center of the room.

Once the doors closed, Jaime crossed his arms and smirked at his father. “I’ll admit, I never thought I’d see the day when the mighty Tywin Lannister would commission something so… fantastical. A dragon saddle? Next, you’ll be sending ravens to Essos.”

Tywin turned his gaze on Jaime, his tone cutting and calm. “I do what must be done, regardless of how it looks to others. If my wife intends to ride a dragon, then she will do so properly. I will not have her injuring herself again.”

Jaime's smirk faltered slightly, and he raised a brow. “How thoughtful of you.”

Tywin ignored the bait, walking around the saddle as if assessing it from every angle. “This is not mere sentiment, Jaime. It is about control. If dragons are to return to this world, then they will not be wild beasts. They will be tools—assets to those who have the will and the power to wield them.”

“And the Targaryen girl across the sea?” Jaime pressed, watching his father closely. “Will you fit her dragons with saddles too?”

Tywin’s expression hardened. “The girl is a child playing at power. If she crosses the Narrow Sea, she will find herself tamed or destroyed, as all dragons before her have been.”

Jaime shook his head, almost laughing. “You speak as though dragons are cattle, Father. They’re not beasts to be chained or bartered—they’re fire made flesh. You can’t simply bridle a creature like that.”

“And you speak from ignorance,” Tywin shot back, his voice cold. “If we fear dragons, then we are weak. Dragons are only as dangerous as the men—or women—who command them.”

Jaime regarded him for a long moment before shaking his head with an amused smile. “And you think you can command them? Or is that a task you’ve left to your new Targaryen wife?”

Tywin’s gaze snapped to Jaime, his expression sharp as a blade. “Enough.”

Jaime held up his single hand in mock surrender, though the glint in his eye remained teasing. “I wonder what she’ll think of it. I can’t imagine she asked you to commission this.”

“She will see it for what it is,” Tywin said flatly. “A means to her safety and to her purpose.”

“And what purpose is that?” Jaime asked quietly, his tone less mocking now. “What are you truly planning, Father?”

Tywin turned his gaze back to the saddle, his fingers once again brushing over the leather. “To ensure the survival of House Lannister.”

The room fell silent at those words, the weight of Tywin’s ambition hanging between them. Jaime looked at his father, his expression unreadable as he processed the answer. Finally, he exhaled through his nose, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time,” Jamie said lightly. “A dragon saddle for your dragon-riding wife. The bards will have a field day with this one.”

Tywin ignored him, his thoughts already elsewhere. The saddle sat before him like a symbol of what he hoped to control—a bridge between the old world of dragons and the new one he sought to shape. It was not perfect, not yet, but it was a start.

And for Tywin Lannister, that was enough.

“Send word to Y/N,” Tywin said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. “Tell her to come. I want her to see this for herself.”

Jaime tilted his head, his smirk returning. “You’re a generous husband, Father. A saddle and an invitation—how charming.”

Tywin shot him a withering look, and Jaime chuckled softly, shaking his head as he moved to leave the room. “Good luck, Father. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

As the door closed behind Jaime, Tywin remained standing in the solar, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied the saddle. The faint creak of leather echoed in the quiet, and for a moment, his gaze softened—not with sentiment, but with certainty.

The dragon was no longer a myth. It was real, and now it had a place within his house.

And with that, Tywin Lannister began to prepare for the future he knew was coming.

The solar of Casterly Rock was filled with the scent of polished leather and the faint aroma of parchment. The sunlight streaming through the windows cast long beams over the massive dragon saddle Tywin had commissioned, the centerpiece of the room. It gleamed like an artifact of another age, a thing of legend made real, resting on a carved wooden stand as though waiting for its purpose to be fulfilled.

You stood there quietly, your gaze fixed on the creation before you. The saddle was black as night, the leather smooth and reinforced with steel, lined with cushioning where it would rest against Viserion’s sharp scales. Metal loops were embedded along its length for securing reins and straps, the craftsmanship impeccable. This wasn’t just a saddle—it was a declaration, one shaped in Tywin Lannister’s image.

Tywin stood near the desk, watching your reaction with that impassive, calculating gaze of his, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He didn’t speak immediately, allowing you the time to take it all in.

“You summoned me for this?” you finally said, turning to him. Your voice was even, though your brow arched faintly. “A saddle for my dragon?”

Tywin inclined his head, his tone calm and clipped as always. “You will need it. The last time you rode, you returned injured and bleeding. That will not happen again.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion creeping into your voice. “And this sudden concern for my safety? A moment of sentiment from Lord Tywin?”

“It is not sentiment,” Tywin replied sharply, stepping forward to stand beside the saddle. “It is practicality. If you insist on riding your dragon, you will do so properly. I will not allow you to return to the capital in such a state again.”

“The capital?” you echoed, surprised. “I thought you intended to remain here at the Rock.”

Tywin straightened, his gaze hard and resolute. “We return to King’s Landing within the fortnight. Order must be reestablished. The realm is still reeling from the chaos of Joffrey’s death, and I will not allow instability to linger. The king—Tommen—needs guidance, and the court needs to see that House Lannister remains strong.”

You frowned, the weight of his words settling over you like an unwelcome burden. “And what of the dragon?”

“You will take it with you,” Tywin said simply, as though it were the most logical solution in the world.

You stared at him, searching his face for any hint of irony or doubt. “You expect me to bring Viserion to the capital? To fly a dragon over King’s Landing?”

Tywin’s expression did not waver. “Yes.”

“You cannot be serious,” you replied, incredulous. “Do you know what that will cause? Panic. Fear. You cannot control what happens when people see a dragon—”

“Control will be established,” Tywin interrupted firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “They will see strength. They will see House Lannister’s power embodied not only in its armies but in its alliances. A dragon allied with me is a dragon not allied with my enemies.”

You turned your gaze back to the saddle, your fingers brushing along its edge as you considered his words. “And if they don’t see strength? If they see a threat instead?”

Tywin stepped closer, his voice lowering just enough to hold an edge of authority. “Then they will learn quickly where their loyalty should lie. Dragons inspire awe, Y/N, but awe must be tempered with discipline. That is what you and I will ensure.”

You turned back to him, meeting his steady, piercing gaze. “And what of me? Is this your way of parading me through the capital like a symbol of victory? The Targaryen bride and her dragon?”

Tywin’s expression softened—just barely, though it was enough to catch your attention. “You are no mere symbol,” he said quietly, the steel in his tone tempered with something far more measured. “You are my wife and the mother of my heir. You are a Lannister now, Y/N, and everything you bring with you strengthens us.”

There was silence for a moment as his words settled over you. You watched him carefully, still wary of his motives, but beneath all of it, you couldn’t deny the truth of what he said. The world had changed, and with it, your place within it. Whether you liked it or not, this was your role to play—and Tywin Lannister was determined to see it done.

“You are certain about this?” you asked, softer this time. “The capital will not accept this lightly.”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly, almost as though amused by the idea. “The capital will accept what I tell it to accept.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you ran your hand through your hair. “You always did have a way of bending the world to your will.”

Tywin stepped closer, standing beside you now as you both regarded the saddle. “It is what must be done,” he said quietly, though there was a finality to his tone, a certainty that only Tywin Lannister could possess. “This saddle is more than leather and steel—it is preparation. It is control. And it ensures that no matter what comes, you will not be vulnerable again.”

You tilted your head, casting a sidelong glance at him. “And what of you, Tywin? You stand so calm and collected, but dragons are fire. They are chaos. Even you cannot master them.”

He turned to meet your gaze, his expression unreadable save for the faintest glint in his green eyes. “Then I will do what I have always done: I will ensure the chaos serves me.”

You let out a soft breath, almost a laugh, though it was tinged with resignation. “You are impossible.”

Tywin’s gaze softened fractionally, and for a fleeting moment, the hard edges of his mask slipped. “Perhaps. But I am never unprepared.”

You looked back at the saddle, its presence in the room a symbol of all the changes you had faced since leaving the North, since becoming his wife, since claiming your dragon. This was no longer a game of survival—it was a game of power, one you were now playing alongside him.

“I hope you’re right,” you murmured finally, your voice quiet but firm. “Because the fire has returned to the world, and it cannot be contained forever.”

Tywin said nothing, but his gaze remained on you, sharp and watchful as ever, as though he were already considering the battles to come. You turned back to the saddle, your fingers tracing its polished edge once more, knowing that soon enough, you would carry its weight—and everything it represented—back to King’s Landing.

And the world would see the fire for what it truly was.

The chamber was filled with the soft, playful coos of your son, Damon, who lay on a blanket spread across the polished stone floor. The sunlight streaming in through the windows of Casterly Rock bathed the room in a glow, catching the soft sheen of his hair as he waved his tiny hands in the air. You sat nearby, your gaze focused on him as you watched every little movement with quiet contentment, despite the hum of activity beyond the chamber doors.

The sounds of boots, servants calling instructions, and the distant clanging of metal filled the halls as preparations for the return to King’s Landing intensified. Yet here, in this moment, you allowed yourself a brief respite.

“Always such a calm child,” came the familiar voice of Lady Olenna Tyrell, who stood just inside the doorway, her sharp eyes softening only slightly as she looked upon Damon. “A rare thing these days.”

You turned to find Olenna, dressed in her usual elegant attire with a shawl draped over her shoulders. She approached with her deliberate, confident steps, her cane tapping lightly against the floor. “Lady Olenna,” you greeted warmly, though you sensed there was a purpose behind her visit. “What brings you here? I doubt it was to compliment my son.”

Olenna smirked faintly as she settled herself into a nearby chair, leaning her cane against the armrest. “You know I have a soft spot for children. They are like tiny little blank slates, unaware of the terrible things the world has in store for them.” She gestured toward Damon with a flick of her fingers. “But this one… he’s no ordinary babe, is he?”

You smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from your face as you turned back to Damon, who was now trying to roll onto his side. “No, I suppose he isn’t.”

Olenna regarded you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “And yet here we are, preparing to return to a den of snakes and lions. I imagine your husband is ecstatic to parade you and his dragon-riding bride back into the capital.”

You sighed softly, not bothering to hide your weariness. “He is determined. I think he sees this as a show of strength—a reminder of what House Lannister holds.”

“Strength,” Olenna repeated dryly, her sharp wit unmistakable. “And yet, you’re the one with the dragon. How curious.”

You turned to her, curious yourself. “You stayed,” you said, voice gentle but probing. “Why is that, Lady Olenna? You could have easily returned to Highgarden with Lord Mace.”

Olenna raised her brows, amusement flashing across her face. “Oh, please. Do you honestly believe I would allow Mace to bumble his way through something as delicate as… well, anything? No, my dear, I remained because you continue to intrigue me.”

“Me?” you asked, genuinely surprised.

“Yes, you,” Olenna said matter-of-factly, leaning back in her chair. “You are not the girl I remember hearing whispers about—a silver-haired princess in silks with songs written in her honor. Nor a Targaryen bride I've met in the capital. No, you’ve grown into something far more formidable, and that interests me greatly.”

You tilted your head slightly, your gaze steady as you studied her. “And what is it you hope to gain from staying here? Surely, you don’t mean to flatter me without reason.”

