#my first foray into writing???? hello??

[cicadaknight]

I'm in ruins thinking about Kotallo and Fashav spending 5 years growing to love each other. All for it to be ripped away by a comrade they trusted. RUINS.

After his solo assignment in Arrowhand, Kotallo takes Fashav to the inker for his first marks. He gives a rushed history of the difference in style and shape language between the clans. Fashav blushes when Kotallo traces his arm as he explains how far the marks will likely extend for his deeds.

Fashav always volunteers for assignments in the Desert Clan because he knows Kotallo is miserable in the heat. Kotallo swallows his pride. It's a small gesture, but it's kind. Besides, Fashav has more patience for Drakka's antics than he ever will.

The second anniversary of their Kulrut arrives too quickly. For Fashav, it's a memory tainted by losing hope of ever returning home. All he wants is a moment alone to reflect before joining the other Marshals feasting in the yard. As he reads over his glyphs, he hears a rustle behind him. Without turning to look, Fashav says, "Are you coming in or simply content watching me sweat?" Kotallo's leaning in the doorway, watching fondly as Fashav scribbles on parchment. He enters wordlessly, sits on the cot, and reveals a vessel from behind his back; Carjan wine he scavenged from an abandoned raider camp. He'd saved it, remembering the wistful way Fashav spoke of nights in Meridian with his cousins. It's pleasant and sweet. Kotallo would never admit it's better than Sky Clan spirits. But as the night goes on, the way it makes Fashav's laugh deep and unguarded is enough for him to check every raider camp he sweeps for another cask.

Kotallo's away settling a dispute in Salt Bite. When he arrives back at the Grove, Regalla's positively gloating about goading Fashav into the Valley of the Fallen trial. Kotallo is LIVID, but won't risk Fashav's honor by going after him. All he can do is wait and pray to the Ten that the days go by quickly and Fashav returns unscathed.

Regalla tries to smooth things over with Kotallo after the Valley of the Fallen incident. She's jovial and cocky, teasing him about his form as they spar together in the training pit. "You're sluggish today. It's the Carja, isn't it? What is it about that man that makes you lose your focus?" "Probably his shiny silks, they catch the light like a beacon," he jests. Fashav hasn't worn anything but Tenakth armor since the Kulrut, but it feels familiar to tease him. She laughs and he rolls his eyes. Regalla circles around him, spear trailing loose designs in the dirt. "He'll be fine, you know. Tell me, what is it really? Worried he'll trip over a root? Get stuck up a tree? Try to appease a Glinthawk with some of his eastern poetry?" In a flash she scores a hit to his shoulder, "I wouldn't worry too much. That sniveling worm would wriggle his way out of a Thunderjaw's maw. The Ten know nothing else will touch him. Well maybe not nothing?" Kotallo freezes and studies her face, hoping to see some regret in her eyes. How far will she take her jibes? She only smirks back, whirling for another attack. Before she can blink, he steps aside and swipes her feet out from under her, blunt end of his spear resting at her throat. Crouching next to her face, he hisses, "It's been 3 years, Galla. He has nothing left to prove to us. Nothing to prove to you, even in all your bitterness. Ease. The fuck. Up." He stands and tosses his spear to the ground. It's a grave insult to make another clean up your weapons, but he's furious. He feels her eyes scorching his back as he makes his way to the Grove. The ice will never thaw between them.

Bonus:

Kotallo learns to read so quickly with the Focus because Fashav taught him Carja glyphs. They would leave messages for each other in various settlements, in their rooms, in secret spots all over the Grove. The journals Aloy finds were meant for Kotallo.

[aemondsbabe]

A Kindness

summary: you're finally ramsay's most favorite toy, but is that really a good thing?

pairing: ramsay bolton x reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark content it's ramsay hello, blood kink but no injury/gore, mentioned major character death (again, no injury/gore), slight au (ramsay wins battle of the bastards), choking, rough sex, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation, slapping, piv sex, unprotected sex don't be silly wrap ur willy, hair pulling, creampie, slight breeding kink, puppy play, boot humping idk how to else to phrase it, slight angst but a happy ending for ramsay lmao, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 6.2k

a/n: my first foray into dark or at least semi-dark writing and my first time writing ramsay! i've had this one in my head for such a long time so it feels really good to actually get it out! hope everyone enjoys and please make sure to heed the warnings with this one!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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“Dip the cloth again, you dolt,” you snap, looking up from the scroll of parchment rolled out before you on the table when you hear the coarse woolen cloth begin to scrape dryly across the silver Ramsay’s… thing was supposed to be polishing, “If I have to remind you of that one more time, I’ll tell him you tried to touch me. I wonder which part of you he’d hack off for that, hm?” 

Reek’s eyes go wide at your threat and he nods his head frantically, quickly reaching over and dunking the cloth into the small bowl of vinegar before him. “Yes, m’lady. Apologies, m’lady.” 

A small sigh leaves your lips as you rest an elbow on the table, nose scrunching up slightly at the sour smell that seems to hang like a cloud over the room, the small one by the kitchens.

 Probably where the staff ate, you think, staring blankly at the fire crackling away in the hearth. You’ve tried hard to picture it – Winterfell in its former glory, trussed up with wolf banners and filled with children’s laughter, how it was when the Stark’s called it home. 

Your eyes linger on Reek and for a second, you’re halfway tempted to ask him about it – what it was like living here, being one of them. You don’t, knowing the question would fall on deaf ears at the least, or send him spiraling to the point of being unable to finish his chores, and then it would be your head on the chopping block as well. 

Distantly, you hear the familiar baying of Ramsay’s hounds and your eyes flick up to the narrow slit windows on the wall; you do your best to ignore the way Reek’s head swivels to the sound in the same instance yours does, the way that adrenaline so keenly rushes through you – a burst of panic leading the charge before you have the chance to correct it. 

Anticipation, you remind yourself, jaw clenched, Passion, excitement. 

Your eyes vacantly scan over the parchment you’d nabbed from the library earlier that morning, an account of the birth of Arya, apparently the sister of the one that had actually managed to escape some weeks back, no doubt frozen now in one of the snowy forests that surrounds Winterfell. You don’t really care, your thoughts once again reverting back to Myranda. Bitterly, you remember how he never made her stay behind when he went hunting, never made her watch over his man-servant, never made her second guess.

The last one is a lie, the truth woven deeply into the many nights you’d spent up with her – listening as she fretted about each word she’d uttered to him that day, hoping each one had been right and had been said at the right time, that he wouldn’t find some made-up cause to punish her. Tendrils of jealousy had twisted into you even then, even as she painted a picture of what he truly was. 

Just as men’s voices filter through the windows from the courtyard outside, your lips quirk up into a mean, victorious little smirk. 

It’s her body he fed to the dogs, you think, the voice in your mind a proud hiss, Just like Violet’s and Tansy’s and Kyra’s. You remember the day well enough, remember the shock of seeing your friend's body laying in the courtyard as you’d run out to greet Ramsay, teal eyes staring at nothing. It had been you that had warmed his bed that very night, and all the ones after it. 

“There you are,” a familiar voice sounds from behind you, nearly making you yelp as Reek scrambles to stand up from the table. Before you even have a chance to, a strong hand clasps over your shoulder, stilling your movements, “No, no, don’t get up on my account.” Rusty copper stains color his hand, dried blood outlining each of his nails. You don’t let your mind linger on what the source of it could be.

You whip your head around and swallow nervously as he chuckles lowly, “Ramsay!” You breathe in greeting, the corners of your lips tilting up into a tentative smile, though that’s quickly washed away as you take in the messy splotches of red that stain his coat and tunic, that snake their way up the pale column of his throat and dot the sides of his face. 

He looks every bit the hunter and you wonder, not for the first time, what that makes you. 

“You seem quite comfortable here, pet,” he drawls, leaning down until he’s eye-level with you, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re more at home down here with the help,” he continues, hand tightening to the point of pain on your shoulder, making you grit your teeth, “Than you are in our chambers where you’re meant to be.”

Our chambers. A privilege he never granted her. Stupidly, your heart sings. 

His hand tightens on your shoulder once more, finally drawing a pained whine from your lips.

“Y-You told me to watch him! To make sure he –” You’re cut off as Ramsay unceremoniously hauls you to your feet, clawing at your leather doublet. A cry leaves your lips as the hand on your shoulder tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging as he forces your head back, blue eyes flicking to your neck as you swallow thickly. 

“I told you to be in our chambers when I return from hunts,” he corrects you, standing to his full height as he holds you tightly, forcing you unsteadily onto your tip-toes, “That I expected you to be at the door, ready and waiting for me.” His lips ghost over your ear as he speaks, his voice a low growl that shouldn’t excite you the way it does. 

“I’m sorry,” you wince internally at the way your voice comes out as a pained little squeak, your hands scrambling to hang onto his forearm, nails digging into the stained quilted fabric of his jacket.

“You know how I get after a hunt,” he suddenly pulls away from you, his hand pulling out of your hair, a gasp leaving you as your heels drop to the floor. You blink as he reaches up, not flinching from years of practice, though instead of striking you or harshly gripping at your jaw like you expect, his hand cups your cheek. Your chest rises and falls as he strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, blood stained fingers now delicate against your soft skin. 

“Today’s was a special one, too. Don’t you remember?” He questions, icy eyes sliding from yours to the red-headed man still standing by the table, glimmering cruelly as he smirks. 

Still, you nod your head, knowing Reek won’t answer. “To celebrate killing Jon Snow,” you breathe, gripping at the leather of his tunic, desperate to win even a scrap of approval.

Surprisingly, he grants it – fixing you with a proud little grin, like how an owner would look at a dog that’s just mastered a new trick. “That’s right,” his hand ruffles the hair on the top of your head, a gesture that should feel demeaning, yet it sends a tingle of pride through you instead, “Seems you can remember something after all.” He pulls away and traipses over to Reek, hands clasped behind his back.

“Surely you remember too, Reek? You were in the kennels that evening when the dogs had their treat, were you not?” He taunts, the playful inflection in his voice entirely for show, “Our little problem’s been dealt with and now we hold not only the Dreadfort but Winterfell as well! What do you think about that, hm?” Ramsay studies the other man carefully, eyes flitting over his face as he takes great pleasure in the subtle twitches of pain that still manage to flicker through the harsh conditioning he’d endured. Your eyes stay fixed firmly on the stone floor. 

