Inspired By This!!

I can't

once in a while i obsess over Bilbo & Thorin again, so in case that's your jam, here's another fanfic I won't ever write!

After a time in the Undying Lands, Bilbo dies peacefully and finds himself in Yavannah' green fields with every other hobbit that has ever lived. His parents, family, friends, everyone. It's beautiful and plentiful and happy.. and it's also full of hobbits wanting to make social calls.

Anyway, one day, while tending to his garden that always makes perfect tomatoes (how boring!), he thinks how nice it would be if his afterlife and the dwarven afterlife were connected.

And dwarves love to live underground. So...

He digs.

And digs. And digs more.

Since time, hunger and exhaustion are not a thing anymore, there's nothing that keeps him going back up, so he digs until he hits rocks, and then he gets a pick axe and keeps digging.

Until one day, he hits through nothing. He find himself in the ceiling of a huge cavern, cut into stone in very dwarven architecture.

Thousands of dwarves raise their eyes, completely stunned.

'Huh, hello? Are these the halls of Mahal? I'm looking for dwarves. Thirteen of them-- not anyone, thirteen very specific dwarves.'

And from the crowd, thirteen voices start yelling at the same time.

I think you just invented christianity?

obsessed with the idea of onlyfans model! reader x Simon

Maybe you’re one of the biggest creators on the platform and you’re very well known after doing it for a few years. Except, you only do solo content, despite your peers constantly asking to collab or getting requests from fans to see you getting fucked.

Then, one day you post a video showing off some new panties and Simon’s tattooed and scarred hand just appears, squeezing the meat of your ass, claiming and possessive. A subtle message he’s sending to your audience as he spreads your cheeks apart, sliding your panties to the side and shows off your pretty pussy dripping with his cum.

I need bratty sergeant and Simon Riley smut (im sorry if this is too blunt and also you don’t have to do this, okay ily)

"if you don't shut it, i'll shut it for you" / one-shot -> bratty!sergeant x simon riley [3] (can be read independently) part one - part two

⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . dead-flight .ᐟ masterlist -> REQUESTS OPEN!

cw: smut smut smut, oral (simon recieving), fingering (r), edging, overstim, rough sex, helicopter-fuckin', "pup", consentual sex!!!, fingers in mouth, one face slap, "slut" x1, p in v, creampie

he's fucking tired, the lot of his muscles aching with a deep, cloying need. he wanted to collapse on his barrack and dissapear for a week. the helicopter rumbles with sound as he sits on a jumpseat, closing his eyes to lean his head back against the walls.

"Lt!" his eyes open, and he swears, if he hears your voice again, he's about to pick you up and throw you off the fuckin' chopper.

"did you see that shot i lined up? wasn't that so cool--"

"sergeant. if y'don't shut y'reself up, i'll stuff y'r mouth myself," simon mutters, and if looks could kill, you may as well be on the ground, bleeding out.

you pause for a second, and then start right back up, moving to sit right beside him, prattling on and on about the mission, about your plans when you get home--

then you went and leaned over. just close enough to check if he was really listening. you barely even noticed what you were doing, but he did. tits pressed against him, your head craning to see if he was actually paying attention.

"sergeant, what the hell did i tell you?"

you freeze. are you actually in trouble, this time? the rest of the ride is filled with a tense silence, and you stare at him awkwardly, giving him big, apologetic eyes every time he looks at you.

how can you blame him for acting the way he is? pent up to hell, cock clubbed up in his pants, straining needily against the fabric? he nearly dealt with it the moment you landed. he wanted to shut you up, and wanted to see you cry when he did.

"so fuckin' loud," he huffs under his breath, and the moment the rest of the squad leaves the helicopter, simon takes the opportunity to grab you as you're leaving, forcing you back into a jumpseat and slamming the door closed.

the moment your back hits the jumpseat, you should've known you were fucked. "you just don't stop talking, do you, sergeant? like a ditzy, dumb f'ckin' pup."

he stands over you, his hand tugging your chin upwards, "what'd i say? that if you ran your mouth, i'd shut you up, yeah? i just fuckin' might."

your breath quickens, and you dig your fingers into his forearm, trying to pull him off, "sir--m' sorry, won't talk as much--" here you were, thinking he was going to sentence you to a thousand pushups and a hundred laps around base, but simon had other ideas.