Olenna smirked, clearly enjoying this exchange. “Flattery is for fools and courtiers, my dear. I speak plainly. I stayed because I wanted to see for myself what kind of woman continues to captivate Tywin Lannister. What kind of woman could walk through fire, claim a dragon, and yet still sit here so… serene.”

You looked back at Damon, your expression softening as you reached down to adjust his blanket. “I have no choice but to be serene. What other option is there when chaos swirls around me?”

“Chaos indeed,” Olenna murmured. “And yet you’ve weathered it far better than most would. But tell me—what are you truly thinking as you prepare to return to King’s Landing? Surely you don’t intend to sit idly by while the vipers plot and the wolves circle.”

You hesitated, your fingers brushing Damon’s tiny hand as he grasped at them instinctively. “I’m thinking about my son,” you admitted softly. “About his future. And about the world we are leaving him.”

Olenna regarded you with a rare trace of sympathy. “A wise concern. The world is cruel, my dear, but it is especially cruel to children born of power. You would do well to remember that.”

“I know,” you replied quietly. “That’s why I stayed strong for him, even when I was flying across the skies on the edge of death. I will not fail him.”

Olenna nodded, her expression firm. “Good. Hold onto that resolve. You’ll need it in the capital.”

She paused, as if considering her next words carefully. “And tell me, child… what do you think Tywin truly hopes to gain from all this? The dragon, the spectacle, you?”

You met her gaze, your voice steady. “Tywin thinks he can control fire. But fire has a will of its own, Lady Olenna.”

Olenna’s lips curled into a smile, the kind that spoke volumes. “How very true.”

There was a pause, then Olenna rose carefully from her chair, leaning on her cane as she stepped closer to you and Damon. Her sharp eyes softened briefly as she looked down at the boy. “Take care of him,” she said simply. “And take care of yourself. You’re far too valuable to be thrown into the flames.”

You nodded faintly, your fingers lingering protectively on Damon’s blanket. “Thank you, Lady Olenna.”

Olenna turned with a regal air and began to make her way toward the door. Before she exited, she glanced back over her shoulder, the familiar glint of amusement in her eyes. “I wonder, my dear… when the fire finally does come, who will it consume first?”

With that cryptic remark, she left the chamber, her cane tapping softly against the stone as she disappeared down the hall. You sat in silence for a moment, her words echoing in your mind like a faint warning.

Turning back to Damon, you gently traced your fingers over his tiny hand as he drifted to sleep, your thoughts already racing toward the journey ahead. Fire, chaos, and power—they were all waiting for you in King’s Landing.

But you were no longer the girl you had been. You were ready.

The light of early dawn broke across the rugged hills surrounding Casterly Rock, washing the stone fortress in hues of amber and red. The Lannister banners snapped in the soft morning wind, the lions roaring proudly against a sea of scarlet. The main courtyard had become a sea of activity, filled with soldiers, guards, and servants preparing for departure.

At the head of the Lannister procession sat Tywin Lannister, mounted atop his warhorse, a commanding presence even in his silence. His posture was ramrod straight, his cloak of crimson and gold draping elegantly over the horse’s flank. He held the reins with ease, though his eyes remained fixed on the distant black mouth of the mines that yawned beneath the Rock. His expression was carefully neutral, but a flicker of impatience showed in the tightness of his jaw.

Beside him, Jaime Lannister sat atop his own horse, wearing his polished golden armor, the Kingsguard white cloak hanging loosely over his shoulder. His one hand gripped the reins as he turned to look at his father. “How long do you plan to wait, Father?” Jaime asked, his tone carrying that faint edge of irreverence he never quite lost. “We’re well past dawn.”

“As long as it takes,” Tywin replied curtly, his gaze never leaving the mines.

Jaime snorted softly, shifting in his saddle. “Do you think she’ll emerge carrying some Valyrian treasure, or will she just bring out more fire and chaos?”

Tywin shot him a sharp look, silencing the jest before it could continue. “If you cannot hold your tongue, Jaime, I suggest you ride to the rear.”

Jaime held up his hand in mock surrender, though the corners of his mouth twitched into a smirk. “No need for that. I wouldn’t dare miss the spectacle.”

And a spectacle it was. A sudden hush fell over the courtyard as a deep, resonating rumble echoed up from the depths of the mine. Horses shifted uneasily, their ears twitching and hooves stamping against the cobbled ground. The Lannister men, standing in their shining armor, stiffened as the air seemed to grow thick with something primal—something ancient.

Tywin’s eyes narrowed as all heads turned toward the mine’s entrance.

The sound came again—deeper this time, accompanied by the faint tremor of the earth. Then the shadows shifted, the yawning blackness giving way to movement as something vast and alive stirred within.

Out of the darkness, you appeared, striding forward with steady, unhurried steps. The hem of your dark riding cloak trailed behind you, the faint shimmer of Valyrian embroidery catching the light. Your silver hair flowed freely down your back, almost luminous against the shadow of the mine. You walked with purpose, your shoulders squared, but the real spectacle followed close behind.

Viserion emerged, her cream and gold scales gleaming like molten metal in the rising sun. The dragon’s massive head dipped as she passed through the mine’s entrance, hwe golden eyes narrowing at the crowd gathered before her. She let out a low, guttural growl that reverberated across the courtyard, sending a ripple of unease through the assembled soldiers. Some clutched their swords instinctively, others muttered prayers under their breath.

Viserion’s wings unfurled slightly, casting jagged shadows across the ground, before she settled into an ominous stillness behind you.

You stopped a few paces ahead of the dragon, your gaze lifting to meet Tywin’s. Even from atop his warhorse, his presence seemed dwarfed for a moment by the creature standing behind you, its every breath a deep, audible rumble. You inclined your head slightly, your tone calm, but laced with something firm and knowing.

“You summoned me, my lord husband.”

Tywin’s gaze met yours, unwavering, though the tension in the air was felt. “You took your time,” he said, his voice carrying that practiced coolness.

You tilted your head faintly, your lips curling into the faintest of smiles. “A dragon waits for no man.”

Jaime let out an audible huff of laughter at that, earning a warning glare from Tywin. He leaned closer to his father, his grin wide. “It seems she has a point.”

Tywin ignored him, his focus entirely on you and the beast behind you. “Is it ready to be controlled?”

You turned slightly to glance at Viserion, who shifted her head to watch Tywin as though understanding the words spoken. The dragon’s eyes narrowed, and she let out a soft hiss, smoke curling from hee nostrils.

“I am not sure ‘controlled’ is the word you’re looking for, Tywin,” you replied smoothly, turning back to him. “But Viserion and I understand one another.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, though his sharp gaze flickered briefly to the wounds on your hands—cuts still healing from where you had ridden bare-backed. “Ensure that it remains so. The last thing we need is for your… companion to decide she no longer understands your authority.”

You stepped forward, your tone sharpening slightly. “You’ve nothing to fear from her. Viserion answers to me, and I answer to you. Is that not enough?”

Tywin considered your words carefully before nodding once. “For now.”

Jaime leaned forward in his saddle, his eyes still locked on the dragon with curiosity bordering on wonder. “I don’t suppose you’d let me ride it next? It would look far better on me than a horse.”

You shot him a dry look, though you allowed a hint of humor into your voice. “I don’t believe dragons take kindly to jesters, Ser Jamie.”

“Pity,” Jaime replied with a grin. “It’d make me quite the sight, wouldn’t it?”

Tywin cleared his throat, silencing Jaime as he turned his horse to face the assembled men. “We leave for King’s Landing at midday,” he commanded, his voice booming with authority. “There will be no disruptions, no delays.”

He turned back to you, his expression softening just enough that it might have been missed by anyone who didn’t know him. “Prepare yourself. You ride with us.”

You inclined your head, the faint glint of determination in your violet eyes. “I am ready, Tywin.”

With that, he spurred his horse forward, calling for Jaime to ride alongside him as the Lannister banners began to shift in the morning breeze. The procession prepared to move, but as Tywin rode ahead, he glanced over his shoulder one last time to watch you.

You turned to Viserion, reaching out to gently stroke the side of her snout as the dragon rumbled low in her throat. The crowd around you watched in awed silence, their fear mingling with a reverence they couldn’t quite articulate.

The fire and the lion would march together, and all of Westeros would feel the earth tremble beneath them.

[sh1-n0bu]

hhhhhhhhh

no no no you guys just don’t get it. irl i’m fucking small, okay? like i’m 163cm. 5’3 or however that would turn out to be. and you guys need to understand that being that small and having an s/o who’s an absolute giant compared tk you (bonus points if they’re in a position of power and commanding) and yet to have your powerful s/o become nothing more than a pathetic whining, whimpering mess who’s just begging for your touch while on their knees with tears welling in their eyes *bangs head against wall bangs head against wall bagns head against wall*

imagine being the lover of jing yuan. he’s a powerful man, a literal general of an entire army and yet the moment he sees you, he’s tugging on your sleeve, pouting as he asks for you to touch him. he’s been such a good boy and holding himself back for you, please help him out? he can get you your favorite snacks! or do you need shoulder massages? jing yuan is running around like an errand boy, trying to please you jusg so he can feel your hand tightly wrapped around his cock.

imagine being the lover of blade. he’s a scary guy. quiet, reserved, cruel and most definitely won’t hesitate to resort to murder if he wants something. or simply if he felt like it. imagine him crawling on your lap with loud whines and soft whimpers, grinding his hard on on your thigh. you always tell him to learn how to use his words but bladie just never seems to get it. maybe you should edge him again until he learns his lesson?

imagine being the lover of gepard landau. he’s the captain of the silvermane guards. the most trusted man and silvermane guard in the entirety of belebog. the people adore him and his subordinates look up to him, wanting to be strong and reliable just like their captain. if only they knew their captain was wearing a hidden collar underneath his high collared undershirt. one that said just who he would kneel to.

imagine being the lover of sampo. he’s a cheeky guy. lies and manipulation tactics ready up his sleeve. he knows how to weasel his way out of every dirty situation. but he would never lie to you. never you. not when you made it clear on just how rough you can be in the bedroom after finding out he lied about not tricking one of the astral express crew. but sometimes, sampo wants to lie again and have you know of it just so he can be put in impossible positions while he sobs and drools deliriously.

imagine being the lover of imbibitor lunae. he is the high elder of vidyadhara, the most respected individual amongst his own race. he’s elegant, divine, ethereal, calm and collected. a person of authority and power. if only the people knew just good you wreck him with only just your fingers. how his tail would curl around you asking for more while he sobs for you to be gentle. he’s always so sensitive in his vidyadhara form. just tug on his tail or guide his head to between your legs by his horns, he would become a mindless, pliant baby in no time.

imagine being the lover of welt. he’s a calm and serious man of the astral express crew. often being their guidance and pillar to lean on when things get a bit too much. heck, sometimes he even acts like a tired dad (that “maaarrrcchhhh” scene in xianzhou quest). hell, he was even formerly the second herrscher of reason, a being that’s literally able to bend the physics of reality itself. and yet he would do anything just so he can feel you around him. he wouldn’t hesitate to try and please you so he can be inside your warm walls, moaning and trembling as you ride him.

imagine being the lover of kafka. she’s a scary woman, no doubt. just a single whisper and you would be nothing more than her cute little puppet. and yet she uses her powers for more… different reasons when with you. ordering you to fuck her cunt, finger her open in the dark alleyway, to let her sit on your face so she can ride herself into overstimulation. kafka loves when you’re in control. especially when wringing orgasm after orgasm from her shaking body.