“A… A great victory, master!” 

“Yes, a great victory, indeed,” he smiles, watching Reek for another moment before turning back to you. His smile morphs into a cold, callous frown that ties your stomach into knots, each of his steps making your heart hammer faster in your chest. “You know, it’s actually rather amusing,” he starts, bloodied fingers twirling a stray lock of your hair, “How my hounds seem to be continually more well trained than you, pretty little idiot.”

Pretty, pretty, pretty! Your heart thumps dumbly, a rabbit in a snare. 

“I’ll do better!” You whimper, shaking your head frantically as your eyes meet his, “I can do better, really, I was just confu–”

The hand in your hair shoots down suddenly, yanking several strands with it as he clamps it around your neck. “Confused?” Ramsay murmurs, watching with rapt attention at how you struggle in his hold, lips quivering as the words die in your throat, “Really? I give you one task, I ask one thing of you, and you can’t even figure that out? You still disappoint me?” 

He’s not expecting an answer, you know this, and yet you still try to give one as your mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, only the faintest little whines managing to escape. You feel faint, both from his grip around your throat and from the myriad of emotions coursing through your veins – your heart twists at the thought of failing him, your stomach is in knots as various punishments flash through your mind, and yet your center still sparks, still sends little glimmers of arousal through you. 

His grip loosens enough to allow you to suck in several shaky lungfuls of air as he snickers, endlessly amused at how eager you still are, how you still yearn so deeply for him. Again, he pats your head condescendingly, muttering little hushes as if you were a crying puppy. “Lucky for you, pet, I have plenty of experience training stubborn bitches,” Ramsay chuckles, blue eyes glimmering with mirth when he feels you swallow apprehensively, “I think we’ll have your behavior corrected in no time, won’t we? Even the stupidest of beasts can still learn a trick or two.”

Before you have time to react, the hand cradling the crown of your head harshly grabs at your hair again, tugging you suddenly toward the door. “Ah!” You yelp, stumbling as he all but drags you behind him, your hands shake as they struggle to grab onto his forearm, “Ramsay, pl–!”

“You should be grateful I am allowing you the kindness of walking!” He growls, sparing you a glance over his shoulder as he leads you through the Great Hall, “Pity I’m so protective of you, really, I’m sure it would be quite entertaining for my men to watch you crawl.” His drawled threat sends a spark of fear down your spine and you pant, chest heaving, as you shuffle behind him; your cheeks burn as several of his soldiers sitting at the long wooden tables catcall as you stagger past them.

Finally, the two of you reach your shared chambers, that fact sending a little torrent of satisfaction through you even now. Unceremoniously, Ramsay all but tosses you inside and you whimper as your hip collides with an edge of the decorative table just inside the door, no doubt hard enough to bruise but at least it breaks your fall. 

“It’s quite unfortunate, normally find your impudence amusing,” he starts lowly, pressing the old wooden door closed with a thud before sliding the lock into place with a self-satisfied grin, “But I know you know better, don’t you, little one?” He asks as he stalks toward you.

Your breath catches in your throat as he stands before you, studying you silently for a second in the same calculated way he studies a deer through the sight of his bow. Not knowing what else to do, you silently nod your head as your eyes slip down to the floor, like a child being scolded. 

“You’ve been with me the longest now,” he murmurs as if you don’t know, one bloodstained hand grabbing at your waist as the other fits around the back of your neck, once again forcing your eyes to his face, “We grew up together, you and I. You know my ways, my rules, isn’t that right?”

Again, you nod your head, bottom lip trembling with the want to explain yourself, although you know that would only make things worse.

“That’s what makes your disobedience so frustrating,” his blue eyes bore into yours as he speaks, his lip sticking out in a mocking pout, “Because you do know better and yet you’re stupid enough to act out anyway, hm?” His tone is sharper now, dangerous like the pointed tip of an arrow.

“I wasn’t acting out!” The words claw themselves out of your throat before you can stop them and instantly you know you’ve made a mistake, but now you’re desperate to remedy it, “I wasn’t, really! I j-just misunderstood you, that’s –” 

Your pleas come to a screeching halt as his hand smacks across your face, the other grips at your jaw tightly, tight enough to make you whine softly in his grasp. Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, cheek stinging, before they open and lock with his again, wild and desperately. 

I wasn’t being insolent! You scream silently, hoping he can somehow hear you, that maybe all of your years with him would’ve granted that ability, I would never! I was doing as you said, like always! 

“I was wrong earlier, wasn’t I?” Ramsay mutters, so close to you that your foreheads nearly touch. Your eyes widen slightly at his words, heart thumping in a hopeful little staccato, though he wrenches that away quickly enough, “You’re not a dog at all, no, a dog would be obedient and docile.”

Your brows knit together with confusion at his words, biting so hard into your lower lip that you’re shocked you don’t taste blood. Although, you can’t help the surprised little gasp that leaves you when his hands begin quickly tugging at the laces of your bodice as your own remain in white-knuckled fists at your sides, the whole of you determined to stay still like a statue, a plaything. 

“No, you my sweet little pet,” he growls sarcastically, low voice morphing into a pleased chuckle as he tugs your bodice off; the shirt below it quickly follows and a small part of you blooms with pride at the happy little sigh he lets out at the sight of your breasts. 

“You’re just a dumb puppy, aren’t you?” He chuckles against your throat, nipping at your skin more so than kissing it, although you relish the feel of his lips on you all the same. “A dumb, defiant little puppy,” he continues, hastily pulling at the ties of your skirts and you whimper despite yourself when they finally fall to the floor, pooling at your feet, “That’s in desperate need of more training.” 

He stops, pausing for a mere second, and pulls back just enough to look at you, no doubt gaining satisfaction from the desperation written so plainly on your face. There’s a hunger in his cold eyes – a predator silently deciding to go for the jugular, nocking an arrow on his bow. 

You whine as he properly kisses at your throat now, his hands rough against your skin as he grabs at your hips. One skims higher to cup your breast, the unexpected gentleness of his touches causes you to shiver and whine in his grasp and into his mouth as he kisses you finally, his full lips moving steadily in time with yours. 

Harsh pants leave your lips as your heart pumps madly in your chest, his touches always work you up so quickly. The thought of him still being fully clothed as he left you bare and vulnerable made you hotter still; the feel of his warm leather tunic against your exposed skin, of his bloodied hands against your supple skin, drives you mad. 

Before you have time to second guess your movements, you begin blindly pulling at the strings on his leather tunic, desperate to feel him against you. Surprisingly, he lets you tug it off of him, granting you a last meal of sorts, and you can’t help but to smile into the kiss, gasping into his mouth as he unbuttons his jacket himself before quickly tossing it aside as well. He’s panting nearly as harshly as you are as the two of you part long enough for him to pull his shirt over his head, your hands immediately go to his chest the second it joins the ever-growing pile of clothes on the floor. 

Your eyes flicker over him as the two of you pause, the knot in your belly growing tighter at the sight of his taut stomach and chest, the low, warm glow of the many candles dotted throughout your chambers accentuating each muscular dip. Your fingers shake as they trail over him and you feel a sick sense of pride twist in your stomach at the fact that, unlike so many men, his skin isn’t mottled with years of scars and bruises. No, his is flawless, a pale, unmarred, ruthless canvas – a flawless killer. 

Of course, he can’t let you have this reprieve for long. A good trainer doesn’t spoil his pet. 

A soft, broken gasp leaves you as one hand wraps around your neck again, slotting perfectly against your throat like a collar, as he walks you a few paces further into the room, closer to the small hearth by the bed. “Kneel,” his command leaves no room for anything but obedience; you swallow thickly, nervously, and do as he says, lips parting ever so slightly when your knees rest on plush bear skin instead of hard stone. 

A kindness, even now. 

Ramsay’s lips twist into a proud grin as you stare up at him, legs folded beneath you with your hands poised perfectly on your thighs, a familiar stance he’d taught you years ago. “Good girl,” he mutters, fingers threading gently through your hair as you moan softly. 

“Thank y – Ah!”

“No,” he chides harshly, tugging your head back by the roots of your hair until your neck is bared to him, your back arched, “Puppies don’t talk, dumb little thing,” he growls, shifting more closely to you in order to gain a better hold on your hair, close enough that you whimper as your front is pressed firmly against the length of his leg, the thick fabric of his trousers rough against your skin as one of his feet slots between your thighs, “A well-trained pet certainly doesn’t.” 

The knot in your belly seizes at his words, aided by the laces of his leather boots brushing oh-so gently against your center, the knotted fabric sticking against the wetness already leaking from your clenching cunt. You whine, high-pitched and frantic when he clutches your hair tighter still, his fist white knuckled against the crown of your head. 

“A well-trained little pet would always obey their master, wouldn’t they?” You can’t miss the breathiness of his voice now, his tone lower and smoother than it normally is, and the sound makes your hips hump against his boot before you can stop yourself, your nipples stiff, nearly aching, as they rub against his trousers. 

A low, rumbled laugh echoes through your chambers when your arms wrap around his leg, fingers digging desperately into the firm muscle of his thigh. “Aww,” he coos mockingly, licking his lips as he watches you, his attention making blood rush to the apples of your cheeks, “Is my pretty little puppy getting off on this? Does your cunt drip when I tell you how stupid and worthless you are?”

The sound of your blood pumping furiously through your veins thuds in your ears, Pretty, pretty pretty!

You whine as you try to eagerly nod your head, his hold on your hair preventing you from moving much, though your hips rut steadily against his boot now – pressing tightly against the worn fabric, the knots from his laces rubbing perfectly over the throbbing little pearl at your center. 

“You look like you’re having fun,” he drawls, cold eyes shining as he studies you closely, chest heaving in time with yours as his cock hardens in his pants, “Are you having fun, little one?”

Again, you try to nod, keening brokenly as your eyes stay fixed on his. You pant harshly against his leg, breath fragmented as they’re punched out of your lungs, the knot in your belly growing tighter and tighter with each pass of your slick center over the laces of his boot. 

