#the angst has arrived.

[nightmarerose1]

I LOVE THE MORNINGSTAR FAMILY!!!🍎❤️🍎❤️🍎❤️

WAIT A DAMN MINUTE LILITH⁉️ YOU WAS AT THE BEACH THE WHOLE F*CKING TIME FOR SEVEN YEARS❗️❗️😤 YOUR FAMILY MISS YOU

Bonus: The fact Charlie daddy issues got fix but now she gotta deal with her mommy issue next is crazy like she just can’t catch a break 😭

[stealingyourbones]

Out of all of the people The Ghost King Phantom expected to relate to, it definitely wasn’t the scrawny red headed photographer of the Daily Planet. Jimmy Olsen has gotten so many temporary superpowers over his time being Superman’s friend. Hell, he once gained a 4th dimensional being’s reality warping abilities when he was given said dimensional being’s powers during a fight. Sure there’s a dozen or so heroes with the same amount of powers he has, but none as suddenly granted to them as a all powerful god that can relate to a teenager.

[petitepatateuwu]

It's way too hot and I am way too tired to do any more efforts, so excuse the critical lack of quality here.

If you didn't know, Cole is my favourite Power Ranger :D

And while I was binge watching Ninjago I had the pleasant surprise to see him physically and mentally traumatized in season 5 😈

And since I'm a huge sucker for angst, my brain immediately thought of developing that idea in order to hurt my beautiful baby boy some more. That and also the fact that my brain immediately looks for logic in the laws of cartoon physics (I really shouldn't do that...)

So I bring you the "Cole is a Ghost Kind-of-Saga". I still have a few more ideas to exploit, notably adressing the ways the other ninjas will help him cope with his new condition :3

And maaaaybeeeee a small comic too 😇

Anyways, I will let my brain rest a bit for now and sleep.

[baddybaddyadardaddy]

a knife in the dark, pt. 3

[adar/oc]

read part 1 | part 2

Set in the "Awake, Arise"-verse (I'd recommend reading at least chapters 1-9 if you haven't already to get the history of these characters) PREMISE: Erenyë is reembodied in Valinor, but Mandos shrouds her memories of Utumno, hoping to spare her pain in her new life. But she is restless in Aman, sensing that something is missing... She boards a ship heading for Middle Earth, hoping to discover just what that is.

OKAY PEEPS AS PROMISED, HERE'S THE SPICE. [cw: blood, knife-play, implied previous dubcon/noncon, related to the creation of the orcs]; M rating applies.

ENJOY. (don't look at me.)

Cuiviénen.

Her blood sings at the sound of the word. She does not know how it could be true, only that it is. She begins to pick up the scattered pieces, the visions that she had seen: a lake under stars… water flowing over stones… tall, primordial trees…

With eyes full of questions, she lets the dagger fall away from his throat. “And you…”

“I was yours,” he says, tremulous and yearning. “And you were mine.”

A breeze moves gently through the glen, and in her mind’s eye, she catches a glimpse of him, young and uncorrupted—his skin unblemished as he steps into a patch of moonlight, breathless after chasing her through the wood.

She remembers how she’d led him through the trees after he’d caught her, down to a secluded place by the waterside. She remembers how they’d spent blissful hours discovering one another beneath the stars, how much she’d hungered for him.

She realizes then that she knows his name—for it is an inextricable part of her own: Eren.

“Oh,” she gasps, struggling to reconcile that vision of Eren with Adar who sits before her now, still bound to the tree. She can still make out unmistakable traces of his elvenness—his pointed ears, his high cheekbones—but his terrible transformation from elf to orc is clear.

She squeezes her eyes closed, overwhelmed suddenly by more memories of her own—of time spent in darkness and torment. For she had not escaped a similar fate…

Despite the strengthening sunlight, she is suddenly pulled down, plunged into icy waters—she is drowning in cold, swimming in a sea of terrible truth.

“I was with you,” she says, discovering it slowly. “In that dark, nameless place. They brought me to you, after I had been changed… after I had forgotten your name, and mine.”

She lets out a strangled sob, remembering the chamber, remembering being held down, remembering Morgoth, watching. “He forced us.”

As quickly as they’d returned to her—those blissful memories of starlit Cuiviénen—they are eclipsed by this single, horrible fact. As quickly as everything had come together, it now smashes, like a pane of glass against stone.

Erenyë crumbles with a terrible cry, wrenched from the depths of her soul as she comes to full understanding. They had been used—both of them—by Morgoth, to create the race of the orcs. She hearkens back to the hordes of snarling creatures that had attacked her party earlier. With a wave of nausea, she realizes that they are descended from her.

She looks back at Eren—Adar, she reminds herself. He is Adar—an orc, an enemy. She considers leaving him there, bolting off into the forest, returning to Pelargir, forcing the ship to turn around and return her to Valinor.

But Valinor is not her home…

At last, she understands the reason why she’d always felt incomplete. She never belonged in Valinor, not truly. She belongs with him—he is her purpose, her place in this world.

But she does not know how to have him now, after everything.

She is no longer the wild elf-maid who had danced carefree through the forests at Cuiviénen. Now, she feels broken and afraid—and she senses that he is, too. They are both changed, though her body bears the physical scars no longer.

“Erenyë.” His voice, barely a whisper, pleads with her. “Á cene ni.”

Look at me.

His unlovely face is bathed in golden sunlight. As the moments slip past, she allows everything else to fall away, piece by piece, until she focuses only on him. She allows herself to see him—to see in him that which Morgoth could never destroy, and what even the turbulent storms of ten thousand years could not weather away. She feels a hunger stirring deep within her, a hunger that only he has the power to slake.

She is utterly at a loss for how to proceed, but she feels a faint flicker of the boldness she’d once possessed, and it helps her to take the first step. She returns, kneeling over him, straddling his legs, reaching out with her free hand—the one not still clutching the dagger.

To her great surprise, he recoils from her, shaking his head.