imagine being the lover of himeko. she’s the one who rebuilt the astral express, a respected and well known genius of a beautiful lady. anyone would be lucky to meet her. but the only luck himeko wants is to feel your fingers inside her. how she would give everything just so she can hear you whisper all sorts of vile things in her ear as you pinch her clit, telling her to keep quiet so she won’t wake up the others.

in conclusion, reverse size kink my beloved🥰🥰

[dmitriene]

THOUGHTS ABOUT PROFESSOR SIMON CORRUPTING HIS PLIANT STUDENT.

cw: dark mature content, shameless smut, corruption kink, kinda comfort, reader is delirious, possible age gap (reader in legal age) blowjob, pet names, praises and humiliation, pinv, breeding, intense sex, spanking, creampie, kissing, simon is a bad man. pairing: college professor simon ghost riley x college student fem reader

simon hates the feeling when he has to admit to himself that he's a horrible person, horrible by breaking something purer and more valuable, when all he wanted was a quiet, peaceful life.

but can he really break and stain something that was already perverted by itself, a pure, adorable soul that was ready to kneel before him just from the first sight.

and you don't have any shame at all to admit that it's you.

and either don't simon, by admitting that he loves the sight of you on your knees for him, corrupted by your professor and don't even asking for something in reward, just politely and obediently coming down on the harsh floor to suit yourself between his thick, spread muscular thighs, fat cock that oozes globes of pearly precum already fished out of his trousers, ready for your wet, tight parted mouth.

he's doesn't ashamed to paint your tight throat white, making you choke and gag on his bulbous cock that bruises the back of your tight, hot throat, fat tip spurts milky thick ropes of cum and making you swallow it with muffled gurgles, with your pretty face buried in his pubic, slightly trimmed hair, inhaling the musky aroma and rolling your watering eyes back, not at all registering his roaring, punched out growls — “good fricking girl, such a tigh' slutty throa' for your professor, heck„

and you are, a beautiful thing for simon riley, with puffy slicken lips, shining eyes that see only him in person and in your shameful silly dreams, which makes your thighs rub together almost everytime, silky skin exposed just enough by airy skirts that you wear as if special for him, simon guesses, and he's more than right.

simon feels almost bad, he quit army for better purposes — he had this chance more than anyone else in the forces, and wanted to take full advantage of starting an more quiet, peaceful life with teaching lessons at college, but currently the only thing he takes advantage of is — you.

all the guilt rolls off of him, replacing itself with burning coil in his stomach that makes his broad hips snap purposefully into your backside, plush ass jiggling in front of him and begged to be slapped just right, when a ruler lying nearby falls under his scarred arm, coming against your tender skin with bruising, hard slaps, making you yelp and wail with melodious sobs — “mmph! nn, p — professor riley!„

it's only makes your sloppy pussy gush more slick against his meaty cock, the whole veiny girth stretching your gummy walls and fat tip probes against your cervix with sharp, deep thrusts, leaving you limp and shaking beneath him on the cold, smooth surface of the desk, crumpled papers scattered all around the floor, beneath his feet and sticky from your dripping cleary slick.

simon pounds with purpose, looks how sexy your soft flesh looks scattered with red strikes that ruler left, now laying somewhere long forgotten as his calloused, scarred hands grip your jiggling asscheeks and rounded hips, little skirt crumpled and pushed up enough to open you up to your professor in perverted way, urging him to snarl and fuck you on his hard, throbbing cock harder — “look a' you, such a slutty view, and all because of your professors cock„

you can't even utter a single word, nodding dumbly as you just lay splayed and almost drooling, lips agape to let out incoherent mewls and broken cries of pleasure, pussy drooling and pulsing with each harsh thrust that pounds against your spongy spots so deliciously, fat tip of simon's cock almost nestles against your womb and throb, curling upward to make you shake and sob in pleasure, chanting for him — “s..simon.. mmgh! p — professor!„

he abuses your puffy, pulsing and clenching cunt for what feels like hours, until both of you snap, your hot walls clench and pulse around the fat cock that nestled in you to the brim, clamping and creaming to cover everything with your cum and slick, as simon fills you up rope after rope of thick, potent seed, huffing out growled praises — “good, good fucking girl, take it, jus — fucking take it„ as he rocks his hips, making your cheek squeeze against the cold surface of the wooden desk as your body jolts with each agonizing, overstimulating thrust.

the amount of his cum in you makes your tummy ache, you don't really feel when simon slips his cock out just barely, piercing dark gaze looking hungrily at the creamy mix of fluids on his thick length and how his cum gather in globes to leak out of your clenching hole, before he pushes back again, stuffing your cunny, warm palm moving to lift you off the desk just slightly.

you hear his hoarse chuckle, deep smoky sound as his thick fingers clean the drool off your lips and chin, tilting your head and forcing your bleary, unfocused gaze meet his own, back arching deeper and making your ass jutt out, pressing against simon's hips as he lowers his head to slot his chapped lips against yours, chiseled features rub against your face with slightly ticklish feeling of his light, overgrown stubble.

for a first time in a while, he savors the whole colors of situation, licking into your obediently open mouth gently, sucking on your tongue and lips as you smudge saliva all over his lips and chin, answering him sloppily, an eager sweetling, forcing a deep chuckle off of simon as his palm lays on your throat, feeling your calm pulse as his melted, dark gaze studies your disheveled appearance, thin pale lips curling in so wide, pleased grin as he rumbles — “thinky you deserved the extra credits, dove, did so good for your professor„

maybe, simon doesn't really hate this bubbling feeling inside of him when he sees you, especially when you gaze at him so deliriously, eyelashes fluttering prettily and wet, swollen lips forming into lopsided little smile.

simon riley promised to himself to never come back to his darker side, but does it count when an adorable thing like you holds him in your dainty clutches?

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3.

[sky-is-the-limit]

+18

P: Captain Price x 141!F!Reader

CW: NSFW content, Breeding Kink, Unprotected Sex

WC: 1,588 words

@glitterypirateduck

The scent of his cologne enveloped you, mingling with the subtle aroma of your perfume, creating a heady cocktail of pure primal need.

The fingers around your throat flexed, squeezing your neck firmer as he began pushing his cock further into you. Inch by heavy, agonizing inch, his unyielding hardness speared into your cunt, the thick girth of his cock pulling apart your walls.

"You like the thought of that, doll?" Every word that escaped his lips carried the weight of authority, resonating with a compelling power that demanded attention. His voice was deep and rich, with a velvety smoothness that held an irresistible allure.

The image of you underneath him, offering yourself completely to him, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he took you to the brink of ecstasy and beyond, only made John lose all sense of control he had left.

His touch was both commanding and tender, his hands moving with a sense of purpose as they explored every curve and contour of your body. You were clenching around him so tightly, the warmth of your folds urging him to fuck you senseless.. and so he did.

All you could feel was him inside you, grazing on your most sensitive spots and turning you delirious with pleasure. He was stretching you to your limits and it felt so ecstatic as he kept with his unrelenting thrusts, your cries fueling him to push harder.

Every nerve ending tingled with the remnants of bliss, a lingering echo of the intense pleasure that had washed over you in a tidal wave of sensation

''F-fuck, sir-ah!'' Words fell from your lips, incoherent babbles of his name mixing with your moans creating the most beautiful symphony in the silence of the room. ''So good- so full, fuck.''

Though you knew the affair was wrong, your insatiable desire for him eclipsed all rationality, rendering you indifferent to the consequences.

Despite the looming consequences, you surrendered yourself completely to the intoxicating spell he casted over you. From the moment you were assigned under his command.

In his arms, you found solace from the fucked up monstrosities of the outside world, and for a brief moment, the weight of your forbidden feelings felt almost bearable. For you, the allure of this illicit romance was beyond all reason, leaving you willing to risk everything for the sake of his affections.

In the end, what severe consequences could even measure to those eyes. Blue like the stormy sea, deep and intense, holding a magnetic pull that you found impossible to resist.

And in that fleeting moment, of your bodies intertwined and his prominent features illuminated by the moonlight.. You'd defy the most powerful armies to be held by John Price.

He swiveled his hips, your spine twisting off of the bed as you felt his cockhead drag against your sweet-spot before battering into your cervix. With each and every one of his thrusts, his thick shaft opened up your walls, the velvet hardness stimulating every erogenous zone and setting your nerves afire with pleasure.

Hoarse cries of ecstasy teared from your throat, his cock vehemently surging into you over and over again.

"Answer me." His lips left a trail of fire in their wake, igniting a fervent longing deep within your core.

You arched your neck, offering yourself completely to his overwhelming ministrations, lost in the addictive bliss of his touch as his girthy cock was rearranging your insides with the immediate force and pace of his thrusts.

His hands grappled at your hips, your tits, your shoulders, and your legs, anything to get to ram himself into you. Each thrust was punctuated by growls and clicks from the back of his throat and finally, the right words fell from his lips without a trace of shame.

"You like the thought of me filling you up, don't you?" Wired beyond belief, the implications and consequences of his words were entirely lost on you.

"Yes, ah-" In a voice barely above a whisper, you replied, your words laced with a delicate vulnerability that stirred something primal within him as your nails raked down to his pecks, leaving angry, red welts in their wake.

The pleasure was almost too much, your fingers tightening in their grip on the sheets and trying to drag yourself away from the feeling. With a grunt, Price wrenched your hand out of the sheets, hand circling tightly around the bend of your elbow as he pulled you back towards him. His hips picked back up their rhythm, hand landing a thundering smack on your ass cheek as he fucked into you.

"Yes, what?" He asked, his words punctuated by deep, hard plunges. The blunt head of his cock battered against the supple walls of your cervix, a dull ache forming within your womb and hips from the unforgiving power of his thrusts.

"Yes, sir-" You responded immediately, the honorific just sounding right in every context when it came to that man.

A cry was wrenched from your throat at the feeling of him filling you so completely, not sparing a second before he was pistoning his hips against yours. With your eyes rolling back in your head at the feeling of his tip bullying your cervix, you felt the curve of his dick brushing against that spongy spot inside you. 

"I want you to fuck me again and again until it's spilling out of me," You whimpered, your brain melting underneath John’s weight as you felt his hands grab at your thighs, pressing your knees to your chest as he settled his weight over you. His cock pressed deeper into your core, the deepest anyone had ever been. "Sir."

Your voice was nothing more than a shrill whine, all the air punched out of your lungs at the change in position. His weight was comforting around you as he molded your cunt around his cock. You were sure you would never be the same after this, he had broken you down and rebuilt you in the same breath. 

It was like your normally stoic Captain was lost in a whirlwind of intense emotions. The older man's gaze alone spoke volumes, conveying his depth of feeling and adoration, as words failed to capture the magnitude of his affections.

He could hear the desperation in your voice, the way your lip trembled and brows pinched together as you looked up at him. Surging down to grab your jaw with his hand, he held your face still to press his lips urgently to yours, tongue demanding entrance before he pulled away, string of spit connecting your tongues. 

His grip on your throat tightened, blood rushing in your ears at the light feeling in your head. Your Captain cursed, hips stuttering against yours at the way your clenched around his cock, almost making it hard for him to pull out and press back in smoothly.