He knows, of course. As soon as he ordered you to stay in the kitchens with Reek this morning, he knew – knew you’d follow his orders to the letter, even if they contradicted his previous ones. He knew he’d find you there, knew he’d punish you for it, knew exactly how he wanted to break you down so that it could be him who built you back up. He’s known you the longest, you’d grown up together. He knows, of course he does. He’s nothing if not a thorough hunter. 

A loud, broken whine leaves you when he flexes his foot, pressing his boot harder against you still. You’re helpless to do much else aside from stare up at him, gasping, while your hips buck against him as quickly as your sore muscles will allow, your high barreling toward you at a breakneck pace. 

All of that comes to a sudden, screeching halt though when he moves again, shifting his weight until his boot is just out of reach. The sudden lack of stimulation makes your back arch further still, your muscles taut like a drawn bow. 

“Oh, poor little puppy,” he laughs, watching gleefully as you whine loudly, the peak that had been so close fading away, leaving you aching, “If you thought it was going to be that easy, you haven’t been paying attention.” He taunts, crouching until he’s eye-level with you, smirking as his movements cause his pull on your hair to become tighter, making you wince, though his hand thankfully releases its grasp once he settles.

“Mmm,” you mewl softly as he caresses your breasts again, jumping slightly when he thumbs over your nipple before softly pinching at it, giving the other one the same treatment. Your eyes flutter shut as you arch your back further still, pressing against the palm of his hand as he kneads at your chest, eager for any stimulation you can get.

“Myranda was never like this,” he says suddenly, his voice low, steady, calculated. He smiles cruelly when your eyes snap open at the sound of her name, the back of your throat tight as tears already blur your vision – just like he wanted. “No, Myranda always behaved perfectly, she always did exactly what I said.” 

He leans forward suddenly, the side of his face pressed firmly against yours so that when he speaks, you’re sure to hear every syllable, to feel them punctuated against the skin of your neck. “She was perfect. I never had to punish her for the same thing twice, you know. Not like I do with you.” 

You shudder as his lips press against your skin again, pressing eager kisses against the wet trail of tears running down your cheek. He admires the way your shoulders shake as you sob, the way the subtle movement makes your breasts bounce, the way your cheeks flush so prettily, how your eyes always shine so brightly with fresh tears in them. 

Ramsay loves breaking you – adores the moment when his arrow is finally launched free from his bow, adores the moment he sees it pierce your little heart. He loves you, in his way. 

Not that he’d tell you that.

He lets you sob for a moment longer, all the while pressing hot kisses against your cheeks, relishing the salty taste of your tears as the little droplets of blood still caked to his skin mar your pretty face, staining it with delicate streaks of red. His cock twitches at the sight, black pupils nearly drowning out the blue of his eyes – maybe one day he’d bring you hunting, what a sight you’d be covered in the bright blood of a fresh kill. 

“Myranda never needed training, puppy, not in the way you do,” he nearly whispers, the corners of his lips twitching up into a small smile as he leans back enough to grab at your chin, tilting your face up to his, “That’s what made her so boring.”

“Huh?” You breathe, sobs stalling for a second as you process what he’d just said, your obvious surprise making him laugh lowly again. 

“What? Does that shock you? That I found her boring?” He questions, eyebrow raised, “Why would perfection be interesting?” 

Your eyes search his face as he shifts, kneeling rather than crouching. A little glimmer of pride sparks to life within you as he kisses you again, your lips moving against his frantically, mewling when he pushes his tongue into your mouth and nips at your bottom lip. 

“I never got to train her,” he breathes against your lips, grunting at the way your hands skim over his chest and stomach, grabbing at him so frantically, “I hardly got to punish her; if I gave her an order, she would follow it blindly – it made her predictable, it made her boring.”

“N-Not like me?” You whisper hopefully, meeting his gaze through half-lidded eyes as you pant, your chest pressed tightly to his. 

“No, sweet pet, not like you,” Ramsay smiles, making your heart sing as it leaps beneath your ribs, “I get to train you, don’t I? And punish you when that little puppy brain can’t follow the simplest of orders.”

You should be offended, should feel mocked and belittled, but you don’t. Instead, you nod your head eagerly, preening like a proud little bird at his praise, because that’s what is, really. Ramsay will never be one to sing your praises softly like other men, but he admires you all the same. 

Before you have time to reply, he grabs at your waist and abruptly maneuvers you, manhandling you until you’re poised on your hands and knees, cheek pressed firmly against the fur rug beneath you. 

“I get to play with you, pet,” he drawls lowly, pressing a hand into the small of your back and grunting appreciatively when you arch down like he wants, licking his lips as your cunt finally comes into view, shining already in the low candlelight. He smirks at the way you moan when he presses his hard length against you, grinding against your slit, chest heaving at how warm you are even through his trousers, “Don’t I?”

“Yes!” You nod eagerly, pressing back against him like a wanton whore, nearly dizzy with need when his fingers bump against you as he quickly undoes the laces on his pants, “Yes, yes, yes, please!”

“Ohh, so you can be good, hm?” He teases, groaning in relief when he pushes his trousers down just enough to free his cock, too impatient to remove them entirely, “Seems my training’s working nicely.”

Mindlessly, you nod, willing to agree with whatever he says so long as he gets inside you.

Mercifully, you don’t have to wait long. A loud cry fills your chambers as he presses into you, the slight sting of his thick cock stretching you open making you shiver, a familiar sensation since he was rarely ever patient enough to work you open on his fingers. 

Immediately, he sets a brutal pace, his hips pressing against yours tightly each time he pushes forward, the head of his cock nearly kissing your cervix with each harsh thrust. Your cunt clenches at him greedily and your hands scramble against the rug beneath you, fingers tangling into the furs, desperate for something to anchor yourself. 

“Fuck, tight little cunt,” Ramsay grunts harshly above you, his hands gripping meanly at your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. 

“R-Ramsay, fuck… fuck,” you whimper beneath him, your eyes squeezed shut tightly as the knot in your belly threatens to unravel, your walls pulsing rhythmically around his length each time it spears into you.

He chuckles breathlessly at your little murmurs and runs a hand up the length of your back before grabbing at the hair at the nape of your neck, relishing the little cry you give as he pulls you up until your back is pressed firmly against his chest. “Are you close already?” He mocks smugly, his fingers untangling from your hair to wrap once more around your throat as his other paws at your breasts, his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples. 

You swallow thickly, throat bobbing under his grip, and nod your head the best you can, grabbing at his thick forearm. 

“Do you think I’m going to let you?” He teases, biting harshly at your shoulder as his hips keep up a punishing rhythm.

You nearly sob at the question, so desperate, but still you shake your head, cunt pulsing around his length. “No, n-no…” You moan mournfully, voice hoarse from his hold. 

He chuckles behind you, his chest rumbling against your back as he kisses and bites at your earlobe, your shoulder, any part of your neck not covered by his hand, each touch driving you mad. “Finally, that little brain seems to be working,” he grunts, laughing lowly as he abandons your breasts long enough to slap your cheek, blessedly soft this time, “I’m having too much fun playing with you to let you go that easily,” He drawls, chuckling once more when you whine. 

“In fact,” he continues, reaching down and rubbing his fingers roughly against your aching bud, just enough to make you cry out before he suddenly pulls away again, tugging his length from you as he lets you flop to the floor with a little grunt, “I want to see you do a trick,” he whispers, rubbing over your ass before smack it roughly, making you jump, “Roll over.”

“Wha –” You start to question, only to be cut off with a loud cry as his hand spanks you once more.

“Be a good fucking puppy and roll over.”

His order leaves no room for questioning and obediently, you listen and roll over onto your back with a little whimper. You keep your legs bent up when you settle, keeping yourself on display for him, clenching around nothing as you eye his hard cock bobbing against his stomach, the tip red and leaking. 

“Good little pet,” he praises, his words going straight to your pearl as you shudder. Hastily, he pushes your legs up further, one hand holding you open as he presses his cock back into you, savoring your loud whine, the way your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He resumes his harsh pace, slamming into you as he chases his high now, blue eyes trailing appreciatively over your trembling body, watching as your breasts bounce with each unforgiving thrust he gives. 

“Please, please, Gods, please!” You whine frantically as he presses his hips against yours, grinding into you, the thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your bud perfectly, “Ramsay, p-please! I – fuck!”

He laughs breathlessly at your cries and leans down when you arch your back toward him, mouthing savagely at your chest, teeth nipping at the fat of your breasts before he licks over your nipples. He knows each touch is only driving you closer and closer to your release, yet he still doesn’t give you permission, a part of him meanly hopes you’ll slip over anyway and give him another reason to punish you, like he actually needs a reason. 

Still, you have been good today and he does love how willing and docile you become when you peak, so malleable – entirely submissive, entirely his. 

He bites and kisses his way up along your chest and neck before licking into your mouth for a moment, eagerly swallowing each desperate little cry before grabbing at your neck once more. Greedy, he turns your head to him, needing to see that empty-headed, hazy look in your eyes when he lets you finish.

His cock jerks at the sight of you, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you try desperately to hold off, cheeks flushed, reddened lips parted. He grunts, feeling his balls tighten, his thrusts beginning to lose their rhythm. 

“Cum, puppy,” he growls, forehead pressed against yours.

Your lips part in a silent curse as your high slams into you, each muscle in your body contracting at once. Your eyes bore into his wildly as your cunt spasms tightly around his cock, eyes rolling back as he fucks you through it.

“Fuck!” He grunts, growling lowly as his cock spasms within you, your walls all but milking his own high from him as well. His hips slam into you a few more times before he stills, gasping as he fills you with his spend. 

The two of you lay together for a moment, panting loudly against one another. Ramsay is the first to move, shushing you as he pulls his softening length from you, making you whine. 

Distantly, a part of you twists gleefully when you feel his seed drip from you, another thing he never dared do with her. 

“Here,” he says softly, offering you a hand, which you gladly take, letting him help you stand since you doubt you’d be able to on your own. Finally, you stand on your feet, albeit unsteadily, and grab onto the foot of the carved wooden bedframe to steady yourself. Strangely, he stays with you, neither of you saying anything as he holds you, blue eyes studying you as they gleam with some unknown emotion. 