“I do not deserve your touch,” he says, his voice thick with self-loathing. His eyes fall to the knife in her opposite hand, and she understands that given the choice of pain or pleasure, his preference now is for the former.

With a terrible pang, she wonders if he can even remember what tenderness feels like.

A part of her is angered by his denial, but she strives to accept it. They are neither of them who they once were, she reminds herself. They must forge a new path through the ashes.

She raises the dagger, letting it rest lengthwise against his cheek. Taking a steadying breath, she digs it into his skin enough to make him wince and squeeze his eyes shut.

“How are you here?” he murmurs, incredulous, as a single tear escapes.

She leans in, tilting her head toward him until they are almost nose to nose. She breathes him in, her body slowly relearning how to be close to his. She shifts, rolling her hips tentatively, experimentally against his legs, feeling heat kindling to life deep within her core. Her lips move close to his ear. “I am here,” she replies.

He shivers, leaning into the blade like a caress. Angling it carefully so that it will not rend, she traces it down the side of his face. His eyes open, and they are tinged with the haze of deep memory.

“I watched you die,” he says, laying his anguish bare before her, and it is a gaping chasm so wide and deep she fears her own heart to be in danger of splitting into and falling into it.

She had been so caught up by her own harrowing discoveries, she had not yet fully contemplated that while she had lived long in ignorance of their torment, he had wandered the world carrying the full weight of everything that had befallen them under Morgoth’s hand.

“I came back for you,” she breathes, seeking to reassure him, to assuage his anguish as best she can. She wishes he could accept softness, and she offers up a silent prayer that in time, he might come to do so. But for now, she drags the blade again, letting the tip of it settle at the center of his lower lip. He is trembling now, and his breathing is heavy as he begs her silently with his eyes.

She lets the dagger pierce him, splitting his lip in two and drawing blood. And then she dives, hungrily, unwilling to wait any longer, swallowing his gasp of surprise with her mouth. He resists at first, but she moves the blade to his throat—a gentle but direct threat. He acquiesces, opening himself to her kiss. She does not try to be sweet; she devours, letting their teeth gnash together before moving to nip and suck at the wound she’d made.

He moans against her mouth, and she remembers the thrill of being needed by him. How, she wonders, had she survived for so many years without this?

She twists the fingers of her free hand into his hair, pulling his head back so that she can assail his neck. She nicks him with the dagger several times in succession, letting him feel pain for only a moment before allowing him the balm of her lips. His black blood tastes bitter on her tongue, but she savors it, nonetheless.

With a sharp intake of breath, he shifts beneath her and she grinds herself down hard against the cradle of his hips, the heat between her legs blooming until it is slick and wet and impossible to ignore.

She pulls back, lowering the dagger to the cord of elven rope that binds him. Hesitation flickers across his face, but she grips his chin in her free hand, jerking him toward her to claim his lips again. “Grant me this,” she says when they are both breathless, resting her forehead against his.

He makes a noncommittal noise in the base of his throat, and she prepares her argument, but he interjects before the words reach her lips.

“Grant me one thing in return.” He leans back ever so slightly, his eyes raking over her face, coming to rest on the long, dark braid draping over her shoulder. “Your hair,” he implores. “Undo it.”

Warmth floods her chest. It is such a simple request, but as she moves her hand to undo the cord, he watches her with a startling intensity, and as she begins to finger the strands free from the braid, she realizes that she had never worn her hair this way back in Cuiviénen, and that his request is born out of a desire to see her as she had been then.

His breath hitches as he watches her, and she slows her movements, taking deliberate care as she unwinds the rest, combing through her dark locks carefully until they fall free at last, framing her face.

“There was starlight in your hair on the night of our awakening,” he murmurs, his voice dreamlike. “I have never forgotten it.”

His desire for her is so guileless, so open, as it ever had been since their earliest days, and she feels a sudden burst of incandescent joy amid all the anguish that had passed between them during their reunion.

She takes his face between her hands, heedless of his earlier talk of undeserving, and kisses him fiercely, thumbing over his scars and broken skin. Then, with haste, she reaches down for the dagger she had dropped, and slices cleanly through the elven rope, freeing him, wanting nothing more than to feel his arms enveloping her.

But he does not match her fevered pace—and when he does reach for her, it is to lightly stroke her hair. He does so with reverence, as though handling a holy relic. She leans into his hand, placing her palms upon his chest to brace herself, for even under this lightest of touches, her knees grow weak.

His armor is firm and solid—an outer shell that she longs to remove. She wants nothing between them, just as it had been when they had lain together in the eldest of elder days. But as she gropes for the fastenings, he catches her wrists, and the pained look in his eye tells her no.

She wants to ask if he means never or not yet, but she is frightened to learn the answer, so she leans in soundlessly, winding her arms around his neck, knitting her body against his, coaxing his lips to part for her once more.

She is confused by his unwillingness and wracked by feelings of selfishness for wanting him so recklessly. She prays he will not notice her hot, anguished tears as they begin to fall. But she soon tastes their salt, and she knows he can, too. He pulls back, and she drops her eyes immediately, ashamed.

She feels the cold kiss of metal as his gauntleted hand tips her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His face is contrite yet pained—he hides nothing from her.

“For you, it was once,” he explains, and she knows immediately that he is speaking of their violation in Utumno. She clenches her jaw, feeling the icy, sick sensation overwhelm her again as he continues, his voice thick with emotion. “For me, it was… many times. Always at Morgoth’s command.”

Her heart shatters at his confession. The death she had suffered—it had been a mercy. She understands that fully now. Her tears fall faster as she aches for everything she imagines he’d endured, alone. Without her.

She yearns to comfort him, but to her distress, she realizes that she does not know how—she does not know anymore what will soothe him, or if there is anything that can.

With a shuddering intake of breath, he continues. “Being lost to lust—I fear it now.” He looks to her mournfully. “But I do long for you.” His unclad hand caresses her now, sliding slowly down her neck, between the valley of her breasts, over her belly and down to the cleft between her legs. “Oh, how I long for you,” he growls low, stroking her there.