"That filthy mouth of yours, angel." The aggression only ramped up the more you dug your nails into him and begged for more. His thrusts became more harsh and quick, brutally slamming his cock into you in an almost primal, animalistic way. 

"What it does to me-" His words came out in fragmented bursts, a mixture of prayers and curses intermingled with the fervent pleas of a man pushed to the brink.

"I'm gonna keep fucking you-" His voice was a sinful warble next to your ear, his soft pants and grunts making your skin burn with arousal as he kept slowly rocking into you, moving your legs higher up to set on his shoulders for a better angle, "until you're carrying my child, fuck-"

Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. He sounded absolutely wrecked. He sounded like he was begging, like he was praying, even as he whispered crazed little promises in your ear.

A low growl rumbled in his throat, his brows furrowed whilst his mandibles unfolded and folded in an erratic manner. "So everyone in here knows who you belong to." With drool dribbling out from the corners of your bruised lip, you stared down at your tummy, almost mesmerized by the bump inflating your guts whenever your Captain's tip buried itself against your deepest parts. "Is that what you want, angel?"

With every beat of his heart, he felt an overwhelming surge of euphoria, a blissful ecstasy that consumed him entirely.

"That's all I want, sir. Please, please-" Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes as you plead, spilling over onto your flushed cheeks as you surrendered yourself completely to the overwhelming sensation coursing through your veins.

The hand that was once on your midsection, slipped down to your now oversensitive clit. His rapid breathing mingling with your own became increasingly labored, both of your carnal needs for each other nearing the precipice. He doubled down on your sensitive nub, gaining him moans akin to pleasured screams from you.

In the presence of such authority and seduction, it was impossible to resist the intoxicating allure of his voice, his gaze, his every gesture. Captain Price was a master of persuasion and in his presence, resistance was futile.

It was a feeling of pure, unbridled euphoria, a fleeting glimpse of heaven that left you feeling simultaneously fragile and invincible.

And as you looked up at him with eyes brimming with need, you knew that you'd follow him to the ends of the earth and back, if only he'd grant you the privilege of loving you in return.

[bearwithegg]

Fight Like a Girl || B.Blackwood || Part 3

Oh man this part nearly fucking killed any mental capacity i had over the last week (you should see the other guy) probably final part goobers

PART 1 HERE || PART 2 HERE ||

Kieran!Benjicot x f!Reader

Words: 5.2k

Warnings: Blood, Injury, Gore, graphic descriptions of injuries

SPECIAL THANK YOU TO @spider-stark @venomnyx @karlachs-soldier for putting up with my insane ramblings while i took 500000 points of psychic damage trying to write this part difhlrdh

Tags: @nixtape-foryou @roseheart5

***

A swing from behind is all it took to bring you down. Amongst the bleating chaos it was hard to keep one's mind in focus, you were at no fault for that. A yell rips from your throat, but not due to the pain - that came much later - merely from surprise. Body and mind barely register the gash as you plummet into the mud stamped ground, another fallen to join the field of death littered with decimated bodies at the hands of the Green’s Army.

The swordsman, clad in the treacherous sigil of the false King goads you, a reminder of why you even waged this futile plight in the first place. Despite being prone and the bog beneath you seeping into the wound on your back, you do not let up because how could you not go out without a fight.

Distant shouts confirm this, you were on your own, no one was nearby to help you now. Garrus. You think. Where was he? He was only here a moment ago. But you couldn’t think straight. How long had this senseless battle gone on for? Mere moments like the striking of lightning or hours, like a storm brewing? Thank the Gods there were no Dragons to meet, only their cowardly foot soldiers, yet you look into the sky one last moment. No Dragons — only gloomy overcast.

Chest heaving as the pain slowly begins to spread from the wound outward, sharp and hot like the sun had touched you itself.

It would be easier to keep your eyes closed, accept death like one would a beloved and it was difficult to remain awake. Especially hearing the distant call of your brother's voice, you cannot will yourself to go; not yet.

A shaky war cry wrenches from a deep place of emotion, the swordsman while above you to prepare his final blow did not expect such a wordless decree. You will not win. A swift and firm stomp into the knee, buckling it the wrong way knocks him off course with a yelp of surprise. Certain you heard his bones snap or was it the remnants of battle in the distance? Regardless, you rise up and with a dagger unyielding in a firm grip and swipe left, across the neck exposed above his leathers.

Blood soaks you, like a torrential downpour from one of his compromised arteries. His body falls like a tree in the woods, indiscriminate of what it falls on because his body topples right onto yours. The gurgling sounds of him choking on his own blood and clawing at you distract from his limp weight and pressure of being buried beneath bodies.

It’ll haunt you for life, you think, the dying breaths of a man you killed echoing like a deranged symphony.

The pain came in waves, some more intense than others as you lay beneath a corpse, unable to move it off your body. The way your shoulder screams at the slightest movement, there is no room for doubt that the cut is deep, perhaps it was even to the bone.

You stopped calling for help, only until your voice shriveled up. It must have been hours, certainly, the distant sounds of metal clashing had long since ceased, and the only shouting was a mixture of victory and loss. Or was that your brother's voice? Beckoning from beyond the veil? Were you dead? Did mother await you in the whims of the afterlife also?

“Gods be good.” A voice aghast, pulls you from a delirious haze. “Another one!”

It was difficult to open your eyes, despite the dreary grey skies it burned to look up, the boy kneeling over you was smiling with relief, a reassuring hand on your face.

Another voice, further along the field you assumed, drew nearer.

“Send word for more men lad, the wounded will need to be taken back and treated.” That deep punctuating voice, familiar and warm.

“Help me with him first - he's stuck,” the boy grabs the corpse's arm and starts to drag it, the movement only serving to push you deeper into a blanket of mud, sinking you further into the ground and causing you to grit and whine.

“Mordin, leave the boy with me — go.” The command was firm and sharp. Scattering footsteps sloshing in mud indicated his swift departure. Silence followed. Thinking you must have imagined the brief exchange had it not been for a sudden weightlessness. The body that obstructed your movements and inhibited breathing now was moved off you, and you took your first full breath in what felt like hours.

If you simply had not heard him before seeing him, you'd have hardly recognised Benji. Covered head to toe in blood, a stark impression of his notorious namesake witnessed in person. And while this was further proof of how dangerous he was capable of being — his eyes were somber looking down at you.

“Benji,” you wheezed gratefully, with all the strength you could muster to reach out to him, you could barely move an inch.

His eyes widen, recognition flashing across his face and he drops to his knees beside you. It was a safe assumption that he didn't realize it was you under all the gore and viscera. “You were supposed to be in the back lines, what the hells are you doing all the way out here?” He reprimands, eyes flitting over you to inspect your wounds.

“Ambush,” you pant softly, “from the west.” breathing was beginning to get increasingly difficult through the pain. It was deep. His face contorts halfway into panic and guilt, you barely get out an airy laugh, “at least I held onto my sword this time.”

Following his gaze down by your side, your fingers gripped the hilt of the sword with such vigor, it felt like your hand cramped into the position.

His head drops and a bittersweet laugh falls from his lips, “you jest in a time like this? Foolish girl.” Though he did not say the words, the twinkle in his eyes was enough to know that regardless of the outcome he was proud of you.

“It hurts,” you manage to whisper through shaky lips, the silence that followed was louder than the wind that swept across the battlefield. His eyes never leave yours, they search for something, for what, you aren’t sure of but he hardens his resolve and looks up briefly, bottom lip tightly trapped between his teeth.

With a gentle tug, he pulls the dagger from your fingers, they too felt rigid and locked into their grip. Repeating the same motion for your sword and looping them both into his belt. You watch him with care because if you aren’t distracted then the pain will rear its ugly head, which is something you wished to avoid. He unbuckles one of his bracers, yanking hard at the straps before holding it close to you, “bite down on this, I must move you to the others.”

You suck in a breath, eyes partially wide at the thought of being found out due to a measly back wound. Adrenaline or panic, it wasn’t certain but you found enough strength to hold onto his wrist with a vice-like grip, voice shaky through uneven breaths, “find Garrus, he can stitch me up.” With that, your hand relaxes and slips from his wrist, falling slack against your chest.

“Where else would I take you? You dolt,” he smiles, lightheartedly and shakes his brace at you again, a silent push to do as he says.

You relent without further question, trust these days was as valuable as it was rare but you trust Benji — for better or worse. He had kept your secret, trained you personally and now was saving your life. The list of debt you owe the man increased tenfold by the week it seemed. Getting upright was half the battle, though try as he might to conceal his troubled expression upon seeing the wound on your back, he did a poor job of it. It must have been bad.

The pain had soared to such a high intensity, you could hardly remember the journey from battlefield to the safety of your tent… no this wasn’t your tent. Consciousness fleeting as the trees move and the scenery changes; was that the river you could smell? Or was it the lingering scent of death that wafted through the air? Familiar colours of House Blackwood embroidered the interior of the canvas in your surroundings — were you in Benji’s tent?

It held a surprising amount of warmth than you expected, a welcoming embrace disguised as an affirmation that mortal peril was not as close when you were guided by the hands of allies. You awoke on your stomach, needling and sharp pain coursing through the already tender skin of the ugly laceration parted onto you.

“Be still, Little Clover… Just a few more,” Garrus murmurs, his fingers featherlight against the skin of your back. The pressure you felt, merely the piercing of needle and cord, stitching your broken body back together. While painful, the journey ahead for recovery was no doubt going to be longer and harder. Recalling the books and their bountiful knowledge you used to read in the safety of Stylguard, first person accounts of severe wounds rarely acknowledge that pain is often a good sign. You hadn’t lost feeling in either shoulders nor arms, though this was not something you celebrated until much later on in recovery.

“Put me out of my misery,” you grit, a groan expelling from your throat, eyes clamped shut and slightly watering.

His amused chuckles blend together with another, someone else was in the tent – you need not ask yourself who either, “I fear it would make me a dishonourable man to execute another while they are unarmed.” Miscreant, you think, yet smile at Benji’s jab until inevitably wincing as the cord threads through marred flesh. There is a beat of silence but an air of mirth, “you may yet still fight like shit but your aversion to pain is admirable as well as your ferocity. I cannot say the same for the others with less severe injuries.”

You forget yourself, the company around you, because it was easy when Benji was near and scoff lightly, “pain is no stranger for me. None of these men have felt the pain of having a monthly blood, and they would cower at the pain it brings.” Another pause, the amusement in the air ripped from the drop of your words – taboo to speak freely about such delicate and ‘disgusting’ things especially in the presence of men, you clear your throat, “apologies.” But you weren’t sorry and felt as though you shouldn’t have to be. You had heard far worse from the mouths of men during dinner.

Garrus had thankfully finished not soon after, urging you to rest before departing to retrieve food for the three of you. Though your hands and the rest of you reeked of mud and rust from the dried blood, you needed to be clean of today even if the internal wounds will never heal, you could still wash away the stench of a dead man. Rising slowly, you are nearly startled back onto the bed by Benji rushing to aid you.

“I thought you left,” You reprimand, brows scrunched in response to the discomfort and pain. The undershirt you wore back to front for modesty sake, threatened to slip down your shoulders and expose more than what decency desired. The lone tie that kept the fabric together enough to stop it from completely falling threatened to undo every movement you made.