After a moment, you try to pull away, meaning to leave as you always do, not one to wait around for his order anymore. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, only pulling away once you still, “Stay.” He orders, an unfamiliar softness to his voice. Your head reels, eyes staring unfocused as you try to make sense of… whatever this is, whatever his game may be now. 

He returns quickly enough, a damp cloth in his and from the small wash basin he keeps on the vanity. You reach out to grab it, to clean yourself off like you assume he wants, and yet he stops you, holding the cloth out of your grasp until you lower your hand again. 

“Obedient puppies get rewards,” he says softly, all of the harshness from before absent from his tone as he answers your silent questions. You nearly freeze when he presses one small, gentle kiss against your forehead. Finally, he makes quick work of wiping between your legs, taking care to wipe away any of his spend that leaked from you. 

“Thank you…” You nearly whisper, voice scratchy from his earlier treatment. That doesn’t feel like the right thing to say but if it isn’t, he doesn't say. 

Silently, he cups your chin, lifting it enough to give him room to check your neck, trailing his hand over it lightly until he must be satisfied that you’re okay, that he hadn’t treated you too badly. 

Kind, even still.

A few moments later, you recline in the plush bed, watching as he kicks off his boots before joining you, lying with you under the soft blankets. This part, at least, you’re used to – lying together like this but not touching, not cuddling, that’s too intimate, too close. 

He hadn’t said that, wouldn’t say that, but you knew. 

A surprised little gasp leaves you when he pulls you close, hands, clean now that he’d taken a moment to wash them, resting on you gently. One smoothes up and down your arm as he lets you lay against his chest, cheek pressed against his collarbone, his chin resting on your head; the other grabs at your thigh, pulling you to him until you’re tucked into his side, one leg propped over his hips. 

“You did well,” he says softly, chest vibrating under your cheek as he speaks, “With your training, I mean. You did well. I’m… proud of you.”

“Thank you.” 

The two of you are silent after that, neither of you knowing how to handle this new territory that you seem to be spilling into, but you don’t care, not with your heart pounding quickly in your chest. You’d think you were dying if it weren’t for the savage sense of victory threading through every inch of you. 

Proud, proud, proud! The word echoes in your head with each pump of blood through your heart. It was so small, the barest of compliments, but from Ramsay it meant the world. It was something he’d said to you, only you, never to her, not once. Never to anyone else. 

His chest rises and falls under your cheek, breath steady and even. He always falls asleep quickly, normally you do too. But not this time, not tonight, not wanting to let this moment fade just yet. 

He loves you, in his way.

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @wickedfrsgrl @echos-muses @iamawhorecrux @avidreader73 @marvelescape @rae-11 @ms-morningstaarr @chaotic-fangirl-blog @grsveeth0m @twglitching @hb8301 @delulumhaggy @burntliquorlips @simp-hub-bro @badxbabyyy @venchi-cremino @targaryenbarbie @fan-goddess

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

[sunshineandspencer]

heyyy!! idk if you take requests or anything but I was listening the song “Three Letters” from She Loves Me and heard the line “If it weren’t for your endearing letters/ I’d be flying south will all the geese” and totally thought of Garcia signing up Spencer for a lonely hearts thing (as a kinda joke kinda not) and so he starts writing the reader but don’t know it’s each other. then they agree to meet somewhere and realize it’s each other and?! idk if that makes sense lol thought it was cute though

Three Letters (Request)

A/N: Hello!!!! I definitely do. I just haven’t had the chance to sort it all out (colds and farming sims own my life) but let me tell you this idea has me kicking and screaming. I’ve done something like this before but I can’t find it for the life of me and I love the idea that they’re writing to each other and just don’t realise - I took it as the sense that they’re co-workers and Garcia signed them both up, not expecting them to get each other. I really hope this is what you were looking for!! Also I have never heard of a lonely hearts thing (I’m British) but I love the idea of it, and hope that it’s definitely what google told me it is.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader.

Summary: Garcia is tired of Spencer being single, and if the only way to fix that is to sign him up for a singles pen-pal society, then so be it. While she’s at it, let her add their other co-worker as well, there’s no way that could have any impact.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: fluff, implied sa but nothing detailed

be added to the taglist

Some part of him knew that this was a good thing, that talking to someone and hopefully getting a relationship out of this was a good thing.

However, Penelope - loving, caring, thoughtful Penelope - had been hard at work ever since she met him to find him somebody to love. It.. hadn’t gone well, and that is the politest possible way he could’ve phrased that without hurting her feelings.

First there were the dates, with a collection of either Penelope, JJ or Elle’s friends - none of which had turned out great.

In fact, one woman had stormed out the minute she saw him, because she assumed that FBI agents were all muscle and Spencer was the last thing she wanted to see. Another zoned out every single time he started talking, just humming or nodding until even he realised that she wasn’t interested.. she fell asleep in her damn salad. The final straw, however, was the woman who got outrageously drunk and tried to blatantly ignore his aversion to touch.

He got out of that as soon as he found her friend to get her home safely, and swore off ever trusting a date from any of those three women ever again.

Penelope, however, didn’t give up.

Her next plan of attack started online, with dating websites. Notorious in their line of work for usually being full of catfish and UnSubs, and many dating websites led to men and women being murdered. But she’s insistent, and he’s desperate to love somebody.

There are only several things that went better than his first foray into the online dating scene, and one of those is a vehicular fire, which tells you all you need to know.

Several of the women he matched with ended up only looking for someone to help them cheat on their significant others, many of them married. Which made his bright outlook on love slightly dimmer. The final woman from the online dating websites was the woman who turned out to actually be an UnSub - looking for cute young men to complete her ‘collection’, a human version of an antique doll set.

It was not a fun case to take part in, certainly not when he was greeted with the way he would’ve turned out had he met up with the woman and not done a background check on her first.

After that, he firmly shut down Penelope’s insistence on dating apps as well, his technophobia had barely survived having to use a computer for so long, and the library computers were an embarrassing place to try and match with the ‘love of his life’. So an app on his phone. Absolutely not.. he doesn't even know how to do that.

There was a break, a few months where Penelope didn’t try to push him into anything new or exciting, or downright horrifying. He turned twenty-four, he had a failed date with JJ, in which she actually bought along Penelope, and suddenly it all changed.

In his letterbox a couple weeks after that, was a letter. It had his home address on, but not his name, merely addressed to whoever this may concern.

It was gorgeous craftsmanship, a cream envelope with an actual lilac wax stamp on the back, with little flowers pressed into the wax. Of course, assuming this was an incoming case, he called Garcia to try and trace it, where she finally came clean.

“I’m so sorry! I completely forgot, I signed you up to a lonely hearts club. It’s a small society for two single people to exchange letters anonymously so you can get to know each other over time. It’s all handwritten! I thought you’d like that more than having to use a computer again. I’m sorry pumpkin, I- I can take you out of the society if you like?”

He thought about it, he actually thought about it so long that Penelope actually thought he’d hung up on her, or died, or something else entirely because he’s never this quiet.

But.. how bad could it really be?

It could, theoretically, be terrible, but it can’t hurt to try one last thing. He would have contact with whoever this is - he’s assuming a woman from the handwriting and the care gone into just the envelope alone - and if it all goes to hell then it just wasn’t meant to be.

One last try at love, he can grant himself that. Anonymously, he can do that, give himself a pen name and try to fall for words on a page - his written word was always better than his verbal flirting anyway.

As it turned out, however, he didn’t need to give himself a name, she’d given him one already.

“Hello sweet thing! Sorry if that comes off as too strong already, I’m just incredibly nervous and didn’t know what else to call you, so that is officially your name from now on. Unless you hate it, then you can absolutely tell me and I promise not to cry about it. I really don’t know what to say, do I start with my favourite things? Well.. I like Doctor Who, and I’ve always--”

The more he read of the letter, the more he wished it was even longer. This woman, wherever she is, whoever she is, is starting to make this out as the best idea Penelope has ever had.

He all but crashed his way into the stationary store, grabbing the prettiest envelopes and pens, and little details to add to the letter that he was so excited to add. Steamrolling through the store and getting back home to quickly respond. Instantly realising he was being far more.. poetic than he meant.

It was the combination of the childish excitement of having a penpal, his mother reading him love poems as a child, and his extensive knowledge on love letters.

Hell, he even ended his own letter with a Shakespeare quote. Basic, he knows, but it’s hard to think of anything beyond wanting her reply.

“‘Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.’ Yours, Sweet thing.”

It had been nearly three months of exchanging letters, and he was absolutely smitten with this woman. They had stuck to the rules and not given away any of their information, only talking about the things they like and eventually writing nearly daily.

It would be daily if it weren’t for the useless postage system.

He knows that she lives pretty close to him, he knows her address, plus they’d both admitted to searching each other’s houses, and they’re only about twenty minutes away by car.

That’s it, however, they haven’t looked for the other person despite being desperate for it.

They had described themselves through letters, but both ultimately agreed to just talk and see how it goes and base their furthering relationship off that rather than off their looks. Of course, that just sprung up more worries that he won’t visually be enough whenever they finally meet.

Meeting was, by far, the one thing he both wanted and dreaded.

This woman, who he had only ever addressed with a barrage of cute nicknames and poetical references, who understood his every word and reciprocated his nerdy obsessions and added her own.. he wants to know her so badly.

There is a very big underlying fear that the minute they meet, it’ll be over, the magic of what they are will fade and he’ll lose all this. The thought of her letters being sent to someone else physically pains him.

Penelope, ecstatic that one of her ideas had finally worked, had been badgering to meet with his ‘mystery woman’ for weeks now.

Finally, when she also, tentatively asked to meet with him for Valentine’s Day of all days, he knew she couldn’t deny her a single thing. Not when she sent with her letter, a coupon for flowers on their date.

A date. God.. he has a date for Valentine’s Day.

Not really a holiday he’s ever put much thought into before, but now it suddenly felt like the most important day that had ever existed. And one that came up far sooner than he expected it to.

Even with the place booked - a cute little café a little ways between both their apartments - and his outfit picked, and a card and little teddy picked with the help of Penelope, he didn’t feel ready. Perhaps it’s the lingering fear of rejection the minute she has to deal with him in person, or the fact that his last dates certainly didn’t go well.