She cannot contain the cry of pleasure that breaks free, and to her surprise, he smothers it with a sudden, scorching kiss.

His hands move to unfasten the clasp of her cloak, letting it fall away behind them. Snatching her around the waist, he tips her back, laying her out on top of it, a silken barrier between her and the ashes that lie beneath it. He kneels carefully over her, and she watches a silent struggle play out upon his face. He breathes in deeply, finding steadiness within himself.

She waits, as patiently as she can manage, though every inch of her feels raw, and in desperate need of his hands. One by one, he undoes the fastenings of her tunic, unfolding the fabric gently, unwrapping her, letting the morning sun soak her pale skin. A ripple of delight courses through her as she watches him look down upon her, followed by a surge of impatience. She thinks she sees the edges of his lips curl up ever so slightly as he slides his fingers beneath the hem of her trousers, as he begins to tease them slowly down her legs.

His unhurried pace is maddening. She bucks her hips as he strips the garment finally away, releasing a pathetic whimper. He returns it with a satisfied growl that sounds from deep at the base of his throat, before lowering his head, planting a chaste kiss on the skin just above her hip. His bare hand moves to cover her breast, fingers sinking into a slow caress as his lips forge their own path across her abdomen and lower.

When he reaches the place where she needs him most, he delays no further—her legs part as his tongue finds her center. She undulates in pure, simple, velvet-soft ecstasy, as half-conscious sighs and moans fall freely from her lips.

The sensation of his mouth upon her sex makes her deliciously weak, but she summons enough strength to raise her head enough to look down and watch him, his dark head between her thighs, eyes closed in concentration, his grey hand kneading her breast, his iron gauntlet gripping her hip, the sharp spikes of his fingers sinking into her flesh.

Within a few moments, she is finished, reduced to quivers and cries as she comes undone beneath him.

His face swims into view above her, wan and satisfied, his green eyes cloudy with arousal. She clasps him around the neck, pulling him down to kiss her, catching the trace of her own tang still upon his tongue. Finding more strength, she rises somewhat clumsily, moving to straddle him once more, so that his back is against the tree.

They are both breathless, and for a moment, they linger in stillness. Her hand drifts to his forehead, brushing strands of dark hair away from his face. Then she leans forward, kissing along his jawline before teasing at his ear with her teeth. He gasps at the sensation, hands digging deliciously into her bare back.

She presses her body close to his, flattening her breasts against the hard plate of his armor, rocking so that she feels the friction of his mail against her flesh. Her hunger for him—having been momentarily sated—comes roaring back, and her motions grow more frantic as she confronts again a deep sense of emptiness between her legs, aching to be filled. She trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat, each an invitation.

Please, she begs in between them.

His hands abruptly leave the base of her spine, and for a moment she fears that they have reached the end—that she has asked too much, pushed too far.

She buries her face in his neck, unwilling to tear herself away. But then she feels something brush against her—something hard that teases at her still-weeping entrance. She sucks in a sharp breath, glancing down at the space between them. He is holding the hilt of the dagger against her slit, clutching it in his own hand by the blade, and she can see a thin rivulet of black blood running down his fingers. He winces, but she reads in his face just how much the pain grounds him, and she remembers his earlier words, his fears of being fully lost to lust.

This, she realizes, is what he can offer her now. All she can do is accept it and be content, and live in hope that together, they might conquer the rest in time.

It is a challenge that she is more than willing to accept for him, and she tells him so with a deep, passionate kiss. Pulling back, she locks her eyes onto his, letting herself sink down onto the hilt, as a breathy moan begins at the back of her throat. He manipulates the dagger gently, pressing it inside of her as the sound deepens and lengthens. His forehead droops against hers and they breathe in time together with each thrust until she comes, and his hand is covered in blood.

With her body still quaking from the aftershocks, she wastes no time in tending to him. Reaching for her cloak, she tears a strip of fabric and binds his mangled palm. When she finishes, she holds his hand carefully in both of her own.

Where will we go now, she asks him, suddenly fearful of what may lie ahead.

Home, he answers. To Mordor.

...y'all still with me?

want more?

[i have some ideas]

lemmeknowkthanksbai

[auspicioustidings]

Firewatch Part 4

Summary: You fight back and a punishment is handed out.

(Or, anytime Mhairi writes more than 3 chapters of anything we inevitably land on angst)

Word Count: 2.3k

CWs: Kidnapping, dubcon

You felt your legs give out which had the unintended but maybe welcomed result of Ghost realising he had been rutting against you and stopping with a bitten off growl, arm banded around you holding you up.

“It’s what’s best for you sweetheart” he whispered lowly into your ear. “You didn’t want to be all alone anymore, invited us to take care of you. And we will, promise we’ll take such good care of you.”

There was a numbness to you now and you tried to dig deep and find the fight. You couldn’t just give in, you refused to just give in. He was warm and sounded kind and there was a betrayal happening between your body and mind as you only barely stopped yourself from pushing back against him to chase that rutting, to try and make him move again. This was so fucked up.

You tried to bite at his hand but it was difficult with how large his palm was over your mouth. Still he squeezed your waist hard, knowing exactly what you had been attempting and scraping his teeth against your earlobe in warning. 

“Don’t start with me, I bite hard.”

You whined and felt tears of humiliation from hearing that it didn’t sound entirely like a horrified whine prickle at your eyes. It sounded like a needy one. 

“Oh, you’d like it wouldn’t you sweetheart? You need someone to bite hard, put you in your place a little.”

You hated him, you hated him so intensely that you got your legs back to solid beneath you through spite and then started kicking out to try and get him to loosen his grip enough to free your arms. Your entire weight plus the force of your legs wildly bucking out didn’t seem to phase him from a strength standpoint, but you felt a little satisfaction when he had to adjust his stance to stop from losing his balance. 