“I thought you were told to rest,” he counters, lips pressed into a frown, eyes looking away. “This is also my tent,” his indignance would have prompted laughter if the situation was different. You weren’t a complete imbecile, understanding that coming to his tent was the best chance at keeping your secret.

You give him a withering look, “and how does one rest covered in entrails and dirt?” Easy for him to enforce Garrus’ words, he had already cleaned the dirt and blood off his face and hands. He pulls a face, conceding at your words and makes no further comment, though flushed in his cheeks. “Thank you,” in your eyes a glint of amusement twinkles, “no need to sulk Benji — it’s merely a bath, not another battle.”

His jaw sets while his hands rest on his hips, eyes narrowed slightly at your jeer, “that is not the point nor the principle — do you intend walking all the way to your tent to wash yourself then?” Now his finger is out, wagging alongside his words as if he was admonishing a child for a minor wrongdoing.

“And you care about principles, now?” Your brow quirks, you have half a mind to mirror his stance if it weren’t for the fact you had been quite literally sewn together not even ten minutes prior. So you don’t. But the thought was enough to elicit a smirk. “If it will cease your pedantic worrying, I will bathe here,” your eye twitches with the jolt of pain shooting up your arm from the lazy gesture across the tent.

His cheeks begin to redden, as do yours at such an improper suggestion, “What is a man without honour and principle?” He huffs slightly.

“Your flair for the dramatic is ill suited for a man of such vicious notoriety.” You hardly suppress a smile, tongue poking into your cheek. Silence follows, either he is grossly offended by your words or has recognised that you are just jesting. Nevertheless, you slowly cross the tent, each step an agonizing shock through the back and shoulders.

You feel his gaze follow you before sighing, a soft chortle slipping in at the end of his exhale, “if you were as well-skilled with a sword as you are with that sharp tongue of yours, I’d fear for our enemy.”

Slowly turning at his words you regard him with a deadpan expression only muddied with a knowing look of your eyes, “stop being bitter and get me some hot water to put in the tub.”

Benji has often looked at you with curiosity, amusement, pride and a varying array of affection but he has never once looked at you with the dumbfounded expression laden on his face like he has just now. Even in times like this, you often forget that situation aside, the two of you were highborn and at this instance you weren’t speaking to a Lord with a matter of reverence but rather speaking to him like a servant.

”Apologies,” you clear your throat, “Lord Blackwood stop being bitter and get me some hot water to put in the tub, please.”

You could almost hear him thinking, the dead air in the tent was more than palpable but the thickness of something else continued to weigh heavy, as it so often did when the two of you were alone.

“You tempt the Gods with that inane behaviour and crass mouth, you are in good tiding with fate for me to not take that tongue of yours,” an empty threat really, he’s told you that before but even if that hadn’t been the case it was clear he wasn’t being serious. Even his jab is futile the second he concedes and goes to the hearth without any more complaints.

“Tongue or not, I would still find a way to torment you all the same.” You laugh and then promptly wince, he thankfully had not seen.

The quiet moments filled with lighthearted ribs back and forth seemed to be a sliver of the heavens placed inbetween unyielding moments of hardship, pain and suffering. A light one might see at the end of a cavernous abyss. Small moments, often menial, were filled with such delight that it reminded you that this is what life was. Yet these intermissions sprinkled throughout a world wrought with its own dark and poisonous acts of undeniable misery also served to remind you of what you were robbed of. A nice life. A happy life.

“Clover.”

An uncharacteristically gentle prod beckons you from thoughts of what could’ve been in a different lifetime. You blink, grounding yourself in reality — Benji, he stands before you, head tilted to the side as it often did, part of the many idiosyncrasies that made him, him. A hand hovering in your space, as if he was conflicted about reaching all the way out or perhaps it was to steady you.

“I am well,” you reassure, offering a smile and slowly make your way to the tub. Though, you supposed it was less a tub and more a misshapen barrel but it served the same purpose. “I assure you I will fare better once I rid myself of this filth.” You grip the sides of the tub, disgusted by your own reflection sullied with blood, dirt and sweat.

The water was not nearly warm enough but you cared more for cleanliness than comfort in this instance. The eyes that looked back up through the rippling water were not the same as the ones that looked in the mirror at Stylguard while hacking at once lengthy locks. That seemed so distant, the memory already thinly covered in a milky haze.

A sigh slips through parted lips, now came the difficult part.

Undressing — that is. Notoriously difficult to do with impaired range of motion in both shoulders. Which is how you ended up in this current situation.

Through burning cheeks, feeling as if you were suffocating from how thick the air seemed to get — if it weren’t for waning patience you’d have an amused smile at the farce the two of you found yourself in. Headstrong and ever the eminent gentleman (despite your often teasing sleights), Benji stared forward, unyielding and pointed to juxtapose the position of his body. The only body part of his remotely positioned toward you was the arm he outstretched behind him, which can’t have been very comfortable and added to the absurdity of the situation.

His fingers quite skillfully disrobing you without the advantage of sight at least meant that the two of you would be rid of such embarrassment sooner rather than later. Though it was ever the difficult feat, you could only raise both arms so high before the tender flesh pulled against the cord that kept you together.

“Oh for goodness sake,” you sigh frustratedly, feeling his hand suddenly stop, fingers barely hovering over exposed skin. The irritation was running deep, seeping through your skin now like an unchecked itch begging to be scratched but it was all over your body, “you would not feel the need to engage in such foolish hoop jumping if I was one of your men, just turn around and do it properly.”

“I would never compromise a Lady’s honour, even by looking,” his answer was immediate.

You’d have strangled him if you were capable of doing so. On the contrary there was part of you, old you, who buckled at the knees at such a sweet admission from a handsome man.

“At this current juncture, this Lady is asking you to,” you huff exasperatedly, patience wearing thin the longer it takes to do such a menial task; not even when you were a babe did it take this long to fret over mere bathing. In an instant the atmosphere has shifted almost entirely, the lighthearted mood sucked out into a vacuum and in its place something else.

The two of you were running circles around each other, a common occurrence that had first reared its head mere days ago. Two fronts whirling like the crucial hours before a violent tempest ravages the skies during a storm, unwilling to acknowledge what brewed in the centre of it all.

He clears his throat, you hear the rustling of his leathers as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, “you have put me in an impossible position by asking this of me – are you certain?”

“I have trust in no one else,” you affirm, quietly.

“Very well,” his footsteps are slow, careful – as though he ought not to startle you. Fearsome as Benji was, he could never frighten you. There was an innate warmth to his presence, so comforting and homely that it was hard to believe that he was capable of such ruthless and vicious acts of violence.

His hands were equally gentle, sliding the undershirt off each shoulder with such delicate handling, it made you feel like an heirloom almost. Almost. The rough fabric grazes over the fresh wound, pulling you back into the whims of reality, a sharp hiss pushed through gritted teeth.

“Apologies,” he murmurs, breath faintly fanning the back of your neck and in tandem sending a jolt down your spine. Not pain. Hackles raised though not engaging your fight or flight, nor spurring on fear. The feeling that had been simmering as a third party in the background of each encounter of late, an unspoken presence sifted between two finally uncovers itself – desire.

Gods, was it not the time for this, you think.

You unlace the trousers as loose as possible, making it easier for him to slip them past your hips. Part of the fabric felt solid, dried mud turned clay with a mixture of blood made it quite the task to peel off your legs.

Behind, you feel him move away, the warmth that radiated from him gone in an instant. The clinking of his belt buckle made your ears prick, but instead of querying, you remained silent, fearful that your voice would not be so steady – you step into the tub. Gooseflesh instantly rippled across your skin from the fact the water was far from warm, though it mattered naught as the dirt and blood slowly disseminated throughout the water.

With both legs in you start to visibly relax, no longer feeling as though you wished to chisel your skin off. By the time Benji has returned by the tub side, your body is submerged. The sleeves of his undershirt are rolled up, no longer wearing his belts or swords, answering the silent question you had mere moments prior.

When you finally look at his face, his eyes are already on yours, golden flecks sprinkled throughout. As if he couldn’t be any more impossibly handsome. His gaze is unmoving, even as he slowly reaches into the water and pulls your arm up by your wrist, thumb and forefinger coiled around it firmly. But not painfully.

“I can wash my own hands,” you find your voice as he begins to knead softly into your hand with the soaked cloth. Blood no longer coating your hands, dirt rubbed from the space between your fingers.

“I do not doubt it,” the outer corners of his lips twitch upward, suggesting a smile. When he was not intently looking at your face, his eyes drifted upward or past you but never down. And despite the frustration it caused in the lead up to this, you were grateful to a certain degree but also incredibly heartwarmed by him keeping his word.

Despite the cold water lapping at your collar bones and encasing your body, every meticulous adjustment of his grip on you or every tentative touch made you heat up. A permanent flush warming your cheeks as he quietly scrubs your forearm, upper arm and carefully washes your shoulders.

Slowly but surely, with every pass of the cloth accompanied by a steady and tender hand, you felt cleaner not just visibly but also internally. The blood that once stained skin, stood as a mark from the gods, a forever blight that threatened your soul for damnation, now had been washed away.

“Does it get easier?” You whisper, staring off into the tent.

He stops, the cloth remaining pressed into the crook of your neck as he exhales in thought. You barely shift, turning almost imperceptibly as your eyes meet his and there’s a flicker of concern? Surprise? Undoubtedly in response to the haunted look all over your face, “killing people,” you clarify before returning to stare back into nothing.

There was a brief stillness in the air, disrupted only by him clearing his throat. As gentle as a breeze, his fingers caress and cup your chin, seemingly holding your head in place as he begins to softly scrub at the dried muck on your face, “no.” His voice was deep yet soft, unwavering as if he’s thought of this question before. “It never gets easier, you simply learn to live with it.”

Live with it.

A macabre way to look at it, you think, but it seems to be a healthier way to deal with such a gruesome act, even if it was honourable to die in battle. You wonder if the Usurper and his family of parasites felt this moral conundrum when they murdered your brother.

You are doubtful.

“How does one live with such blood on their hands?” You ask, perhaps he was the best suited to answer such question, many slain under his own hand but even of your own observation Benji hardly fit the parameters of a well-adjusted Lord in Westeros. No one called ‘Bloody Ben’ could ever be well-adjusted, but it was hard to discern if years of bloodshed fractured him or if it had been there since birth.

Your head is turned, ever so slightly by his guiding forefinger and thumb still perched under your chin, his eyes bore into you but shows no ire or annoyance, “I honour the fallen. At night before I fall asleep, each name is passed to the Gods and if their name dies with them then faces suffice.” He cleans a particularly stubborn patch of dried blood on your forehead.

It was surprisingly pious of him — Blackwoods never quite took to the Faith of the Seven, much like northerners they remained loyal to the old gods yet Benji had never expressed piety like this.

“Even the slain Brackens?” The guileless smile on your face was an attempt to move on from the grim conversation you accidentally started.

The cloth hovers over your upper lip as he drops his head ever so slightly and chuckles, “even Brackens need honour in death. Gods know they lack it in life.” He presses the cloth onto the dried blood over your lip.

Once he’s rubbed it away, as if moving of its own free will, your hand comes up to grip his wrist, albeit weakly. Gaze sticking to your own, exhaling through parted lips as you attempt to get the words unlodged from your throat.

“I must thank you,” You breathe out. For what, you weren’t sure but it was the only way to express gratitude for the endless list of things he has done for you. You would have to thank him for a lifetime alone for what he had done.