"shut up." he stuffs his thumb into your mouth, pressing the digit down against your tongue.

you let out a strangled choking sound, blinking up at him in surprise. "god, m' gonna stuff your fuckin' mouth..." his eyes are dark, heavily lidded, and as you search past the mask, you note the lust taking over the forefront of his mind. "nod, lass, if y'want me to. i don't wanna hear words 'less you want me to stop."

you manage a nod. he gives you a nod of approval, his thumb dragging out of your mouth, smearing your saliva on your cheek. "fuckin' good pup."

his gloved hands pull at his plate carrier, tugging it off and dropping it on the seat opposite to you, shedding his headgear with it. he rolls his shoulders, grunting as he tugs off his shirt, leaving him in a tight, compression undershirt. you watch him like you're starved, taking in every contour of his muscles. he sheds his gloves too, tosses them to the jumpseat.

"like what y'see?" he teases, moving close, grabbing you by your hair, fingers digging into the strands. his free hand tugs down the zipper of his pants, reaching into his boxers and freeing his cock. it's heavy in his hand, flushed tip already drooling precum.

you blink up at him, eyes pleading silently, "sir, please, can i--"

his hand comes down on your cheek. "what'd i say, sergeant? shut up."

he's pulling your hair back, guiding you to open your mouth, and you do, his hips easing forward, the tip of his cock spreading your mouth open around his shaft. "suck, sergeant," he hisses, biting his tongue as you do.

you do. and fuck him, he's not touched himself for a damn long time. your lips seal around him like you're trying to milk him dry, your tongue flicking over his slit, sucking up precum and moaning while you do it--he almost cums right then and there.

"fuck'n hell, lass, you're..." he tightens his grip on your head, pulling you away, his chest heaving, "fuck."

"strip f'me, doll. wanna see y'spread out f'me, yeah?" he watches you, and it's not meant to be sexy, it's messy, how you tug your clothes off desperately, wanting to feel him against you. that desperation makes warmth pool in his gut.

he stops you when you're in your bra, your panties, nude coloured undergarments. but it makes some part of him scream. he kneels before you, eyes trained on your cunt.

"gonna be good f'me?" he's shoving your panties to the side, his thumb pressing to your swollen clit, satisfaction reflected in his eyes as your hips jump forwards needily. the way he speaks to you--speaks to your pussy--as if you aren't even part of the conversation has you leaking.

he smears your juices across your folds, twisting his hand to push a meaty finger in you, massaging your velvety walls, and he moans, his free hand digging into the skin of your hip, "fuck, doll, you're so f'ckin tight f'me."

all you give him is a series of choked moans, a breathy "please, please, please," and a tight squeeze of you around his fingers.

"so wet, i could slide right in, huh?"

it was like being pulled apart and stitched back together, as he curls his fingers deep against your gummy walls, drawing you right there. so close, if only a hair's breadth from falling apart--

he pulls away.

"fuck, simon!" you whine, your eyes welling with tears, "please, please..."

"no," he mutters, slapping your soaking pussy, a sadistic grin falling over his face as he watches how your hips jolt upwards, seeking more. his hand moves to pull off his balaclava, and before you can gawk at his face, he leans up, kissing you--the action is gentler than before, his tongue sweeping your mouth and claiming.

when he pulls away, he's panting, his hand moving to grip his hard shaft, fisting it, pushing against your thigh. "fuckin' hell." he lets go of his cock, pulling you up and holding you up over his cock, lowering you down. one hand holds you, wraps around your waist like you're weightless, the other guiding his cock past your tight entrance.

"tight as hell, sergeant. who knew y'r bratty mouth could be shut up so easily by a good fuckin'?"

he lowers you down slowly. just enough to keep you clenching desperately as you try to ease more of him in, to accomodate more--the burn is deliciously pleasurable. when you ease all of him in, he moans into your ear, his teeth moving to suckle at your neck.

he pounds into you, ferally. lifts you up, drops you down over his cock, your combined fluids dripping down his shaft and falling to the floor.

"fuck, gonna make me cum, this fuckin' cunt... s'pretty f'me, drippin' so much..."

you moan, squeezing harshly down on him, clenching, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave marks. he buries his head in your neck, bites down on your skin like he'll leave a mark, muffling his noises.