“Knock it the fuck off.”

His tone sent a blaring siren of ‘stop’ off in your head. You hadn’t spoken at any length with this man, but you had not heard him sound like this, like some sensual predator ready to hold you down, unsure if he was going to fuck you or eat you right up. He would find that you were not meek prey. You had moved to a new town where you knew nobody, taught yourself how to do everything you needed to bring a ruin back to life. Giving up easy was not in your nature. You kept kicking. 

The pain of his teeth in the juncture of your shoulder and neck that was revealed by the slouching t-shirt was white hot and knocked the air fully out of your lungs. He hadn’t been exaggerating, he bit incredibly hard, like he was trying to make sure the mark he was sucking into you went right down to bone. You thought he might rip your throat out, leave you here to bleed out, and you couldn’t even scream against his hand because you had forgotten how to breathe. You gave a few final kicks but it was a token effort to prove that he could not so easily conquer you before you settled down, chest heaving with the start of shuddering breaths as you tried to get enough air. In the fray he had hoisted you up higher, your feet no longer quite reaching the ground to leave you hanging like a ragdoll.

You didn’t even register that you could have screamed now, his hand had left your mouth and was instead gently cradling your head so he could lap at the bite, soothing. The other arm moved to gently set you down, turning you so that you could see his uncovered face. He was handsome in the tragic way a man with scars often was. 

“Sorry sweetheart, didn’t mean to lose my temper, shouldn’t play so rough with you should I? S’for your own good, needed you to calm down. Went all loose so pretty when you felt my teeth huh? Just what you needed” he said, a quiet and desperate ramble as he kept planting little kisses and licks at your neck.

You should stop him. You could just tell him to stop, find out if he would respect it. But it felt so nice to have his lips and tongue worshipping at the mark he had left. It felt like he was pressing prayers into your skin, reverent and gentle. Well if you were going to hell for enjoying this, may as well twist the knife. You pulled gently at his hair so you could bring his head up and press a kiss to his lips, waiting until he relaxed into the gesture and then letting yourself imagine this was any other situation so you could enjoy it for a moment before bringing your knee as hard as you could up into his groin and spilling out of the closet when he buckled.

–

There was perhaps a more elegant reaction you could have had when you found downstairs was much as it had been this morning only with the addition of Johnny. Whoever had been here was gone, the three firemen looking over at you with gentle smiles as if you had just casually come downstairs for a cup of tea. You were too late. 

“Oh for fuck sake!” you yelled, not trying to get to the door. 

You knew a little better now. No shoes so you weren’t outrunning anyone unless you had a significant head start. Johnny was leant by one of the windows, near enough to the door that you wouldn’t even make it out without him getting there first. He grinned and glanced out of it when you caught his eye, as if it was some big funny joke that whoever had been here was now far enough away that they couldn’t be seen through the glass. They’d probably driven over the rough tracks, probably already well out of the woods.

While Price looked somewhat disappointed at your language, Kyle laughed brightly at your outburst before coming over to you. He was still shirtless in nothing but those plaid pyjama bottoms. Why did this idiot have to kidnap some girl? He could have anyone he wanted, what exactly drove him to this?

“You don’t have any money for the swear jar luv, going to have to think of a different way for you to pay up,” he said with a cheeky grin before his eyes softened and he gently swept a thumb over your neck, giving a pitying little coo when you flinched. “Bloody git, need to muzzle him don’t we?”

Price appeared then, now interested in checking what Kyle was talking about. He didn’t seem anywhere near as casual about it, a storm gathering in his expression as he took your neck in. It was confusing that he should be the angry one here. He was still one of your captors. You heard footsteps on the stairs. Ghost must have been managing to limp heavily down them now. 

“24 hour watch for a fortnight Simon, get yourself together because you start in an hour.”

That caught Johnny’s attention and he came barrelling over as well. It was ridiculous how the four of them just swallowed you completely, all tall and broad and intense.You imagined it must be like being under several weighted blankets, soothing but a little panic inducing when you realised that it was hard to move.

“Naw Captain, dinnae gie him that! He did it tae calm ye down didn’t he bonnie? Has tae do the same tae me if I get too reckless, if I might end up hurting myself cause I’m being a bampot” Johnny said.

You looked at those big liquid eyes of his, saw that they were genuine in their belief that Ghost was just doing right by you. You tucked away the image of teeth in Johnny’s throat and resisted the urge to agree with him to please him. To make him smile at you. To save Simon Riley from being stuck alone for the majority of the next two weeks because he was serving penance. The Simon who had made you hot chocolate and who Dosia had so easily taken to as safe. The Simon who had realised he had lost control, had spilled apologies to you and laid devout kisses all over the evidence. The Simon who wasn’t defending himself at all, was willing to take the punishment without complaint.

“What does 24 hour watch mean?” you asked quietly, feeling the oppressive silence and stillness that followed crushing down on you.

Kyle had been surprised you had spoken up, was pretty sure the rest were as well. None more so than Simon who was staring at you like you were some alien thing in front of him. Were you going to try and ask leniency or going to request he get a more severe punishment? Hard to tell. You were so different already from what Kyle had created in his head. So wild and stubborn. He had no idea what you might say next.

“It means he’ll stay in the watchtower for the two weeks luv. He won’t be allowed to come back here for anything unless it’s an emergency, he’ll be using the little outhouse and rainwater shower at the base and we’ll drop food off” he said, trying to be gentle and finding that he could not resist the opportunity to tease when you seemed so deep in thought. “He’ll sleep on that sofa you ravished me on.”

“Aye in front of us if I recall, was mean spirited of ye bonnie.”

You sputtered an attempt at an outraged string of words which only came out as noises and smacked at Kyle’s chest. They had kidnapped you, technically they had murdered you, and the fact that they could still make you blush with flirty banter was beyond what was acceptable. 