The hand beneath your jaw shifts, his thumb runs across your lower lip to your jaw, just the mere action feels like dragging the tip of a hot needle across your skin in the best way possible, “that is not necessary,” he murmurs.

Possessed or merely a complete lapse in sanity, you will never know, but his soft gaze compelled you — no, bewitched you to lean forward and press your lips to his. Searing hot, your body ignited with a warmth that was unfounded until now, as though the barely lukewarm bath was filled with steamy water.

It was short, chaste and quite unexpected for both parties.

You pull away, aware of how hot your cheeks felt, your grip on his wrist loosens. Actions finally sinking in both your own mind and his. Like silt that had been kicked up in the shallow divots of a creek, finally settling into clarity.

Cheeks beet red and an unreadable expression apparent, the hand caressing your face had dropped.

Perhaps you miscalculated. The hammering of your heart was so loud there was no way in hells he couldn’t hear it. It was as booming as rolling thunder in your ears.

The two of you stare at one another, a silent conversation, a silent question hanging in the air between the two of you. Your mouth opens first, the beginning syllables of an apology croaking out before they are abruptly cut off by his own lips. This had been less of a shock than the first, it felt more needy and messy.

His hands came up to hold your head, thumbs grazing softly over your cheeks. He held you firmly as if you were going to disappear in a puff of smoke and you felt as though you might do just that from how light you felt. His tender caress accelerated the beating of your heart and jumbled any important thought crossing your mind, the only thoughts barraging your mind were of him, his hands, his lips, his voice; Him.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, if you had any strength you would have pulled him toward you with a fierce urgency. It’s almost painful that you can’t. The air around you two is static, tempestuous and intense all at once, like two stormfronts finally converging before an explosive storm.

“I’m afraid I could only part with —“

The two of you rip apart at a speed that sends Benji careening backward, toppling onto the ground and you sloshing a large wave of water over the tubs edge. Oops.

“— the…duck stew…” Garrus’ words slowly die in his throat as he stands dumbfounded by the entrance of the tent, two measly plates of stew held in each hand and still steaming. Eyes looking to Benji and then back over to you several times, mouth open and eyebrows raised.

The pause seemed to have gone for a century. And neither you nor Benji would be the first to break it.

“I forgot the bread,” Garrus finally says, putting the plates down on the nearest surface and turning back out of the tent without another word or look.

You shyly looked over at Benji who remained firmly planted on the ground, his cheeks looked as red and hot as yours felt. The thundering of your heart steadily continued partly from the after effects of the kiss and being caught red-handed by the man who was essentially a father to you.

Benji is the first to break, a deep laugh shakes through him before audibly falling past his lips, this in turn makes you suppress a laugh by biting on your lip. Though, ultimately you are unsuccessful and join his symphony of laughs with your own. Not even the pain that pulsed from each laugh was enough to stop you.

The two of you may have plenty to answer for later, but perhaps that wasn’t so bad in the grand scheme of things. A more gruesome fate awaited outside the safety of this moment — of the camp — it would be unwise to not take pleasure in the small mundane moments.

For once it was a kind reminder that maybe, after the conflict ceases, there is room for you to enjoy the life you wished for.

[choupistickfaitdesbetises]

Two movies, just one co-star…

This morning, I want to thank Dru… sincerely !

Yes, I admit that an hour of podcast on Dru’s faith was not worth my delirious enthusiasm. I was wrong or almost. Why ?

Just for the presentation made by the host: I’ll skip over “Dru’s life and work” to focus on Armie :

The host only talks about 2 films and one co-star… We’ll skip over all the other prestigious films, the great directors and the major actors who shared a little moment with Armie 😁

It wasn’t even mentioned, just enough time to say Social Network and Winklevoss twins and pshittt…

Here is “Call Me By Your Name, a gay love story and Timmy Timothée Chalamet”, repeated several times in the podcast… no, calm your joy, not by Dru.

There are names that burn and these are among them.

It warms the heart to see that 8 years later, there is still a well-intentioned soul who reminds the people that despite the will of some ... it existed, and that it is possible to pronounce CMBYN, Armie Hammer and Timothée Chalamet in a same sentence without being struck by lightning. Yes, they will have met, they played together, participated in creating a masterpiece and more ... but it seems that it is a secret and the main interested parties who refuse to talk about it today do not even realize that they are shining the spotlight on this subject.

But let's get back to Dru:

Who had the crazy idea to invite her to ask her after 8 years how she reacted when her son agreed to play in this little independent film? I'll skip over the lady's incredible attempts at fallacious explanations to explain why she didn't want her son to play in CMBYN and focus only on the parallel between Oliver and Armie's character: Oliver comes home to get married after having had a gay love affair for a summer, while Armie comes home to find his wife after having had a gay love affair for the summer, not sorry, officially it was after the filming of a sublime love story between two human beings...

Thanks Dru for confirming what we already knew.

It's always good to have first-hand information!

Just a word of advice, read the book and you'll see that it's about love.

[lialacleaf]

To Care For A Woman

Chapter 7

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: You join the army as a last-ditch effort to avoid destitution, but when you sustain an injury protecting Lieutenant Ghost and earn yourself a medical discharge, you're stuck all over again. Or maybe not...

Warnings: Tension, Simon wants to care for you, small reader, a little bit spicy but not NSFW, man worrying about a woman's safety, typical cannon violence, deception I'm sorry it's unedited...

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

A loud clatter awoke you from a pleasantly deep sleep, and you blinked away the fog slowly. You had a feeling your husband was in the kitchen judging by the lack of a body beside you in bed.

You pulled the covers off and threw on a robe, stuffing your feet into your slippers as you headed for the kitchen.

You poked your head around the corner, watching as Simon leaned against the counter in front of the teapot on the stove.

“Good morning,” you called, pressing against his side and rubbing over his shoulders.

“Mornin’ love.”

Your brow furrowed slightly and you cocked your head at him. “You sound awful,” you mumbled as he stifled a cough.

“M’ fine,” he mumbled as the kettle whistled. He poured himself a cup of tea, trying not to cough as he took a sip.

“Simon,” you scolded in a warning tone, and he eyed you warily.

You’d made a strict agreement with him. No more lies.

“Jus’ a sore throat, I’ll be fine,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You took the opportunity to press the back of your hand against his face, and your eyes widened.

“You’re burning up! Back in bed, now,” you stated firmly, swatting at his arm.

“I’ve gotta work,” he argued, leaning against the counter for support.

You gave him a firm glare and pointed towards the bedroom. “You’re not going anywhere like this, go back to bed.”

Simon groaned, but obliged, setting his half-drunk mug in the sink. “Fine,” he rasped, moving towards the bedroom on unsteady feet.

You rolled your eyes and moved towards the fridge, Moonbeam nuzzling your bag leg as you shuffled around the kitchen. There were a few cloves of garlic left and half a box of chicken broth.

It didn't take long for you to whip up a small home remedy and pour it into a mug. Simon was cocooned in the duvet cover when you returned, and it was an effort not to laugh.

The mighty Ghost, defeated by the common cold.

You were tempted to take a picture to show his teammates, but Simon hated Cameras, especially when he didn't have his mask, and you were feeling gracious enough to not torment your husband while he was ill.

"What're ya smilin' bout' over there?" he asked, eyelids drooping. His accent was thicker and more apparent, and he looked very much as if he was melting into the pillows he'd laid against the headboard.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you whispered with a grin as you held the mug out to him. He frowned deeply, grimacing as he brought it to his nose.

"Cheers," he muttered before downing the drink as quickly as he could, trying to conceal the urge to gag.

~

Despite his delirious insistence that he was fine, Simon's fever spiked around noon. You weren't exactly sure what to do, questioning if you should take him to the hospital, or try a home remedy to give him some relief.

After a brief call with Dr. Radcliffe, you were instructed to let him burn it out, and settled yourself in bed beside him with a sigh.

At some point Simon had shimmied out of his shirt, his upper body covered in sweat, and you placed the back of your hand on his forehead with a frown.

His head laid in your lap rather limply, and every once in a while he'd let out a soft whine of discomfort. You shook your head in exasperation, stroking your fingers through his hair.

"I swear if you came in contact with some sort of bio-weapon and didn't tell me..." you mumbled softly.

"You think I'd bring something like that home to you?" he croaked out, displaying more awareness than you'd expected from him.

"No," you sighed, stroking the back of his head with your fingertips.

"Exactly," he rasped, and you rolled your eyes.

"Nice to see you're feeling better enough to argue," you teased.

"M' not arguing," he mumbled, eyes barely open.

"You gave him a soft 'mhm' and tucked the covers a little tighter around his body, watching as his eyelids closed. Simon slept soundly to the sensation of your nails running across his back, your touch stopping over the exit wound of a bullet on his shoulder.

You pressed your lips together firmly, remembering the sight of him going down after covering you. Your thumb brushed over the spot delicately, and you closed your eyes.

You wouldn't be here if he hadn't gotten shot. You would probably still be a part of the 141, or you'd be dead if he had simply decided to leave you there.

Still, you couldn't help but feel anxiety gnaw at you now that you weren't out there with him. Did anyone have his back in your place?

You didn't want him to come home in a body bag, but you doubted he'd indulge you in just how risky his work was. You couldn't help but wish there was something you could do to keep him safe.

you let out a deep sigh, allowing yourself to drift off to sleep.

~

It was dark, and the wind felt like ice as it kissed your skin. You should have been dressed more appropriately for the cold, but you weren't. You were running down the street in an unfamiliar place. The only thing that guided you was the sound of Simon's voice, calling out for you as if his life depended on it.

You pushed past people, the shout of your captain following you in the distance, but you ignored it. You needed to find Simon.

His call eventually led you to an iron gate, and you tore at the chains around the bars in a desperate attempt to get inside.

"Y/N!" there were people chasing you, faces you barely recognized in your delirious state. You thought you saw Johnny, the Captain, even your mother.

"Y/n, there's nothing you can do!"

You climbed over the gate, running after Simon's voice as the wind carried it to you.

You were suddenly running through a graveyard, your eyes searching out a familiar name on the headstones until you found his.

Simon Riley.

"Simon?" you whispered.

A hand shot out from the ground, waving around frantically as if trying to find help.

You threw yourself to your knees, momentarily wondering about the lack of pain in your left leg, as you began to dig at the dirt around the hand with your fingernails.

"Y/n, you've got to leave him, he's not there anymore!"

You felt tears stream down your face as Johnny and Captain Price pulled you away from the grave.

"He's right there! Can't you see him? He's there!" you wailed.

"Look again, y/n," your mother scolded, and suddenly you were looking at a hole in the ground with an empty coffin. "He's just a ghost. That's all he is. Meant to disappear."

You shook your head as tears streamed down your face. No. Simon wasn't just Ghost. He wouldn't disappear, he wouldn't leave-

Your eyes snapped open as your chest rose and fell rapidly. A dream. It had just been a silly dream.

Simon’s fever must have broken during the night, as he was reading a book in bed beside you. He watched as you stared up at him sleepily, and gently brushed some hair out of your face.

"Feeling better?" you asked as you slowly sat up.

"A bit..." he watched you closely, concern written in his expression. "Are you alright?"

You nodded, nuzzling into his side. "Fine. Everything's fine."