Even with Penelope’s reassurance that she’ll adore him, especially after she actually read through his twelve page letter after she’d asked for his opinion on Egyptian mythology. Sending back her own absurdly long letter with a bunch more questions and her own fun facts that she could remember. He’s still absolutely losing his mind at the thought of having to finally meet her.

He got to the café about half an hour earlier than he needed to, wanting to make sure it was perfect (definitely not because he would’ve gone insane at home).

Spending whatever time it took for her to arrive making the table look nice, messing with his hair in the reflection and wondering if it really was getting too long. Constantly fixing his tie, and redoing it a hundred times over and tucking into his maroon cardigan sweater which Elle had called ‘dorky’.

Once it got to fifteen minutes before their date should’ve started, he felt a light tap on his shoulder, immediately rushing to get up and turn to meet his mystery writer. But.. it’s just the waiter, asking if he wanted another drink.

Jesus, they probably think he’s been stood up, and he quickly asks for another glass of water. 

As the man walked away, he ran his fingers through his hair again, looking towards the door - he’d been sat with his back facing it or else he wouldn’t have stopped staring for fifteen minutes.

Immediately, someone was looking at him, a vague sense of recognition swimming across her face. For a few split seconds he thinks it could be her, a beautiful woman with a bouquet of purple lilac blooms in her hands, but then he realises who it is, offering a small wave.

She’s friends with Penelope and, by extension, he’s spoken to and interacted with her quite a few times. They got on pretty well but never anything more than that since she’s always busy, part of the FBI’s CSI unit, and she’d even helped on a few cases before. But she isn’t here for him, she can’t be.

Walking over, she gives him a bright smile, eyes darting to the empty table and three empty water glasses - he’s been here for a while.

“Spencer! Hi! It’s nice to see you.”

“You too, I like the outfit.”

Looking down at herself for a few moments, she grins and then looks back up, doing a quick spin and then settling him with a mock-serious look.

“I’ve got a hot date, Penny said he would like this.”

“You look beautiful, don’t worry.”

Ahh, there goes any chance that she’s here for him, offering a smile and reassuring her that she looks great, eyes darting behind her to the door as she bounced on the balls of her feet. Eventually sucking a deep breath between her teeth and looking back as well.

Which got his attention, especially when she looked around the rest of the café with a confused look on her face. Sighing softly and looking around, his date wasn’t here, may as well help her.

“What does he look like?”

Turning back, she offered him a bashful smile, but she wasn’t going to turn down his offer of help, not when he’s tall and can see over all the stupid tall people around the café. Also.. it’s a very weird thing to explain.

Moving a hand to fidget with her necklace, his eyes focusing on it, vividly remembering her letters.

“--honestly, I have the coping mechanisms of a child. I still play with my necklace when I get nervous.”

“I don’t actually know, it’s sort of a blind date. Really hard to explain, Penelope kind of set us up in a way. I’m actually about fifteen minutes early so he’s probably not even here.”

There is.. no way this is happening right now. She’s still looking around the café for her mystery date, who might just be standing in front of her and he.. doesn’t know what to say or how to get his tongue to pick up from the base of his mouth.

Suddenly, and pretty violently, he’s flooded with the personality of the woman he’s been talking to for months, all of it projected onto her in front of him. It matches, from what he remembers.

The vague descriptions, her proximity to the FBI building, the fact she knows Penelope, the little TARDIS pin he’d seen on her lanyard that he never got the nerves to ask her about. Turning up to a date with a guy she doesn’t know, holding a bouquet of flowers that clearly weren’t for her, causing the flower token in his back pocket to start burning.

Fishing it out and stepping closer, getting her attention, surprised eyes snapping up to meet his at his sudden proximity. Until he took her hand and shoved the handmade coupon into it, her breathing immediately coming in short as they both looked down at it. Her voice trembled slightly.

“Oh~ hello sweet thing..”

“.. hello.” At his soft voice, she looked up and she gave him a completely bashful smile that matched the cute little poetic ramblings she’s been obsessed with for months. “Uhm, are those for me then?”

They both looked down at the flowers in her hands and she handed them over, feeling her heart shoot up into her throat as their hands brushed. Pointing at the purple lilac blooms as if he wouldn’t already know the meaning.

Needing to focus on something other than the fact that she’s going to kiss Penelope Garcia hard on the mouth for this.

“They uh- they are usually given to someone you meet for the first time, and signify the first emotions of love. Kind of love at first sight- not- not that I’m saying I’m in love with you, that would be a crazy thing to say on the first date- absolutely crazy--”

He eventually shut her up, leaning down to peck her lips softly, all nerves and panicked rambling dropped to just look up at him, in utter awe. Okay, maybe she can fall in love with him, she’s already halfway there with a month of letters.

Carefully, he guided her to their table with a hand on the small of her back as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and also he’d just kissed her to shut her up, and it worked.

“It’s fine, I love them, really. And Penelope was right, as your date I love the outfit.”

“Thank you, I love your sweater and-- ohmygod--”

As they sat down at the table, she buried her face into her hands, causing him to panic slightly, reaching out to carefully touch her shoulder. Saying her name worriedly as he set the flowers onto the table.

But she just looked up with a soft whine of embarrassment, peaking at him over her fingers.

“I called you my hot date to your face! That’s so embarrassing.”

Instantly relieved that it wasn’t anything he’d done, easing into a soft laugh and leaning back in his chair after squeezing her shoulder.

“It was cute! You didn’t even know who I was and you still called me hot.”

“It’s mortifying, you’ll never forget it and use it in your wedding vows or something.”

Sure, she was joking, but in the back of his head he filed something away for the future. A tiny, mental box, labelled ‘wedding vows’, wondering how long it would be until he could actually use that. 

Until then, he’d have to stick to ordering dinner on their first date.

Want more?! Good!

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[grogusmum]

A Dark and Stormy Night (oneshot)

werewolf!FRANKIE MORALES X F!READER

W/C: 3500ish

RATED: E (18+)

WARNINGS: well, monsterfucking, oral sex (f recieving), rough sex, unprotected PiV sex (it's a fantasy y'all you know what to do!!). As always, if you see something, say something. Message me in my DMs, I'm happy to add something I missed.

SUMMARY: You stumble into a lighthouse to get out of a storm, and meet the handsome light-keeper, who has a secret, but is irresistible.

A/N: Oberyn and the Merling was technically my first foray into monsterfucking, but that was like teenagers humping in the back of a car...this is, well, it's as no holds barred as I've ever gotten. I hope it doesn't suck, lol. Anyway wish me luck! 💚

This was posted as a multipart fic, but when I finished the second part it made more sense to be all one piece. I may write more for these two, but as it stands, it is a oneshot.

You follow a boardwalk that becomes a path as the clouds roll in, obscuring the moon. You know you need to find cover before the storm.

Focusing on the shifting sand under your feet, as the rain begins, you speed up. The skies continue to darken; soon, you reach the first rocks of the jetty while the rain comes down in sheets. Looking up, you find yourself at the base of an old lighthouse. The lens swings across the black water as it lights up the dark and stormy night for those lost at sea.

Beach rose thorns tear at your sweater as you race up the slope. Beyond, scrub pines and pin oak trees create a small amount of cover; the wind picks up, but not before you hear the baying of a wolf… no, not a wolf. A coyote, there are no wolves in these parts. But there's something different about the howl; you speed up and bang on the door of the great beacon.

"Hello?" You shout, "please! Is anyone there?"

As if in answer, another howl rings out, making you jump. After a crash of lightning for good measure, you try the latch and push the door open, willing to disregard good manners. Looking for a switch or a lamp, you find only a candle in a heavy brass holder on a small shelf and a black matchbox holder attached to the curved wall. 

Running the wooden match across the strike pad, it sputters to life, and you light the candle. Slipping your finger into the brass ring of the candle holder and carrying it before you, the Gothic horror mood of the whole situation is not lost on you. With a sigh and a shiver, you wind up the spiral stairs.

"Hell-lo? I don't mean to intrude, but…" you call again and then with a chuckle in an undertone, "Our car broke down a few miles up the road. Do you have a phone we might use?"

Shivering in your soaked clothes, you reach the first level, which contains the living quarters. You can't help but rush to the woodstove, which warms the round room.

You hear a creak below as you take off your shoes and socks. Did you forget to latch the door entirely? Biting your lip in worry, you continue to listen; bracing yourself, you pull a poker from the coal scuttle.

You wait and wait. Time spins out—the only measure is your heart’s tattoo, like a rabbit's. As the adrenaline clears your system, you become exhausted. Swaying where you stand, the iron poker clangs on the pine floor, bringing you back. Deciding it must just be “old house sounds,” you move to the bed and sit, and without so much as a yawn of warning, your eyes slip closed.

In the middle of the night, you feel a weight on your chest, soft and warm. Your eyes flutter open, and blocking the light coming from the woodstove is an enormous shape pressing on you; as your eyes focus, it huffs a breath, and you recognize it as a sleeping dog sound. It's huge, with pointed ears. How did you not see or hear it when you came in? Whether a watchdog or not, wouldn’t it have come to investigate? The trunk of the animal is on you, its muzzle at your collarbone, a front leg on either side of you, fully caging you in. Your hand comes up, fingers sinking into its plush fur, like a wolf’s… you shake your head, not a wolf, of course, but those dogs that look like them. Its steady heartbeat and relaxed breathing lull you back to sleep; elk-hound, that's what the one, you think, as you drift under again.

Waking again at full light, you find yourself tucked into a patchwork quilt, your shoes placed under the stove, warm and dry, no dog to be seen. The smell of eggs and bacon draws you up the stairs, halfway up you can hear the food sizzling on the stove. You feel this need to check yourself over, but you seem fine. You fell asleep on the bed of a stranger, who is apparently back- you shake your head at how unbelievably dangerous that was. Then you remember the dangers outside… it's a calculated, if hastily figured, risk.

His back to you, in front of the stove, you presume, is the light-keeper, a cable knit sweater stretched across his broad shoulders. 

"He-hello?"

He turns, soft brown eyes, brown curls standing up as though he’d run his fingers through them just a moment ago, a sharp nose that suits him, with crease of his bottom lip that accentuates his mouth’s natural pout. Not that you had any real expectations on what a lighthouse operator looks like but... maybe like some old-salt sailor type with a beard and pipe. Silly, of course. You remind yourself that you are not a cod fish and close your mouth.