In anger at yourself more than anything you refused to look at Simon and said nothing to save him, Price ignoring Soap’s outburst and instead only looking to you for any protest. You would not let yourself like these men, he could rot in that tower for all you cared. For two weeks. Barely sleeping. Hardly seeing anyone. Miserable. No, no that guilt could turn itself right around and find a home elsewhere, you were not entertaining the idea that you might not want that to happen.

“Yes sir.”

“Ye cannae be serious! C’mon bonnie, tell Price he’s got it wrong eh?” Soap said, weaving a hand through your hair to fix it a little and smiling still. 

His smile was tight with worry now. Before, Johnny had thought you would be quick to defend Simon and he wouldn’t be punished. You were such a soft thing in his head, he had always imagined you’d enjoy baking but would be notorious for burning everything. He dreamt of dancing around the kitchen with you, giving you little kisses to remind you when to take things out of the oven. It didn’t match with his mental image that you could be stubborn and ruthless. Surely you would say something right? You wouldn’t let Si suffer because of a little bite? Well a big bite, looking at it even Johnny knew he had gone too hard. He could take that level of rough, but you needed to be treated with more care than that. Still though, he hadn’t meant it, was probably just worked up was all. Two weeks of 24 hour watch was too harsh.

“Got what wrong? That I’ve been kidnapped and had a chunk taken out of my neck for trying to alert the authorities? That it turns out you’ve actually murdered me? How awful to have to sit in the tower for two weeks knowing that you can leave and walk into town at anytime! Something tells me he’ll survive such an indignity!” 

Not guilty, you would not feel guilty. You would not wince at the absolute heartbreak on Johnny’s face as you yelled at him. The shocked silence would not make you want to desperately apologise for being mean. The fact that you would actually be dead if not for the men in this room would not sway you. Their gentle care for you would be locked away tight in your head where you did not have to think about it. 

“With me little bird.”

Price was firm, issuing a command more than anything as he took a step towards a door at the side of the living room you had not been through yet. The others were silent. Yes, Price knew this would be difficult for you, but he was not about to let you scream at his men like that. Murdered you? Absolutely not. They were only acting in your best interests, removing all the stresses of the outside world and looking after you so you’d want for nothing. He saw you glowering at him and puffed out his chest.

“Now. You can come easy or I can make you come hard.”

There was something in the double entendre that got you blowing out a huff, sticking your chin up in defiance and stomping after him and through the door. You could not let him throw you over his shoulder and carry you there, not if there was any threat that it might spark something unwanted deep in your belly. Price closed the door behind you and you found yourself in a small office, toe to toe with him as you both stared one another down.

“You are going to regret bringing me here.”

“You are going to forget there was ever a time that you didn’t want to be here.”

“Wanna bet?”

[serial-designation-jey]

V wanted to spend time with J.

Well, that's normal, she always wants to, the two are lovers after all.

What was different this time is that V had the idea to explore to find a place for the two to dance and be romantic hang out away from their daughters. The current place they were exploring was a tall building that seemed to be falling apart and crumbling. Not that V cared, almost every building on Copper-9 was like that.

The shorter drone was walking directly next to J, hands clasped together. "So, what do you think of this place so far, love?"

(@serial-desigation-vee)

“I think its actually really nice~”

-she squeezed V’s hand for a moment, turning to face them.-

“You’re really cheesy you know that?”

-she teased V lightheartedly as they kept going further into the building.-

[sysig]

maybe you should doodle however many or few starcon/helix/damned characters as you like (in human or alien form) in cute halloween costumes! imagine... ZEX dressed up as Ariel thelittlemermaid...

Day 26 - "I hadn't realized humans also had aquatic subcultures!" "Oh, well, uhm..."

[depressedhouseplant]

🔞 In Darkness I Found You 🔞

I’ve been debating for a long time whether or not to repost this from AO3. This is my biggest “hit” & I have a love/hate relationship with this fic. It took me almost 3.5 yrs to complete including rewriting the last 3rd of it because 2019 Author Emily chickened out where 2023 Author Emily went for the throat. I also haven’t reposted any of my BTS work & I thought it was time. The main pairing is SOPE with a side of Namjin & Taekook. Yes, I was a cliche. Also I want to post some bonus content for this fic for JFW so I need to, like, post the fic itself.

It’s Omegaverse & includes Mpreg, so if that’s something you’re not comfortable with then skip this one. I’ll tag all the relevant info at the beginning of each chapter. Here’s your chapter index:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

[coolcoolcoolbutwtf]

Don't know where you all came from or what happened but I appreciate you <3

We love making Scourge suffer that's what happened, probably... Yeah that sounds about right.

Ps the Scourge prison angst is coming but let me cook. Have had multiple people asking for it, it's coming just taking longer. Meanwhile have a scourge for your wait.

To all the people sending in requests. love you and thank you! It might just take a while but I'll get to it!

[kalcifers-blog]

A lot of you really like when I go into my deep dives with the Egos and talk about them under a horror lens

But I've mostly only focused on Chase or Anti whenever I've done this so today I'm focusing on Jackie >:))

(Please keep in mind I haven't read the comic yet and I would like to keep this spoiler free of it as of now!!!!!!

I am in love with the idea that Jackie is a silent sufferer. He's someone who will hurt and keep hurting until it's unbearable and he still won't show that he's suffering. It's just his nature to not let anyone see how much he's in pain, whether that be physical or emotional or otherwise.

If or when Jackie starts to get targeted by Anti- he wouldn't ask for help. He wouldn't even admit to himself how wrong it is- I genuinely think he'd brush it off, creating excuse after excuse to himself to avoid ever admitting anything was wrong.

It'd only be until he physically couldn't keep it up anymore that he'd finally crack under the pressure. And I can only imagine how much Anti would absolutely relish in his pain breaking out.

I feel like the likes of Marvin would recognise it immediately, Marvin's an observer and would notice the little things most people would probably overlook- like just how fake Jackie can be when it comes to his politeness and overly nice demeanor.