AN: I love some angsty foreshadowing ~ I promise this has a happy ending...

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[valenishere]

Sagau Idea

I'm not that good with writing YouPoV's so there may be some odd usage of they's and thems then switching to "you"'s. this'll be stock full of typos so be warned

Mentions of injury, implied murder, blood, and implied cult

It's been a long while since I've gotten into Self-aware genshin aus, reading the fluffiest scenes to straight up gore. And theres this concept I saw about where the creator (basically, you) can make any oc come to life and help them out. (this one read it s really good. They also expanded on it go read it too its a really neat build-up on it. this one)

And as a DnD enjoyer as well... there's this idea thats been brewing in my head whenever i think back to it.

What if in Imposter!au where they're being constantly being hunted... after getting cornered in one of the nations (in the Chasm for example) they get desperate and try out an idea they don't think would work.

While resting after being in the brink of death(again) in a place Teyvat has helped you conceal, your thoughts wander. You think, why is there even a Creator? There isn't supposed to be one. That kinda concept just disrupts everything they know about the game. It's a ridiculous concept. In your delirious state, you think, "I wish that just disappears... Then i wouldn't be..."

Then you remebered the curious ability you've recently unlocked in your "adventures". The ability to create characters, with some limitations. It took you quite a bit to adjust to your newfound ability and its caveats, resulting in a few heartbreaking loss on the way.

But as a DnD player, overcoming the death of your beloved characters quickly is a mental fortitude you've developed. And it's handy that you've already made a few characters for your past sessions before landing in Teyvat. It saved you from being one-shotted right from the start.

Although now... You're down to only one left.

"... I'm so tired..."

The mental stress of being in a constant state of danger, paranoia, hunger, pain, and exhaustion have worn you down to a point where you can't even think up of more characters to make up for the one's that have recently passed. You slipped up so bad because of sleeplessness that your last capable party of characters died and a hole was speared through your gut too.

As you lay bleeding on the cold ground, with only a talking mushroom to keep you company, you wrack your brain to put together a proper character but... you really can't. You can't even think straight. Not with the recent information you've found out.

The so-called Creator is now creating their very own characters, their very own people/army, through alchemy, and is now sending them after you, thus increasing your hunters by double. And on top of the already powerful vision-holders (of course they're powerful, you made them that way), you figured... "Ah... I'm fucked..."

Knowing you might as well be as good as done now, you didn't even bother bringing out the last of your characters to heal you. It's not like healing yourself will make you forget about this lifelong trauma--

... Forget?

...

A fleeting thought.

A dumb fleeting thought. A very dumb one at that.

One that will for sure backfire in your face if you do it wrong. And quite frankly, it could spell the end for this world, even for the one they call Creator.

... But it's not like you have anything else to lose.

And so, within the dim light of the mushroom, you painstakingly start to write. Word for word, cramming everything information you know, as deatiled as you can make it into bringing it into life. A character you've never tried making before. Something that could possibly end your suffering. Or make it worse.

You honestly don't know if you're doing it right. After all, you've never tried something like it before.

"What are you making this time?' the ever so curious mushroom asked.

You grin, a manic look in your eyes. "Either my stupidest... or my brightest idea yet."

It's not long befere you finished. You gaze upon your finished product and you have to say... it's even more fleshed out than your best characters. And that quick sketch you drew... you swear those hollow eyes are following you already. That may be just the blood loss talking.

"That's... one ugly worm you've drawn..." The mushroom hums, like it can just see the monstrosity that you've created.

You chuckle breathlessly, looking almost solemn with what you're about to do. Well... it' not wrong. But...

"This is my kid. Their name is... Falseh. Get along well with them... okay?"

0===|>>>>>.

The very ground trembles as the Lord of Geo strides through the dark tunnels, a dark look in his eyes and a spear in his hand. If his presence wasn't enough, the murderous intent rolling off of him in waves is enough to deter any beasts from crossing his path.

The imposter was last seen slinking around the depths of the Chasm by one of the Tianquan's agents. Although failing to execute the imposter the first chance they got with their incompetence, Morax have to commend the Qixing for being able to find them even in the depths of the earth.

For some reason, the land seems to reject his commands from time to time now. He was baffled as to why his beloved Maker is hindering him in fulfilling his given mission but he's just been informed that the land defiance of him is due to the imposter infecting the land with their vile abilities.

Now, he's even more hellbent on making sure to drive his spear through the imposters heart and presenting it to his Grace. He won't miss a second time.

His eyes sharpens as a he a cavern just up ahead, soft blue light spilling through entrance. Tightening his grip on his spear, the power of Geo gathers in his other, ready to skewer someone five times into death if he so wishes.

He steps through the entrance and immediately lands on a figure, leaning prone under a giant glowing mushroom. He relaxes a bit. He recognizes this place. It's a bit close to the Land of Verdure, Sumeru. He needs to be careful. He can't be caught flaunting his power on another Archons domain after all.

Approaching the figure, he gets a bit surprised as they twitch, looking up to him through their hair. They try to talk, but all they can manage are quiet wheezes.

'Oh. They're still breathing. That's good.' Zhongli kneels down beside them, looking them over. They look like they've been dragged through the Abyss and back. Their midriff is bandaged heavily but it's already bled through, forming a pool of their own blood below them. He frowns lightly. It must be quite a big injury if it's bleeding this much.

Wordlessly, he holds a hand over the injury and channels his power. He's not the most profficient in healing, but he should at least be able to stop the bleeding.

Mere moments later, he have plugged up the injury and the figure is now able to stand up.

"Th-Thank you so much Rex Lapis!" they bow down. Or at least, they bow down the best they can without opening their wound. "Any longer and I would've surely perished..."

Zhongli waves them off nonchalantly as he starts to walk back out the way he came. "It's best you get back to the surface. Your injury needs to be properly tended. And I can see that..."

His eyes drifts to the scattered bloody bandages and practically empty backpack. "You've run out of supplies. It is a virtue to you mortals to know when to give up. Remember that."

"Y-Yes sir Rex Lapis sir! I'll get back right away!" they start to quickly collect their things, haphazardly stuffing the bandages and handbook into the bag, being careful of their injury.

The Lord of Geo just watches for a moment before completely leaving, trusting that they won't make any stupid mistake and go back post haste.

After he has left, you pause in your packing, leaning against the mushroom and slowly sliding down with a shaky breath.

"Y-You... didn't you say he and the entirety of the world was hunting for you?" The mushroom hums in confusion, sharing your tension. "What was that? Heck, he was the one that put a hole through you and he healed you!"

You chuckle breathlessly, the manic look intensifying in your eyes as it dawns on you that it worked. That stupid idea of yours actually worked!

And if you can get to the Creator... you can make this whole concept disappear altogether. Forever.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you see it. A large mass of hairless flesh writhing about, multiple tentacle-like appendages potruding out of it. It's slithering it's limbs about, coiling around the mushroom and and back again, and around you as well.

But when you turn your head to actually look, there's nothing there. All you can hear is what seems to be muffled humming, an eerie tune listlessly flowing through the air (but somehow, the sound is the most comforting thing ever).

"Oh it's nothing. I think... he just heard something that made him forget."

[lnsfawwi]

bucky is anti-peggy: their relationships with steve and why bucky will always overshadow peggy as love interest

hardly anything novel but I have to get it out of my system. interpretations are strictly in-universe just to be fair. also seb headcanons are canon, I won't hear otherwise!

the difference between stucky and steggy can be summed up by their respective reactions to beefed-up Steve. someone on tumblr points out that these two scenes also serve as analogies of their relationships. steggy would always be about peggy reaching out, their relationship would be under the spotlight, be the center of attention while stucky is the reverse. I just want to add to that.

Peggy was literally dazzled, she tried to touch his naked body, she was eager to see what this body could do (sexually, among other things). that's the first time she saw steve as sexually attractive, the first time she saw steve at all if we are honest, and what she saw was this jacked-up version of him, an icon-to-be, someone whom steve never really accepted as himself. In essence, the first time she really paid attention to steve as the love interest, was the moment steve became someone else.

Bucky, who was tortured for days, if not weeks, still delirious, was confused bc that was not his steve, he probably didn't even think Steve was real at first. Bucky was experimented on, he likely knew there were similar human experiments aimed to enhance, he knew science like that was possible, but whose science? so that's the first question, 'what happened?' Steve joined the army, okay, so this was not forced onto him, probably. then the next thing he asked was, 'did it hurt?' he didn't care how strong it made Steve, he only wanted assurance that Steve was fine. like, what if the process hurt? what could bucky possibly do? nothing. it's not about whether it hurt, it was just bucky simply giving a shit about steve's wellbeing. we don't even need to get into the 'little kid from brooklyn' line.

peggy witnessed a magical transformation and was amazed by the eventual product but bucky saw his best friend who must've gotten through something excruciating. peggy could never fall in love with skinny steve when that's all bucky saw, until the very end (sebastian said bucky probably never got used to big steve).

another contrast would be the final plane crash. sebastian was asked whether Bucky would've gotten on that plane with Steve or stayed behind like Peggy. seb's answer is that Bucky would've tried to get on that plane cuz he felt responsible for steve, and he'd fall again.

the thing is that, had Bucky been on that plane, Steve never would've crashed it. he would've done anything to save Bucky. he didn't have to crash that plane which was canon (pointed out by rhodey). steve could've got out but he didn't. Bucky being there would've given him the motivation to do so. any other person would tbh, but only Bucky would be willing to be on that plane bc Peggy canonly wasn't. in addition to bucky's willingness to follow steve literally into the jaws of death, in this hypothetical scenario, Bucky would be the reason for Steve to live in catfa.

that leads to yet another contrast.

'just go! get out of here!' 'no, not without you!'

steve, who had no idea what he was capable of, jumped through fire for bucky.

'don't do this, there's still time, let me find a way...' 'a lot of people are gonna die if I don't do this, peggy. this's my choice.'

despite peggy's pleading, steve crashed the plane.

the word choice appeared several times in catfa. the first time was when peggy told philip that it was steve's choice (to die trying to save bucky). the second time was when peggy told steve that bucky made a choice (to die fighting with him). and the third time was when steve told peggy it was his choice (to sacrifice himself). it's no coincidence that each and every time the choice was each other, steve echoing the word at the end made it clear that he was doing this for bucky.

a relationship goes both ways. steve and bucky are canonly willing to, and did, die and live for each other. peggy simply doesn't have that level of impact on steve. in fact, steve literally repeatedly chose bucky over her in catfa.

put it simply, bucky and steve care more about each other than themselves, peggy didn't even care about skinny steve in that sense. she also literally couldn't because she only met skinny steve twice. briefly.

plus as I said previously bucky is the only one standing in between a traditional cishet hypermasculine image of steve and the real steve, peggy is the one element that fulfils the false image.

everything bucky is, peggy is the opposite. the differences quite literally result in different interpretations of steve. and who can say honestly that endgame steve is better than cap trilogy steve？

[toastandjamie]

Things about the band of the red hand that I think about on the daily:

-all the nobles in the Band competing to be Mat’s Favorite Noble(the answer is Talmanes but no one tell them that)

-after the battle of Cairihan, Talmanes and Nalesian putting aside their differences to defend Mat’s honor from the perceived slight of him not getting a parade

-Talmanes clearly knowing Mat is trying to ditch them and proceeding to insist on going with Mat literally everywhere until Mat gave up

-every noble in the band preening over being on Mat’s short list of “tolerable nobles” they are very proud of this fact and will brag about the fact that Mat willingly interacts with them

-Mat, half delirious from pain, teaching the band Jak’o’shadows and immediately regretting it as the band begins to sing it at every given opportunity and adds an entirely new verse dedicated to him

-while Mat was stuck in Ebou Dar every member of the band that was not with him simultaneously feeling the Ta’veren pull like a Spiderman esque sixth sense for knowing their general is in trouble

-upon feeling the Ta’veren pull, Talmanes immediately guilting Egwene into telling him where Mat is

-the band collectively deciding that their Olver’s cool uncles and teaching him to gamble, flirt with women, use weapons, and steal horses. You know, like responsible adults.