"Morning," came his rich baritone voice.

"I'm so sorry, I- I - the storm-” you stumble as you try to pull yourself together.

"Don't worry about that. I hope you slept alright. "

"I did, thank you, but  I- should get going." You start putting on your shoes, “ I really didn't mean to fall asleep, " ...on your bed.

“'S not problem, really; that was one hell of a storm last night.”

“I should go-”

Well,” he says, bringing breakfast to a simple pine table, “that's the tricky part…” 

“W-why?”

“The roads are impassable and there's more rain on the way.”

“Oh.”

“Nothing to be done about it right now,” he says, “have something to eat.”

You begin to eat, and after a bite or two, you introduce yourself.

“Where are my manners- I’m Frankie. Spending too much time on my own, I guess.”

“Are you kidding, I burst into your house like Goldilocks! Found sleeping in your bed.”

“And was it just right, Goldie?” He smirks.

You fluster a little; he is very handsome after all, and broad and was that flirting… 

“Better to be Goldilocks than Red Riding Hood, I suppose.” He says you get the feeling it wasn’t meant to be out loud. “I guess that depends on who the huntsman turns out to be…” 

He notices your eyes widen and smiles apologetically, brushing his comment aside. “Sorry, like I said, spend a lot of time on my own.”

"S-speaking of Red Riding Hood, where’s your dog? It came and slept with me last night.”

“Hmmm?" Frankie murmurs as he sets the table, "Oh, he’s- around.”

“Well, he kept me very cozy last night. What a cuddle bug; what’s his name?”

“His, um - it’s Cisco. You better dig into those eggs; they're gonna get cold.”

“Right,” you take up a fork of scrambled egg, “I will be able to leave today, though, right?”

“We’ll have to see,” is all he says before digging into his breakfast.

Frankie goes about his light-keeper duties, including hunting for his lost skiff. You aren't sure what to do with your time-

“Is there something I can do to help? I kind of feel weird just sitting around-”

“Well, the weather isn't going to let us do much outside safely, but-”

Frankie pulls off his ball cap, ruffles his hair, and plops it back on his head, thinking, “I mean, you could help clean the lantern glass …”

“Really?” You stand, excited to do a real lighthouse job. 

“Sure, hard to mess up… no offense, and safe.” 

You take no offense; on the contrary, you clap happily to yourself, to which Frankie chuckles.

After showing you the supplies and giving you a quick demonstration, he starts down the stairs to continue with his other duties and then stops and turns-

"Thanks, Goldie," he winks and then descends the stairs.

After a time, you see him out on the rocks despite the wind starting up again from the east. He must be looking for his rowboat. You decide to scout the circumference of the lantern room, looking out the windows to see if you can see the craft. 

To the northwest, you see something red against the rocks. It doesn't look good.

You step out onto the gallery. Luckily, this isn't a particularly tall lighthouse, but it's tall enough, and the iron balcony was small enough that you feel a touch of vertigo looking down. It doesn't help that the wind's really kicking up now, reminding you that this is just a break in the storm. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and open them.

"Uh, Frankie!" 

Frankie looks up, hand going to the bill of his cap.

"Is that your skiff?" You point to the red “something” half in the water. 

He hollers his thanks and jogs over to where you are indicating, and you can see his frustrated huff as his hands hitch onto his hips in a disgruntled fashion.

Cleaning all that glass takes time, and your shoulders can feel the real work of it. You stop only when your stomach screams for lunch, and you find a sandwich under plastic wrap for you, but you haven’t seen Frankie, Lighthouse Keeper, the rest of your time working on it, nor Cisco, the Lighthouse Dog. 

He had brought the boat to a shed and disappeared inside it. When and if he came out, you didn't notice. You also realize you haven’t seen any signs of a pet anywhere; no bed or bowls. When you come down the spiral steps, you smell of the concoction used for cleaning the glass and lens; watered-down isopropyl alcohol and Woolight - but mostly the alcohol. 

“You'll want to wash your hands with this,” Frankie hands you a bar of soap at the first landing of the spiral stair. “It'll take care of the rubbing alcohol smell and keep your hands from drying out.” 

Frankie gives a crooked smile of apology at your startled jump. Murmuring your thanks, you take it and smell the bar that looks so small when in his hand. Fresh. Your mind wanders to how this fresh scent might mingle with Frankie's natural one. The bubble of revery is just a millisecond and pops like one the moment your eyes land on Frankie, who looks like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

When you join him in the kitchen, where he is again standing over the stove, the delicious scent of savory soup reminds you of coming home after a long chilly walk from school. The wind is howling now, and you can hear the crash of the waves, as high tide approaches, the pound of them like rumbling thunder. Its only rival is the whip crack of the actual thunder chasing the lighting strikes illuminating the windows. 

“Where’s Cisco?”

“Weather like this he likes to be below,” Frankie says after a beat, back still turned, “I have him set up with his bed down there so he doesn’t get anxious.”

“Oh,” you feel a little more at ease about not seeing neither hide nor hair of the beast of a dog all day.

“It'll be dark early due to the storm, and I’ll have duties up above. I’m going to ask you to stay in the living quarters. I’ll sleep up there, so, um, just - make yourself at home.”  

You do your best, but your mind is on Frankie in a way that makes what you would be doing at home, not at all appropriate, even when told to make yourself at home.  His dark eyes, big hands... him calling you Goldie. How many times your mind has gone back to him asking you if his bed was just right, you dare not admit, even to yourself. You don't know him, you remind yourself.

Suddenly, there's a bang and scuffle. Then you hear a yowl.

“Cisco?” You go to the door, preparing to go down to where you assume he's been set up, but a second sound confirms it's coming from above, not below… where Frankie is.                   

You turn and look up the spiral stairs. “F-Frankie?”

Your foot hesitantly lands on the first step -

“D-did Cisco follow you? 

More shuffling and a loud thunk on the floor bring you up short. Frankie asked you to stay below, but maybe he hurt himself, or Cisco made his way up there and was scared of the storm. Your feet start moving again up the winding steps. 

You pause, your head just above the landing, eyes adjusting to the strange light of the lantern room. Instead of finding a dog, on the floor is a pile of clothes, folded neatly, with Frankie's cap placed atop it. As you look up, you see Frankie from behind, sitting in the one chair the room affords. His skin gleams with a layer of sweat, and he gives a sudden quake.

“Frankie! A-are you alright? I heard-”

His head whips around and then down as you are still only partway up the stairs. 

“I told you to sta—” the lightning flashes, and you see Frankie's eyes have changed. They are no longer warm, sweet brown but glowing amber. 

“Wh- you- you're-” Everything in you screams to run as far away as possible, but when Frankie contorts in a new wave of pain, you scramble up the stairs. He almost wails in despair as you approach the chair. “Frankie, what is happening? How can I - hel -”

“ C-can’t, go G-gold-ie, please!” 

“I don’t understand, Frankie. What’s happening?” 

The light-keeper takes a steadying breath as if fighting every molecule of his changing form, Though he knows it’s too late. Too late to shield you. 

“C-come here,” he breathes.

Lighting flashes again, the boom of thunder right on top of it. When your eyes adjust yet again, you go around the chair to face him. Frankie takes your hand; long claw-like nails have sprouted, and you have cottoned on. Frankie is - 

While he has a firm grip, he causes no pain. Your brows knot as he pushes up your sleeve. 

“I will remember,” he says, as much for himself as for you. Then he presses his nose to your wrist, inhaling deeply, and his eyes flick up to yours. The storm rages, the lens does its steady turn, and Frankie continues to smell you. He stands, eyes never breaking contact, his bare skin glistening in the light.

 You had tried not to look down at his body. But he's so close, and when he stands, your resolve breaks. Frankie is strong and somehow more broad across the shoulders than when in the confines of his fisherman’s sweater but has a trim waist. His Adonis belt is so enticing, as is his soft belly. Below that, his uncut cock has an enticing curve. Your eyes travel back up. You find his waiting for yours; he lifts his head away from your wrist and pulls; you stumble a step closer, and his face burrows into your neck. He breathes in your scent.

“Didn't harm you last night, I won't… I’ll remember, promise. You smell so good, Goldie.”

The warmth you feel low in your pelvis is combined with a shiver as you clench on nothing.

“S-so, you-your…” you stammer as his clawed hands wrap around your waist; he tastes your collarbone, licking a long stripe as he finds his way below your ear. Your knees buckle, but Frankie has a firm grip on you. “Cisco?”

“ ‘m ssorry,” he slurs, his nose nestled where your ear and jaw meet. “You taste as good as you smell, Goldie… I wonder-” 

What Frankie is wondering is interrupted by a long canine whine as he pulls back, face contorted in pain as his teeth elongate into fangs.

The blood has surely left your face, and you're shocked as you become aware that it has rushed to lower regions. You can feel the wetness between your legs, and  Frankie, closing his eyes, breathes in how your scent has changed. 

The sinful look he gives sends more heat between your thighs; you know you're soaked by now. You can still see the handsome light-keep though his eyes glow, his ears are now pointed, and his hair is shaggy. A hungry tongue moves over sharp teeth. Teeth made for tearing your throat out.

The next thunderclap shakes the lighthouse, and it's only then that he breaks his grip on you. He cries out as his body continues to transform. It snaps you out of your trance. You run down the iron stairs, passing the kitchen, down to the living quarters, and you're brought up short by a full wolf bay sounding from above. 

“What am I doing? What am I doing!?” you look up the stairs, and almost against your will, you look through the doorway to the bed—the bed where Frankie had lain atop you as the wolf. Then your eyes drift upward again, biting your thumb in indecision. Or perhaps fear at the decision you're apparently making. You slowly undress, leaving the door open; you spread out on the soft bed and wait to see what happens.

How much time before you hear the click of canine claws on the treads of each step, you aren't sure. You only know the twist of arousal you feel arches your back, and Frankie hasn't even touched you. Are you afraid? Not as much as you think you should be. It's there; this danger lights up your brain and sends adrenaline coursing through you. But he didn't hurt you last night, and he said- he-

The wolf growls around the door; he is not on all fours but hunched, one front paw occasionally touching the floor. 