It's not to say Jackie isn't a nice person- but Marvin can see just how much Jackie plays pretend, how even without the superhero schtick he is constantly hiding behind a mask. Never truly speaking his mind or showing how he ever really feels about anything, and I think there's a genuine fear in Jackie that even he doesn't fully know who his true self is anymore because of how much he hides.

Anti would absolutely feast on Jackie not knowing who he really is- completely isolating him in his own misery, trapping him in a maze of mirrors with false perceptions on who he is- only showing the worst aspects of Jackie that only Jackie knows about- because of course only Jackie knows about any of it, he refuses to let anyone else see it.

I think Jackie wants more than anything to be able to let people in- but that felt near impossible before he even got his powers or to be a hero. Every time Jackie looks for a genuine human connection all he's faced with is this inescapable feeling of him never being able to ever fully open up, there's just too much to lose and he'd much rather him take the brunt of absolutely everything than risk anyone getting hurt.

So of course Jackie would eventually break, there is so much for Anti to feed off of him that it is only a matter of time before he would completely crack under everything going on behind closed doors, doors that he locked, bolted and nailed shut before even he couldn't open them anymore.

[local-angst-satan-diinosour11]

It’s about time.

BEHOLD: INSANE SUBSPACE HIM DAMNED SELF.

[sapphicagenda]

Whisks Worth Taking (a Bake Off AU)

Chapter 11: Don't Go Baking My Heart

Fandom: Warrior Nun

Main ship: Ava/Beatrice

Sub-ships: Camila/Lilith, Mary/Shannon

Rating: E (for eventual smut)

Chapter Summary:

Who put this angst in my fic?!? Oh, right. It was me. I did that. Oops?

Teaser:

The morning’s Signature Challenge was to bake a decorative Wellington. The bakers could fill it with anything they liked, but the entire thing had to be covered with a detailed pastry design. Their biggest challenges would be managing the liquids inside and ensuring everything cooked through in time.

Once the bakers were about ten minutes into the challenge, Beatrice felt an arm wrap around her shoulders. She turned to see Ava squeeze herself between her and Mary, an arm around each of their shoulders as she bounced up and down.

“Let’s get our tart on!”

“Technically,” Beatrice said, “tarts are tomorrow. Today is pastry.”

“Well…” Ava smirked at her. “I’ve always been pie-curious.”

Keep Reading on AO3

Or start from Chapter 1!

[sirenofthegreenbanks]

i know that ep12 with its sunbathing scene at the market place is known as one of the most romantic scenes in the show and i dearly love it too BUT HAVE U EVER LAID EYES UPON THE RIVER SCENE AT THE START OF EP12 BECAUSE AAAA

[loud-whistling-yes]

Ao3 link here!

It felt like nothing. At first.

There was this ringing in her ears, everything before her white and fiery and the only thing that existed was the ground pressed against her cheek and the numbness on her fingertips.

Then the ringing dimmed and the white faded, and with them so did that dull, blissful numbness.

And it hurt.

It hurt.

Something tumbled out of her mouth, a gasp, a sob maybe. Whatever it was, the rest of it was quick to follow; heaves and wails and the taste of salt and metal on her lips. Her face burned, her arm burned, her whole body burned— Scott’s whole body burned.

It burned because he burned.

Because he was still here.

Because he was still alive.

Because they were still alive.

“Scott—” she choked out, cut off by a wheeze. Something burned in her lungs.

The world was dark, her eyes shut tight. She didn’t want to see, didn’t want to look at this— this bloody, burned mess she laid dying in. But she didn’t need eyes to know he was there.

It was quiet. But she could still hear. Grass swaying in the wind. Hisses and groans in the night. Remnants of embers cackling.

And that quiet little beat that ached in her chest.

Ba-ba dum. Ba-ba dum. Ba-ba dum.

Her heartbeat, and the echo that followed it.

She let her eyes open, let them take in the gore. Two bodies on the hill. Gunpowder in the air. Blood and tears on her tongue. Burns on her skin. His heartbeat in her chest.

Ba-ba dum. Ba-ba dum. Ba-ba dum.

“Scott,” The word tears through her throat.

Through the veil of her bloody hair, he shifts. Blue of his hair and the night, red of his jacket and their blood. Phantom pains scrub her skin raw, the sensation of her— no, his fingers digging into the dirt.

She calls him again, like doing it again and again would somehow make it hurt less. “Scott.”

A sharp sting on her lips, but no sound from her.

“Pearl.”

He’s still there.

“Scott.”

“Pearl.”

He turns his face, and now they’re looking eye to eye. Pain flares through her left side. His eyes aren’t red anymore.

She straightens her hand, reaching for him. Every blade of grass cuts like a knife. He winces.

She blinks through the tears. “Scott.”

Pain on her other hand. His fingers graze hers. “Pearl.”

Something burns in her throat. This time it's tears running down her face. “Was this—” A sharp, bloody cough. That same disgusting taste of copper— “Was this for me?”

Ba-ba dum. Ba-ba dum. Silence.

“Is this win… for me?”

Ba-ba dum. Ba-ba dum.

“Scott…”

Ba-ba dum. Ba-ba dum.

“I forgive you.”

Ba dum. Ba dum. Ba dum.

Her chest feels so empty.

Ba dum. Ba dum. Ba dum.

Ba dum.

Ba dum.

Silence.

[sixofkingdom]

Chapters: 11/30 Fandom: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo, Shadow and Bone (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Kaz Brekker/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Kaz Brekker, Original Female Character(s), Jesper Fahey, Wylan Van Eck, Dregs Ensemble (Six of Crows) Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Childhood Trauma, Drowning, POV Kaz Brekker, POV Multiple, Physical Disability, Alcohol, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Claustrophobia, Assassination Attempt(s), Minor Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck, Eventual Happy Ending, Romance, Eventual Fluff, Post-Time Skip, Panic Attacks, Returning from hiatus soon Summary:

Two secretly lonely criminals in a life or death situation fall in love.