-when Mat is at the tower of genji, Talmanes being left in charge of Olver like the worlds most reluctant babysitter

-after seeing Mat refuse Aes Sedai healing every single member of the band deciding that they to would heal the old fashioned way

-a large portion of the band going out and getting tattoos together after they officially became the Band of The Red Hand

-Mat making one off hand mention of the original Band of the Red Hand from Manethran and the Band deciding that that was now the name of their mercenary band despite Mat’s protests

-the band deciding that No, they will not serve the Dragon Reborn, instead they’ll enlist into the service of the guy who Does Not Want Them

-the band deciding that Mat was a lord on principle because he’s just that good at fighting battles

-not a single member of the band was ever revealed to be a dark friend, they all just genuinely wanted to follow Mat with no ulterior motives

-every member of the band being willing to die for Mat at any given moment

-when Mat initially showed up to warn the army that they were walking into a Shaido ambush, Talmanes calling Mat’s bluff and getting him to begrudgingly agree to leading a portion of the army

-Mat effectively death glaring the bands nobles into a meritocracy

[elfy-elf-imagines]

— In the Fields of Poppy | Thranduil *✧･ﾟ

▹ Pairing: Thranduil x Elf!Reader

▹ Genre: Fluff and Angst (mentions of death and the aftermath of war)

▹ Words: ~2k

▹ Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies, you have a chance encounter with the King.

▹ Notes: This is unedited because we die as men! Also because I'm sleep deprived rn. Let me know what you thought!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The carnage had been terrible; the aftermath of the battle more brutal than any recount would ever fully capture. 

Broken stained glass mosaics formed with blood from all sides of the battle glistened in the sun. There was a heavy fog that clung to the ground, the wails of survivors finding the corpses of their loved ones. You couldn’t focus on it, blocking out as much of the noise as possible. Later you would feel the weight of the lives lost, you were certain, but for now, there was work to be done. 

You kneeled before the squirming body of a dwarven soldier, too delirious off his own pain to scorn the healing of an elvish maid. There was a cut on his leg that was bleeding profusely, his skin showing the beginning signs of infection from the poison the orcs used. He was muttering in Khuzdul, his eyes staring blankly at the sky. His eyes were locked on the sun, and if there weren’t other grievous injuries taking priority, you would’ve reminded him to not stare at the sun. But who cares for blindness if you’re already dead?

With ghost-like touches and careful concentration, you placed the healing salve on his leg, cleaning the wound as best you could beforehand. He hissed in pain from the contact, his eyes no longer looking at the sun but at you. He continued to speak in Khuzdul, this time at you, with spite and pain written on his face. You weren’t concerned, continuing to work as you numbed yourself to your surroundings. 

A group of elven soldiers marched past you, carrying the body of their fallen comrade, faces stricken with grief. Your eyes darted away from the sight and returned your attention to carefully wrapping your patient’s leg with bandages. 

“I don’t have anything for the pain, I’m afraid,” you said to him, briefly meeting his eyes that went back to looking at the sun. He muttered incoherently, and while he spoke Common this time, his words were lost on you. 

Tying the final bandage, you then began the same work on the rest of his wounds. More wails and more dead bodies carried from the battlefield, but you blocked it all out. There was no time to be swallowed in the suffering. Once all his wounds had been tended to and your dress was drenched in the blood of another patient, you stood from the ground. A dwarven soldier rushed forward to bring his comrade to the tents where the injured were resting. Words of thanks fell from his mouth, but you had already turned away, moving towards the next person. 

This time it was an elf, so young he couldn’t be more than a century old. Old enough to serve in the guard but too young to die; it made you sick to your stomach. There was a gash near his neck, the veins around it turning black. The poison had already gotten into his system; it was only a matter of time before it took him. Yet you kneeled beside him and gently placed his head in your lap as you began cleaning the wound. 

Unlike the dwarf from before, his eyes met yours, a grin on his lips. It looked out of place on his face, contorted into pain. He spoke softly in elvish, reciting an old song that mothers usually sang to their children when putting them to bed. As the cold salve touched his neck, he froze up, twitching slightly at the sensation.

Silence enveloped the two of you, he no longer sang, yet his eyes stayed on you. A stray piece of hair had fallen from your messy braid, the elf reaching up and grabbing it. He held it between his fingers, mouth parted and eyes a thousand miles away. 

“Naneth--” he trailed off, muttering more incoherent words. You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to continue working as a spark of pain reactivated your cold heart. He called you mother; the poison must’ve already reached his head, making him see things that weren’t there. 

Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes as you looked away to reach into your healer’s kit. He must’ve been so terrified as death came closer, seeking comfort in a mother that wasn’t even here. You didn’t have the heart to correct him. Let the boy have a small bit of comfort. 

With a strip of bandage in your hand, when your eyes went back to his body, his eyes were shut, and his breathing ceased. Dead. 

Your hand fell limp at your side, eyes unmoving from his face. He looked at peace, expression no longer twisted in pain. A shuttered breath escaped your mouth, the chill in the air allowing you to see it blow away. You stood with shaky legs and trembling hands, two soldiers approaching to take his body away.

You’d been a healer for as long as you could remember, training for this since you were a little elfling running wild. Time allowed you to become numb to tragedy, keeping a clear head to do what needed to be done. But the elven boy’s death managed to stab a needle right through your heart. He was so young and vibrant, his potential severed by senseless war. It left a bitter taste in your mouth, like the ashes of the bodies the humans were burning. 

The mud squashed beneath your feet, eyes unseeing. You were a ghost on the battlefield, blood-stained dress blowing in the wind. How did the other healers seem so emotionless? Was the bite of death something that lessened the more you were near it? In a few years, would you have a disposition that was nearly mechanical? A part of you hoped for that release, while the other part of you was terrified by it. 

You turned, eyes meeting the misty blues ones of King Thranduil. He stood a few feet away from you, a vision amongst the dead. Tall and noble, he looked every bit the king he was. Golden like the dawn, his hair was loose and messy, and his previously pristine armor was dirty with mud and blood, cuts and minor wounds marring his body. Yet he looked eerily perfect. 

His stare was heavy, yet you refused to be the one to look away. A hint of a smirk appeared on the edges of his lips as his head tilted to the side. Long and sure strides brought him closer to you while you stayed locked in place. The king stood before you, towering over your smaller form. You may have been on the taller side; he made you feel as though you were a hobbit.

“What is your name?” 

You lowered your head in a half-bow, a pathetic attempt to show respect, not entirely accustomed to the presence of royalty. 

“Y/N, my king.”  

He nodded, mouthing your name as if to commit it to memory.

“Do you live in Eryn Galen? I have never seen you.”

“I grew up in Lothlorien, where I spent most of my life before training to be a healer in Imladris. I have only recently moved to Eryn Galen.”

Thranduil raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands behind his back. 

“How lucky we are to have a student of Lord Elrond among us.” You could discern if his words were patronizing or genuine, his tone not betraying his intentions. 

“I did not train under Lord Elrond personally.” You felt the need to correct him, not wanting him to think you of a higher station than you were.

“But your teachers were overseen by him, were they not?”

You nodded.

“Then you were trained by Lord Elrond, even if he himself didn’t oversee your education.” 

A small smile appeared on your lips, and you nodded. “I have no choice but to agree; who would I be to disagree with a king.”

A coy smile pulled on the edges of his lips as his eyes shone. 

“A foolish woman is who you would be. Walk with me?” It was phrased as a question, but he didn’t wait for your answer. His long strides carried him towards camp, and you had no choice but to follow.   

“Tell me, do you plan on staying in Eryn Galen long?” His voice was crisp but quiet enough that only you could hear them.

“I do. I have grown fond of the people and its forest.” You spoke genuinely and truthfully. The wood elves were reclusive and suspicious, but once you broke through those barriers, they were full of merriment and loyalty. You cherished the relationships you had already formed and were eager for more. 

“Even in its sickly state,” his tone was sardonic but not enough to hide the pain in his voice. How terrible it must’ve been to see his home twisted into something so evil while powerless to stop it. 

“I believe there is still hope for it to be returned to health.”

Thranduil stopped in his tracks, eyes meeting yours. You stopped as well, patiently waiting for what he may say next. His expression was unreadable, eyes searching yours for the answers to questions you didn’t know. 

Wherever he was searching for, it sent shivers down your spine and made goosebumps form on your arms. The moonlight was kind to him, bathing him in a silvery light that made him look like the elves of Lothlorien who always seemed to shine. You felt your heart stutter as butterflies formed in your stomach. 

It could’ve been a trick of the light, but you could’ve sworn there was a hint of affection in his bright eyes. After the death of his wife, rumors spread of his cold demeanor and harshen disposition. But now, before you, none of those adjectives seemed suited for him. As soft as the stars and as beautiful as the moon, how could he be anything but good and kind?

“I hope that you are right.” He finally broke the silence, eyes raising to the sky before he continued walking, and just as before, you matched his strides. Neither of you spoke, relishing in the silence after a terrible day full of death and terror. 

Finally, the both of you stopped in front of the tent that was yours.

“It was good to meet you today, Y/N. I hope to see you again; I find your company pleasant and your conversation enjoyable.”

A red flush made your face warm, and a child-like grin appeared on your lips. As light as a feather, you would’ve floated away had the king not grabbed your hand, delicately placing a kiss on your knuckles. 

When he released your hand, you lowered into a half curtsey, the movement not as fluid due to your dress that was stiff from the dried blood covering it. 

“It was an honor to speak with you, my king. I wish you a good rest tonight.” 

He smirked in a way that made your flush deepen.

“And if I find it difficult to find rest, will you brew me a tea to lull me to sleep.” 

“Herbology happens to be my specialty.” 

Thranduil gave a single, firm nod, yet his eyes never moved from yours. The affection you’d seen before was brighter, easier seen in the dim lighting. And you were certain your eyes portrayed the same attraction. Could this be the beginning of something wonderful?

“Then I shall know who to call upon in my hour of need.” He lowered into a full bow, his cloak billowing around him. You took a step back, a bout of giggle escaping your mouth. Who would’ve thought the stern king had a sense of humor?

“Farewell, my lady.” 

He then swept off further into the camp, and you stayed in your spot, watching his form disappear, only moving once you could no longer see him. You turned and entered your tent, hand placed upon your flushed cheek. As you readied yourself for bed, the encounter with Thranduil replayed in your mind. And suddenly, you found yourself dancing alone, unable to push back your excitement. 

And as you lay in bed and shut your eyes, you desperately hoped this would only be the beginning and not where the story would end. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

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