"you keep clenchin' on me like that n' i'm gonna--" you're mewling, drooling against him, fingers tugging at his messy hair. he's wanted you like this for the longest time, spread out for him and at his mercy... suddenly the hours of torture of you teasing him is all worth it.

but you're so on edge, from his denial of your orgasm, that when he bullies his cock right against that spot in your walls, you're clenching down on him, digging your fingers into his trapezius and throwing your head back. you're a wreck, but simon's not done.

keeps you bouncing on him, and he's just so close, spurred on by your spasming walls and desperate whimpers. "mmh, fuck, who'dve known that such a fuckin' bratty little slut 's just a needy fuckin' bird," his voice is hoarse, stuttered by grunts as he uses you like a toy.

"fuck'm coming, take--take it all," he manages, pulling you flush against him, your hips right against his pelvis as he pumps his load deep inside you, filling you up. like he owned you.

for once, you were quiet. but now that you know you can get him to behave like this? you won't be quiet for long.

The knight is back 🗡️🪦

going absolutely hogshit feral over Thranduil being a loved and popular king. like he parties with his subjects and they love it. he’s like the Cool Dad Of Mirkwood. little kids give him flowers and he tucks them gently into his crown. birds land on his crown. his soldiers and subjects love him. he may seem isolationist, cold, feral and strange to outsiders but to his subjects. he’s a Father Figure

Soaps “let me finish him” is demonic

There is something to be said to Soap not hesitating to bring him down to the ground. In front of his Captain, in front of his Commander.

Price once said “it needs violence and timing and I can do both.” Soap has violence but apparently Price thinks the timing isn’t right. Because a Sergeant shooting a HVT (high value target) who’s in custody, in the skull on a plane just because he’s angry at him probably has a lot of paperwork attached to it…..

This is just an entire work of art holy shit

kill me again

john price x fem!reader

when your old life is too much to bear, you decide you ought to kill it and bury it. not knowing who else to turn to, you beg John Price to aid you in your endeavor. he decides he wants to give you much more than just a fresh beginning.

tw: inspired by kill me again (1989), domestic abuse/violence, blood kink, blood eating, smut, dub-con, unhinged john price, retired john price, manhandling, light breeding kink

The dreams start the day your husband first places his hands on you. 

Brutal violence completed in a drunken stupor that leaves you with a swollen eye and has your co-workers questioning what you’ve done to yourself—you exercise a rigid equanimity that has them believing the honey coated lies that drip from your tongue. You play this game well—practiced for many years, shrouded beneath quiet smiles and well placed clothing. You keep this composure no matter what falls upon you. Be it his fist, or his lips. 

There is no time to crack or fracture, lest your dream slip between your fingers like fine grains of sand. This liberation—your deliverance—grows closer by the day in the form of hidden clothes and a separate bank account. A suitcase wedged in the boot of your car. A full tank of gas. An internet history littered with searches for a new home. Apartments you can rent. Someplace out of the way. Far from the city. Hidden in the depths below lowering skies and thick forests. 

Except he finds it. The empty dresser drawers, vacant of your clothes, and the letters from the bank about your new account. How your other one is emptied. You find him sitting in his recliner, stupid fingers choking a beer bottle, breath heavy with liquor and eyes brimming with a virulent desire to teach you a lesson. 

And he does. It’s a lesson he teaches well. One that sets every inch of your skin ablaze and leaves snot pooling in the back of your throat as your hands claw at thick forearms. 

“Think you can fucking leave me?” he questions. It’s slurred, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the liquor or the squeezing of his fingers on your throat. “The only way you’re leaving me is when you’re dead. Get that through your thick skull you stupid cunt.” 

So close. Tender and ripe, seeds waiting to spill into your mouth, gullet waiting to swallow—then, taken. Dumped on the edge of the bed. Shoved into overflowing drawers. Fabric stained with tears, suitcase shredded with the knife meant for your gut, offals ready to taste the sour breath of your malevolent lover. 

Your fantasies fade like smoke on warm water. They dissipate into the air, vanishing, utterly forgotten by your mind and soul as you cook for a man who spits at you, dead bed heavy in the evenings, mornings algid enough to leave you shivering. 

Until—one day—you finally wake up. 

“I need you to kill me.” 

It’s been years since John Price has laid eyes on you. Several tours around the world have kept his mind busy with paperwork and his hands occupied with a gun. He’s spent so long wading through the gore of war that he’s not sure he’s gotten the gunpowder to wash free from his skin quite yet. 