[theworldisquietheretooquiet]

A Lesson in Doors, Dresses, and Daggers

A mostly sweet meet-cute since I’ve been writing a lot of angst lately! Inspired by @fellowshipofthefics' great AU-gust mashup prompts :)

17. Locked in a room & S. ‘I’m sorry I took so long.’

AO3 2401 words

Nienor and Finduilas meet for the first time, get locked in a room together, and flirt through fashion advice.

"I'm sorry I took so long."

Nienor slips in the room and stops short.

“This is not the king’s office.”

The Elf who stands with her back to her, bent over a table cluttered with broken weapons turns around.

“And you aren’t Orodreth.”

The stranger laughs and flips her blonde braid over her shoulder. “His hair is longer than mine.”

Nienor reddens and starts forward to offer an apology and an introduction, pushing the door open wider. Why must Nargothrond have so many blasted rooms?

Before she can take more than a step though, the Elf cries out and gestures for her to stop.

She freezes in confusion and the heavy wooden door swings shut behind her.

“Oh no, you shouldn’t have let it close! The lock is broken, it won’t open from the inside now.” The elleth places down the rusted dagger in her hands and goes over to the door. She brushes past Nienor as she does so, smelling of polishing oil and flowers.

She pulls on the handle a few times to demonstrate the situation and sighs, frustration lining her face.

Nienor bites her lip and tries to think of what to say. There is still too much blood in her cheeks, but it is not all there because of embarrassment anymore. This Elf-maiden has no right to be angry at her; how was she meant to know?

But the elleth’s annoyance seems to be passing, she sighs again then offers Nienor a rueful smile and comes to stand before her.

“Well, no matter, someone will find us soon enough, I am sure.” She peers down at Nienor’s face, and her eyes brighten.

“And perhaps this is good fortune disguised as bad! I have wanted to make your acquaintance for days now. Lady Nienor, it is lovely to meet you.”

Nienor finds herself returning her smile and she takes a few deep breaths. Her heart had not yet slowed down since she had run all the way from her chambers, after realising she was late.

The Elf wanders back over to the pile of weapons. There are many more on shelves around the room, rusted and tarnished. This is probably some old storage closet; it is very small. Nienor wonders what this elleth is doing here.

“You were meeting with the king?”

Nienor awkwardly leans against the door and nods, before realising the maiden is back focused on her task, turned away from her.

“Yes, we had an appointment at six bells. However, I got terribly distracted writing a letter to my mother, and in my rush, I must have lost my way. It is taking me a little while to gain familiarity with all these stairs and levels and corridors.”

The Elf’s voice sounds amused as she answers. “Then you are forgiven for your interruption and its consequences. And do not worry –” She turns briefly and gives Nienor a quick grin.

“The king is famously late himself, so I’m sure you have caused him no trouble.”

Nienor is startled by the words. That had been her major concern and she is relieved to hear so, but this must be a high lady of the court to speak so familiarly of Orodreth. What bad luck to blunder on her first meeting with someone clearly important.

“I – I hope I have not, my lady. It was not a matter of great importance, which I wished to ask him about.”

“Oh?” The elleth drops a broadsword with a broken blade on the pile and the metal clang rings in Nienor’s ears.

“Perhaps I could offer to assist you with it? It seems wise to fully draw on the hours we’re stuck here so they’re not wasted.” She smiles at Nienor as she leans back against the table.

Nienor’s fingers twist in her skirt and she glances at the firmly shut door. But she nods and gives a strained smile. “Thank you, my lady, that is kind of you.”

The Elf waves her hand dismissively. Nienor sees two fine rings on her fingers, one she thinks might have a crest on it, and another set with a blue jewel, on her fourth finger. Is she betrothed?

“It is my pleasure! So, what is it you wished to ask the king about?”

“Well – it is the Midsummer feast in a half months’ time, and I am not sure what to wear. King Thingol’s court had certain traditions, but so far clothes seem to be different here, so…”

The Elf-maiden opens her mouth to speak but Nienor quickly continues. “I know it is hardly a matter for a king. But I had quite an enjoyable discussion with him about Iathrim fashion at my welcome banquet, and he said to always come to him with queries.” Her voice trails off.

“No, you are right, it is just the sort of thing he would take joy in dealing with. But he is always exceptionally busy these days.” The elleth clears her throat. “Anyhow I would love to help you with it.”

Nienor looks at her and sees her grinning, easy and happy, and her stomach twists.

“So, the simplest element to remember is the colours.” The Elf gestures to her own gown. “All shades of blue, especially when adorned with silver are favoured, throughout the season somewhat but especially at the feast.”

“Ah yes, that is similar in Doriath.” Nienor smiles, more than a little relieved that some customs are the same.

Her companion inclines her head. “Yes, it is one of the oldest traditions, from the days before this kingdom, and before my father’s people ever returned to these shores. Blue and silver catch starlight the best, you see.”

Ah, so she is half Noldorin at least, Nienor thinks, as she nods to indicate she understands.

“For the celebration itself it is popular to have small bells sewn into the edges of sleeves and hems.”

She frowns, wondering what the story behind that is. And what her mother would think if she returned in a dress that jangled every time she moved.

The Elf must see her curiosity because she laughs lightly and says, “For many in Nargothrond, summer returns their minds to The Dancer of the West. She who is called Nessa in the old tongue and who, they tell us, danced on the ever-green lawns of that land.”

The forbidden language makes Nienor’s face twitch, her years in Doriath pulling taut inside her, but she does her best to hide it. “Ah, so the bells are to pay homage to her and her skill?”

Shrugging, the Elf says, “I believe that is how the idea of the thing started. But mostly we keep doing it as it is a festival for dancing, and it’s a glorious thing when all our feet sing together.”

Then she winks. “It also makes it most fun when couples attempt to sneak away and, ah, do things best suited for the shadows.”

Nienor feels her whole face go crimson and hot. She does not know where to look.