“F-f-” you stammer as his front paws press heavily on the bed. He is enormous, and he hulks over you. His snout investigates every crease and crevice. You close your eyes as he noses at your mound. “-fuck.”

The wolf's tongue dips between your legs, and you gasp as your legs open like an involuntary response, and Frankie seems to seize the opportunity to open you further, pawing at your thighs, opening them, holding them where he wants them. Claws press on your sensitive skin as he laps at you.

“Frankie!” Your fingers dig into the thick, soft fur as the twist in your womb tightens and you pulse. 

How much of the man is still present, you have no idea. You are, of course, banking on it, and you figure praying to every deity that he is there, keeping the beast from tearing you to shreds, can't hurt. 

You can feel the rumble from deep in Frankie's throat, and when his long tongue breaches your pussy, he is immediately rewarded with a gush as lights pop behind your eyelids and the coil in your belly snaps.

You cry out, and he drinks sloppily at your entrance. He doesn't stop until you start to come down from your high, your chest’s rise and fall finally slowing.

Then the beast towers over you, his cock weeping. In one swift move of inhuman strength, he's suddenly flipped you onto your stomach. His large paws holding your hips, he brings your backside up, and in one fast motion, he's sheathed himself to the hilt. 

As ready as his tongue had made you, you still are stretched beyond anything you've ever experienced. He is deep inside, and his snout nuzzles into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, making you feel utterly consumed by him. His brutal pace lifts your knees off the bed when he begins to move. His rhythm takes your breath away, his length hitting that delicious spot inside you that most find elusive, and it isn't long before the telltale swell of another orgasm begins to crest.

When you clamp down around him, he howls, and you know he has come right along with you. His rhythm stutters and slows. Frankie's tongue lazily drags over your shoulder blade, and he whines as his nose nudges at your hair.  As you both float back into your bodies, opening your eyes, the round room is drenched in moonlight. The storm has passed. 

The beast allows you to roll onto your side before covering you again, as he had the night before. He gives a chaste lick to your cheek, and you huff a laugh, wondering if you will even be able to look him in the eye in the morning. But you're too exhausted and drift to sleep before shame can take its turn to feast on you.

The morning sun blazes as it has a way of doing after a storm; shorebirds herald the day, and again, you wake to the smell of breakfast, sausage, coffee, and eggs. You're again tucked into the worn but well-cared-for quilt. Your eyes rove the room as you try not to overthink, and just as you reach for your clothes (which are neatly laid out at the end of the bed), Frankie, the man, comes in with a tray heaped with food—the smell of his delicious cooking filling the room.

“ ‘Morning, Goldie.” he smiles shyly. His eyes are not quite meeting yours, and he keeps himself busy with the breakfast tray. You return his smile, somehow his sweet bashfulness making you feel less self-conscious- 

“G’morning, Fran- Fran-cisco!”

Brown eyes sparkling in response to yours becoming like saucers, Frankie's smile widens.

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[dellalyra]

𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 - 𝘕𝘦𝘶𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

pixie says: this is my first foray into writing for genshin but neuvilette is too pretty to ignore and if you notice i am writing for another tall man with white hair no you didn’t.

The Chief Justice of Fontaine was an elusive man. Aloof, serious, logical. The air of grace and elegance that flowed from his body and being put the most beautiful of swans to shame. The way he carried himself with such poise and dignity, made it clear why he was so very respected throughout Fontaine. His air of unattainability was echoed by the ever polite, kind-yet-distant way he interacted with others. That, and the obvious - that level of otherworldly beauty. It was what first struck the traveller upon meeting Neuvilette - such beautiful features, graceful and sharp like the man himself. Hair as white as freshly fallen snow with those odd blue horns (it became quite clear to the traveller that they were horns - since there was no way in Celestia that the Iudex was not the Hydro Dragon).

Yet - that day, at the grave of Navia’s father - it was clear as day that there was a deep, painful, lingering sadness in those beautiful eyes.

Lumine hoped he wasn’t alone.

The life of a dragon can be a lonely one.

An invite to dinner had arrived for Paimon and Lumine, from Navia - a thank you for their help during the trial. Following the etiquette she had been picking up on in each nation, it was customary to bring a gift to the host in Fontaine which lead her to wandering the streets in search of a florist. Lumine may have been very adept at gathering flowers and plants - however floristry arrangements were never a skill an intergalactic traveler and the sword of Teyvat had ever picked up on.

The pale blue front of the flower shop was immaculately painted and decorated with gilded lettering ‘la gueule de loup’ - which according to Paimon meant Snapdragon.

What an odd name, she hadn’t seen a single snapdragon in Fontaine.

“Bonsoir! If you need any assistance, please let me know!” A cheerful voice echoed from the door behind the cream counter.

“Hello! We would like to buy a bouquet please!” Paimon responded - ever the duo’s spokesperson.

At that, a woman in a pale pink apron came around the corner. Hair haphazardly pulled up atop her head secured with a pencil and a dark blue ribbon - a cream, soft blouse tucked into a dark blue layered skirt atop white stockings and navy and gold boots, a n embroidered blazer sat atop a chair which matched the woman’s skirt. She smiled brightly at the pair in front of her - and Lumine’s breath hitched when the shining tone of her eyes caught the evening sunlight, an otherworldly quality to her aura.

“A bouquet? Well, good thing you’re in a flower shop! I might have some flowers we could piece together!” She said, giggling as she gestured to the sea of flowers engulfing the store.

Paimon smiled and laughed and Lumine followed suit.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lumine and Paimon - I was hoping I would get to run into you soon.” She said as she collected a basket to gather her supplies.

“You know us?” Paimon asks.

“Sweetheart, I think everyone in Teyvat knows you. The brave and beautiful outlander and her clever guide. However, my husband was in attendance at the most recent magic show and trial - so I became privy to all of the inside scoop.” She smiled.

“You did not attend? I thought all of Fontaine was there.” Lumine spoke up.

“Ah, I tend to not get involved with the trials, I am delivered a rundown of the days events in the evenings. Yet I have been to several of the twins magic shows, such fantastic entertainment! I do love them so. Such gentle children, too, Lyney and Lynette.” The woman’s eyes lit up and an air of an excited child permeated her face. Lumine quirked a brow at the woman calling the twins ‘children’ for she looked no older than 25.

“Now! What’s the occasion?” Hands placed on her hips, the woman smiled at the travellers.

“Miss Navia asked us to dinner this evening, and we’ve been told a gift is a Fontainian custom.” Paimon speaks.

“Ah! Well, for Miss Navia you will need some clematis - her favourites. Edelweiss for courage, which you have both shown in the past few weeks. Hydrangeas for understanding - blue, I think. Iris for trust. Nasturtiums for victory. Rosemary for scent and also for remembrance of her dearest father, with some added sweet pea as a thank for you a lovely time.” The woman says, mostly to herself as she wanders the store - quickly picking up bunches of flowers from the jars in which they lay. Paimon and Lumine’s eyes were wide as if the woman spoke in tongues.

“Wow! I didn’t even know flowers could mean all that! Lyney only told us a few! You sure know your stuff, Mrs. Florist!” Paimon squealed, amazed.

The woman threw her head back in laughter.

“Y/N is fine, sweethearts. A book could be told in flowers alone. Flowers are nothing but truth, they exist for beauty and healing - and I admire them greatly.”

“You knew Miss Navia’s father?” Lumine asks, gentle voice contrasting Paimon’s outburst.

“I knew him well. A very good man, loyal endlessly and thought of Navia as his entire world. A life taken too soon in protection of his child - I lay flowers on his grave every month, mortal lives are so fragile - they must be treated with respect, no matter the circumstances.” She says, hands deftly manoeuvring the flowers into a piece of sponge.

Lumine quirked a brow.

“Mortal?”

“A state in which neither of us reside, Miss Lumine.” The woman responds with a wink and a smile.

It was logical that Lumine was not mortal, yet the explanation of this woman before her also not being so seemed to make many things far more understandable.

Just then, a patter of footsteps outside the store came trotting in through the front door.

“Mama!” A small voice called.

“Liath! Hello, sweetling!” The woman pauses her arranging and comes around the counter and leans down. Lumine spins and expects to see a child - perhaps with the florists hair.

What she didn’t expect was a Melusine.

“Papa wishes to know if you’d like to have a picnic together this evening, when he is finished at the Palais.” She asks, picking a small rose and placing it in her mother’s hair.

“Tell him that sounds wonderful, I am closing the shop soon and I meet him at the office. Thank you, Liath. Come here, let me fix your ribbon.” Y/N smiles and adjust the ribbon on the lapel of the melusine’s lapel.

“Thank you, mama. Bye bye!” She says, kissing her on the cheek and skipping out the door.

“Mama?” Lumine asks.

“Ah - not biologically. Yet, my and my husband’s nature has led us to a parental standing with the melusine’s. They are all our children, regardless of what soil they grew from.” She says, wrapping up the bouquet in a swathe of blue ribbons. Lumine wonders if by nature, did she mean they were both parental figures by nature or something to do with her not-mortal being. Perhaps her husband also was not human.

Lumine decided to press on the matter no more. Everyone deserved their privacy, after all.

“Et, voila! One bouquet for Miss Navia.” Y/N says, handing the bouquet to the traveler.

“How much do we owe you?” Lumine smiles, the bouquet truly was something exquisite, a talented woman indeed.

“Nonsense, lovely. You have done Fontaine a great service, consider this a small thank you. Miss Lumine, please take these peony roses also - they are a symbol of happiness, which you make me as I have heard you show great kindness to all of my children, for which I am so very grateful. For you, Madame Paimon, some purple Iris - meaning respect and intelligence for the Outlander’s clever guide.” She hands them all of the flowers, and winks at Lumine when she addresses Paimon, knowing that such words would fill the floating pixie with glee. True enough, Paimon squeals and dives to hug the woman who chuckles and kisses her cheek.

“Thank you so so much, Miss Y/N! We love them so much - Lumine, you could put it in your hair with your Inteyvat! I’ll put mine under my tiara, then we can match!” Lumine smiles and does as suggested.

“May I ask where you are meeting Miss Navia?” Y/N asks.

“Café Lucerne, however I’m not quite sure where that is.” Lumine responds.

“Ah! Well then I can walk you, if you wish?”