Maybe that’s why you ask this question of him, trembling on the other side of his desk, nails digging into the bottom of your seat, bottom lip quivering. His wrinkled crows feet deepen in the creases of his eyes as he smiles at you, a chuckle rumbling in his throat. 

How strange for the one who got away to find his way back to him under such peculiar circumstances. 

“Not really kill me,” you clarify. You’re picking at your cuticles. He notices they’re not painted anymore like you used to when the two of you were younger—before he went off to be a hero and before you were stolen by another man. “I just- John, you’re the only one I can trust with this. I need to vanish.” 

“You want me to help you fake your own death?” he asks incredulously. 

“Tell me you’ll do it,” you beg. 

It’s far-fetched, even for him. Though it’s a set of skills he has honed for many years, that life is behind him now. Idolized in dog tags shoved in the back of the closet and pictures he can hardly stand to look at anymore. These days, he does office work. Paperwork that strains his tired eyes while wearing suits that make his skin crawl. 

“I think you’re taking the piss out of me with this one, sweetheart,” he says jocularly, cheeks pinching as he smiles. 

“He beats me, John.” 

A blink—then, there’s red. Ichor stains his vision, casting you in vermillion light. A glossy sheen coats your eyes, reminding him of the lacquered dolls his grandmother used to collect when he was a child; sitting pretty and pristine on ivory shelves. Hair so delicate and meant for petting, but always just out of his reach. 

“I tried to get away, but he caught me. He nearly killed me that night. I was terrified, and I just- I can’t go to the cops. They won’t work fast enough, and I have nowhere else to go, he’s taken everything I have. Please. If you don’t do this, if you don’t kill me, then he will.” 

John folds—wet tissue paper caught in the wind. “I’ll take care of it.” 

That night, John Price does not sleep. 

There’s a cottage that lines the environs of a lake where the bramble is thick and the bushes produce sweet berries in the summertime. Bequeathed to him after the death of his grandfather, it’s been sitting vacant for decades. Rotting from the inside out as time decays the wood and bevels the roof. 

His hands dance. Hammer and nails. Saws and axes. Paint drying on walls. Within three weeks it’s fit enough to be a home. A bedroom large enough for two, and a second room to be whatever you wish—a library, an office—

—a nursery. 

“How much do you need?” 

Your voice is quiet; squeaky like a mouse. The needle pinched between his fingers has your hairline glistening and throat bobbing. There’s swelling on the apex of your cheek, edema bleeding into your eye, but he does not mention it as he pierces your arm, drawing blood into a tube and letting it drip into a bag. 

“Only enough to kill you,” he quips. 

He does this three times. Spread over aching weeks where you’re riddled with migraines and dizzy spells so violent you find your hands gripping the walls at work. Your co-workers look at you with narrowed eyes as they pass you in hallways despite your gracious smiles and reassuring nods. 

Five months after the day you begged John Price to kill you, he finally does it. 

Stale bleach stings your nose as you stare at the hotel bed, stiff sheets perfectly creased along the edge of the mattress, pillows fluffed and pristine. John stands behind you, leather gloves stretched over his hands as he toys with the bags of your blood and the knife he intends to leave behind. 

Your heart thuds so violently in your chest that you feel it traverse up your throat where it swells, ready to burst. Freedom is so close you can nearly taste it. 

“Ready?” John’s voice is even—rough like steel. You shouldn’t be surprised. You doubt the blood scares him anymore. 

Nodding, you glance over your shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” 

There are several steps to John’s plan—ones he stresses the importance of following perfectly. Obeying, you knock the lamp over at his command, letting it topple to the floor where the lampshade bends and the bulb flickers. When he shoves you onto the mattress, leaving you to stare up at him with wide eyes, he only chuckles. Tells you that he has to make it look believable. There’s no murder without a struggle. 

Gloved fingers rustle the blankets up around you as he manhandles you into different positions along the bed. Despite his firm touch, there’s no pain that lingers or blood that pools in your arms like when your husband touches you. You giggle. Anxiety and relief coalesces into a raging river in your stomach, frying your nerves until there’s nothing left but adrenaline. 

Quirking a thick brow, John looks down at you, leather gloves tracing your ankle as he straightens himself. “Having fun?”

“Sorry, I’m just… so nervous.” But you’re smiling wider than he’s ever seen you before. 