The elleth laughs, but it is empty of mockery, and thankfully continues speaking.

“The key elements to remember for the garment itself is that your overdress should have a lower and sharper neckline, to better display your underlayer. And at the wrist your sleeve should fall and become wider.” She indicates her own flared sleeves, the cuffs embroidered with small white birds.

“Oh, and,” she smoothly closes the distance between them in two steps. “Dresses and tunics in Nargothrond have been fitting tighter than this since Fingolfin was king. May I?”

Nienor realises the Elf’s hand is hovering over her body. Swallowing, she nods her permission and cannot help tensing as the elleth reaches out and runs her fingers over the material at Nienor’s ribs and waist.

“Yes, it will need to be much tighter than this. A closer fit will suit you better too, Lady Nienor.”

She feels as if the walls have marched in two feet in the last few seconds. Her face is on fire and still the Elf-maiden’s hand lingers.

Breathing quickly, Nienor darts her eyes up to the elleth’s face. For once the bright smile is absent and it is a mask, her eyes calm but intense as they focus on Nienor.

Her heartbeat is even quicker than before, pounding in her chest.

But just as she can’t bear it any longer, she will have to say or do something, the Elf abruptly steps back, dropping her hand.

Nienor exhales, long and low. She watches in disbelief as the elleth returns to sorting through the mound of weapons, humming quietly to herself.

She can still feel the ghost of fingers on her ribs and allows herself one fast glance down to check they are truly gone.

The close space and lack of an escape settle heavier in Nienor’s mind, and she clenches her teeth. Inhale. Deep breath out. She presses her hands hard against her legs.

Nienor leans against the solid door again, letting it take her weight.

She will show this bold Elf-maiden that not all of the Edain fall at Elvish feet with the slightest pressure.

“Thank you for the advice, my lady, I will keep it in mind.” The elleth does not turn around and simply inclines her head. Nienor frowns and watches as she examines a dagger with rubies set in the handle and – are those teeth marks on the blade? The Elf places it in the larger pile on her right.

“You have not yet said why you are in here. I presume you knew this wasn’t the king’s office.”

Nienor winces at her own joke and is not surprised when the answering laugh rings a little hollow.

“Ah no. I am, um –” She turns and studies Nienor’s face for a long moment in silence, then says “I am looking for a weapon, a dagger, that belonged to my – to someone important. A truly foolish servant assumed it was to be gotten rid of.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Apparently it is common to keep unwanted items at the back of your wardrobe, in old, locked chests.”

Nienor bites her cheek, unsure how to respond. It was a far more personal answer than she’d been expecting, and she is aware of the colour that has risen in the elleth’s cheeks and the way her hands have curled into fists.

But despite this, she steps closer and meets her eyes, pushing down any hesitancy. Their colour brings to mind the way the sunlight hit the floor of her bedroom in Dor-lómin.

“I am sorry you have lost something of value to you. I do not mean to say I know how you feel, but I have felt further away from my lost loved ones since leaving my home in Hithlum. It is irrational, they are no closer than they have ever been. But the comfort of simply being near something they touched is never to be understated.”

“Yes,” the Elf-maiden murmurs, her eyes intense on Nienor’s but her posture relaxed and calmer now. “That is exactly it. I have more things of hers but the possibility of being deprived of even one is… very hard.”

Nienor thinks of Morwen, the look on her face when they arrived in Menegroth and were told Túrin was gone. “You cannot bear to lose them in any more ways.”

The elleth nods wordlessly and something passes between the two of them, a sharp second of understanding that reverberates in Nienor’s chest and lodges in her heart.

The following quiet is not uncomfortable but after it has drawn on a while, Nienor breaks it, saying softly, “Would you like me to help you look?”

“Oh, thank you,” the Elf smiles at her, smaller and sadder than before. “But I think I ought to give it up. I had searched most of the room before you arrived and this was one of the final places in the city for it to be, anyway.”

“Well, I am sorry.” Nienor returns her smile. “I will help you hunt down the servant if you like. Make them go and test every dagger in Nargothrond on themselves, just to make sure.”

A short, surprised laugh pushes past the elleth’s lips. “Who knew Men were so bloodthirsty? Again, I thank you Nienor, but no, it was not really his fault. It was a mistake without malice.”

You are kinder than I am, Nienor thinks and does not say.

The Elf-maiden walks over to her. “And, about before, I –”

The door swings open with a bang and they both jump.

An Elf with long dark braids stands on the threshold.

“Finduilas, there you are! I was wondering –” The elleth stops, seeing Nienor, eyes going round with surprise.

“Lady Nienor! I did not expect you to be – here. Princess, I apologise for interrupting. I thought you were alone.”

Nienor steps away from the Elf – from Princess Finduilas. Her mind moves sluggishly, refusing to adjust to this new information.

The princess glances at her quickly and then smiles brightly at her friend. “Egleriadis, you are our valiant rescuer, thank you! Lady Nienor lost her way, and I failed to tell her in time that this door is broken, and will not open from the inside if closed, so we became trapped.”

Egleriadis’ wide brown eyes go to the door, then to Nienor, then back to Finduilas.

“What a piece of bad luck, Princess! I hope you weren’t stuck for too long?”

“No, no, not at all, and it was very pleasant finally getting to know our new guest.” She smiles at Nienor, who cannot quite feel her face it has gone so red.

Egleriadis opens her mouth to say something more, but Finduilas grabs her arm, props the door open with an old shield, and manoeuvres her out the room in one fluid motion.

“Come along El, let us leave Lady Nienor to make her appointment with my father, as was her original intention.”

As the two Elves turn away, Finduilas looks back a final time.

“It really was a joy meeting you, even in this way, Nienor.” And then, so quickly that if Nienor was not staring, eyes still wide and stunned she might have missed it, the princess mouths I’m sorry, flashes an apologetic smile – and winks.

She stays standing there, open-mouthed and processing for a long time.