When it comes to the blood, John spills it on top of you. Legs caging the side of your hips, he pierces the bag with his knife and lets it drip over your chest, your stomach, the mattress—when it stains his pants he tells himself he has nothing to worry about. Soon enough, your DNA and his will be used to mingling. It’ll be natural. Necessary. 

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” you breathe. The blood is cold against your skin but it spills as if it were warm. Pooling in your neck, sticking to your palms, John tells you to paw at the duvet, and you do. “You said there’s a cottage I can stay at? We’ll be heading there next, right?” 

“Mhm. Fixed it up nice and pretty for you, sweetheart,” he confirms. 

You beam, skin illuminated with your own blood, clothes sticking to every curve of your body. John tosses the first bag to the side before adding another one, this time making sure to wet his knife and fling it, high impact splatters staining the wall, the ceiling, your own face. 

Then, he grabs you again, leather pressing into your wrists as he pins you. He assures you that he’s just making the scene more realistic, an act well done, but the whimper that leaves your lips is very much real. He stares down at you, and the way your eyes trace the way his beard lines his mouth, and he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful than this—on the precipice of escape. 

“John…” His name bleeds off of your tongue.

He’s done for. 

You keen pretty for him when his knife slices through your shirt, exposing your breasts, torso gleaming with ichor like wine. When he decides to have a taste for himself, you can hardly wiggle against the flat of his tongue on your stomach. He smothers your protest with a kiss. You’re rigid against him, lips like cement left out to dry in the sun, but then, you melt. You deliquesce beneath his touch, gloved hands raking down your body, yanking your pants off before your mind can fully make sense of it. 

When he feeds his cock into your aching cunt, he tells you this is how he seals the agreement—a proper bond, an unbreakable promise. This is how he kills you, with thrust after reaming thrust, nestling into the deepest parts of you that your husband has yet to destroy. And when you clasp your hand over your mouth to stifle the moans that leave your mouth, and he catches the glint on your ring finger, he snatches it. Metal free from your skin, he tosses it; lets it topple along the musty carpet before interlacing your fingers with his. 

Then, you’re a corpse. Lifeless beneath him, chest heaving with heavy gasps as your eyelids flutter shut, thoroughly fucked until your brain is mush. He spills the final bag and drowns the room in it before he wraps you up in the blankets and moves you to his car. Bridal style. White linens like a dress. Red blood like the breaking of a hymen—this is your union. 

This is your fateful conjugality. 

Three weeks go by in the blink of an eye. The hours feel like mere minutes when your husband is no longer breathing down your neck, huffing his hate and vitriol into the shape of your spine. John brings you fresh groceries every few days before leaving you on your own to wander the edge of the lake and collect flowers to place in your windowsill. Every morning you wake up and the bed is warm. You can cook without the television blaring or a man grumbling. Your fridge is not marred with alcohol. 

On the morning of the third week, there is a forearm around your waist.  

You startle until you feel John’s voice purr against your ear as he wishes you good morning. His comfort fuzzies your mind to the point you don’t even bother to ask him why he’s here, or why his chest is pressed against your back. Instead, your muscles relax, body morphing to the shape of him. 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. 

John nuzzles his nose into the back of your neck. “Of course they are.” 

Truly, they are. He’s here in this bed with you, half naked and lazy, enjoying the way the daybreak gleams across your form. Everything is just as it ought to be—

—at least where you’re concerned. 

You have yet to notice the reports of your fictitious murder, or how the police found your diary where you recounted the events of your abuse. You have yet to notice the news of your husband’s arrest, or how he’s being charged with second degree murder.

You have yet to notice the fresh flowers resting on your nightstand, or the new ring on your left hand. 

But John tells himself you’ll learn all about this in due time. 

“How long are you here for?” you question, voice thick with your lingering slumber. 

John’s grin sticks to the back of your neck. 

“For the rest of my life.” 

Lord of the Rings Legolas reminds me a deer. The more I think I about it the more it’s just consuming my brain.

Bro has soft doe eyes.

Bro’s eyes sparkle.

Bro is soft. Like deer.

Bro is from the woodland. Like deer.

I am obsessing like look at these gifs and tell me they don’t give you soft deer vibes ???

DUDE JUST GIVES SOFT DEER VIBES I DONT KNOW HOW ELSE TO EXPLAIN IT

I did not need to be reminded of this*

Rewatched LOTR for the millionth time and took even more psychic damage than usual, have a scene repaint of Faramir suffering