Just as she speaks, the door opens with a jungle of the bell as Lumine secured the flower in her hair she sees Y/N smile and walk around the counter.

“Hello, mon ange. I thought I was meeting you at the Palais.” Ah, must be her husband, Lumine thinks and she sees Paimon turn and freeze.

“Mon trésor, I am taking you on a picnic so it is only right that I collect you myself.” The deep rumble of a voice makes Lumine freeze too.

“YOUR HUSBAND IS MONSIEUR NEUVILETTE?!” Comes a squeal from Paimon.

Lumine spins on her heel and sees the owner of the familiar voice. Y/N’s hand is pressed to the far taller man’s cheek in a tender display of affection she would not have associated with the Chief Justice.

The gentle smile on the man’s face as he looks at his wife with such love is one she figures the melusine’s learned from him.

“Miss Lumine, Miss Paimon. A pleasure to see you. I see you have met the Madame Neuvilette.” He nods his head toward them.

“MADAME NEUVILETTE?!” Paimon seems on the verge of a meltdown at this information.

“Indeed. Apologies, I got so caught up in making such a wonderful bouquet I didn’t even introduce myself properly. Do forgive my lack of manners.” She says, turning and removing her apron as she begins to shut down the store for the evening.

Everything clicked into place just then.

The wife of the hydro dragon would hardly be a mortal woman. She mentioned the Palais, his attendance at both the magic show and the trial and of course the melusine’s would view the hydro dragon as their father.

The logical side of it all did little to curb the shock of seeing the intimidating Ludex and Hydro Dragon of Fontaine, the man who had taken out Childe with a simple slap being so gentle and enamoured in the face of his wife.

They way they looked at each other - that level of love had been a rare delight to find across her journey. Perhaps in how Zhongli spoke of Guizhong or Cyno and Tighnari - or how that certain someone looked at her and she at them…

“Neuv, we must show Lumine and Paimon to Café Lucerne on our way to our picnic.” Y/N says, ushering them all from the store before locking the door behind her.

The walk was short, as pleasantries were exchanged and Paimon and Y/N did most of the talking in the wake of the quiet counterparts.

“And here we are! I do hope you have a wonderful evening. My regards to Miss Navia. Do come and visit again soon, I would love to exchange tales of adventures!” Y/N smiles, before pressing a kiss to each cheek of the two outlanders.

“Indeed, the melusine’s speak very highly of you both - you must forgive the children if they become over zealous.” Neuvilette adds with a fond smile.

“Au revoir, enjoy your meal!” Y/N says, grasping her husbands arm and smiling at him. Lumine looks at them walk away toward the aquabus station entrance.

She could not quite believe her eyes when she sees the hydro dragon press a large pale hand to the smooth, undisturbed lower belly of his wife.

The sunset brightened ever so slightly.

Fontaine surely was full of surprises.

[netherfeildren]

FEAR OF GOD : Chapter I : I dreamt that time had ended

Series Masterlist ; Moodboard

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: What was monstrousness? What was it, but a certainty that there existed within you multitudes of desires, needs, guilts, impulses – humanity? At the end of the world, when the dust has finally settled, Joel grapples with what it is to take hold of your own monstrosity – your own humanity – and live with it. And what it is to bear that truth in the palm of your hand held towards the person you love, offer it to them, and have it be accepted for what it was. Courage, above all else, it is courage that is necessary to go on.

-OR-

Big bad Joel Miller falls in love and doesn't know how to deal with it.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Mentions of suicidal ideations, unprotected sex, oral sex (M receiving), vaginal fingering, breeding kink kinda, Emotionally Constipated Joel Miller ™️

A/N: Hello, this is my first foray into posting my writing publicly. To be honest, it feels fucking weird and scary, but alas, here I am, pretending to be brave. Art is Botanica No. 23 by Gail Potocki.

Word Count: 6.2K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER I: I dreamt that time had ended

I'm most dangerous when I’m hungry. I’m most hungry

when I’m hurting. Seems like I’m always hurting. Nothing

but teeth. Nothing but the same words calling out to me

in my sleep. Grief asking its ghosts not to leave. Please.

It’s not up to me when I get to stop crying. Or hurting. 

Or holding memories in my mouth, gentle as bees

I promised not to eat, but oh, the hurt is so sweet.

- Saeed Jones, from “Date Night,” Alive at the End of the World

Loneliness and being alone were two things you’d always thought to be one and the same — a pair sitting side by side on the spectrum of human suffering. Now, at the end of the world, you knew differently. You’d gotten in bed with both. A kind of intimacy that made your bones ache.

After Beth, your sister, you’d been alone – out beyond the protection of the community you now called your own in Jackson – where you’d carved a little place for yourself. Then, you’d been so entrenched in your grief and shock, that you’d not been lucid enough to really feel loneliness at all. You were alone, but were too far gone to feel the specific melancholy of loneliness. It was all a vicious, almost unthinking, clawing for survival. That creature out beyond the walls was you, and sometimes you liked to pretend and tell yourself you left her out there, but in moments of stark honesty, when you let go of the lies you comforted yourself with, you don’t feel very sure.

Looking back, it’s almost a surprise that it never occurred to you, in those delirious days, in the aftermath of watching Beth get ripped to pieces by infected, to ever think to follow her in death. You think you’d just been too numb and shocked at the time to even consider the tidy solution a bullet to the head would’ve provided you. You can’t even tell if you regret the lack of foresight at that time or not. You suppose now, looking around yourself, at the somewhat full life you’ve settled yourself into, you’re grateful. 

But in Jackson, in Jackson you’d found loneliness. Despite being surrounded by a community that wanted to help you from the first moment, to care for you. Most especially because, in the light of this new life, you remembered everything about the aftermath of your sister’s death – with vivid clarity. The details were glaringly bright in your mind, and the peace and fullness of this new life you’d been afforded made those memories hurt all the worse. 

Your father had been a physician, a surgeon, before the outbreak, and early on he’d decided it was essential to pass on what he could. That he needed a protege. You fit the necessity nicely. You’d had a mind that absorbed knowledge at a rate that wasn’t necessarily useful in a world like the one you’d now found yourselves in, but he’d made good use of it, made a tool of you in the manner of an extension of himself. He’d started early trying to train you as best he could, given the circumstances. You’d had a fairly peaceful childhood up until you were eighteen living in the San Francisco QZ, given his position, and at around twelve years old he’d started a demanding study regimen. He was determined to make you into the closest semblance of a doctor he could through his own personal means of teaching. You’d always been well suited to a life of taking orders, doing what you were told, being who you were told to be. At the end of the world it was easier, you’d found, to do and be what you were told to – it came easily to you, and after all, your father knew best. You liked the security of being able to follow a set of directions without the anxiety of conjecture or uncertainty. A clearly laid out path was a safe path, and you found comfort in that. So you’d learned what he’d told you to learn. He said it was necessary, and so it became a necessity to you. Practiced what he’d told you to practice. And eventually, become what he wanted you to become. After your mother and father were killed in a raid shortly after your eighteenth birthday, it was just you and Beth, and you’d taken on your studies and training yourself. It wasn’t as efficient, especially after the QZ had fallen and you were forced to leave, could have been more thorough, but you felt well versed in the knowledge you’d gained thus far. Secure in the fact that you had the ability to help people as best you could with what you knew. It gave you purpose and allowed you to follow that path that’d been laid out for you. Provided some sort of comforting reminder of your father, your childhood, as well. The two of you had wandered for several years up until the time of her death. 

When you found Jackson after Beth, after days and days of wandering, of savage fear and a desperate clawing to just stay alive, just make it a little further, it was like coming upon paradise. An Eden safer and more cherished than anything before in all history. Connie, their resident doctor, who they were so lucky and grateful to have, had taken you under his wing. Connie and his nurturing comfort. Doing everything he could to build on the knowledge your father had instilled in you over the years. All the knowledge and practice he was so desperate to pass on to you. To build on your foundation. Doctors were few and far between, hard to find and even harder to keep, and Connie was old. Now well into his seventies, he was tired. His mind and body, nowhere near as agile as they’d once been. Your arrival in the community had been seen as a benediction, once he’d found out what your father had started in you. It was difficult to build a comprehensive curriculum, to find the right means of practical training in a world like this, but the two of you had managed fairly well. A deal had been struck with the leaders of the community to provide donated cadavers when they became available, if the families so allowed, if they had families. This allowed the two of you to practice hands on general surgical techniques he felt were essential for you to know. He’d tried, so far, to build a curriculum that was generally comprehensive – general surgery, obstetrics and gynecology, and internal medicine. In your spare time you read everything he’d ever found on botany and herbology. Everything else you supplemented with a collection of texts and scientific literature he’d been collecting since the outbreak, and had guarded and cared for fiercely . He saw his collection of medical texts as the key to the preservation and furthering of knowledge, and you agreed with him. After losing your father you couldn’t have asked for a more caring or dedicated mentor. 

But not only was his caring practical, for he’d brought you back to life with his patience. He’d lead you out of that hazy numbness you’d lost yourself in after Beth. Something you’d have stayed lost in the rest of your life if not for his guidance, the loss of her so devastating it was something molecular. The feeling left you so tired, almost emaciated in your grief – the only instinct was survival, no thought for perpetuation or preservation. And then, of course there was Ellie and Dina, Tommy and Maria. All who’d done their best to welcome you into the embrace of their friendship. You were grateful for them in ways you couldn’t ever put into words.

And yet, and yet, despite all this good; a caring community, a giving teacher,  loyal friendships, things you now knew you’d die to keep and protect, you were lonely. An aching kind of desperate loneliness, it’d blanketed you with a film of numbness that you hadn’t even really noticed, until one night you’d gotten home to the lovely warm house that’d been assigned to you, a place you’d been able to make a home, to realize, you had no one that was only yours. No one waiting for you. No more sister, no parents, no blood. No one to give yourself to. No one you’d always belong to, no matter what. 

You’d felt a level of desperation in that moment worse than many of your worst moments in this horrible thing the world you knew had come to be. 

But then there was him.

Joel.

Joel who was cold and stern and who had, at first, seemed so wholly disinterested in your existence you’d never thought there was any way he’d ever even think of looking at you as more than the girl he went to for stitches every now and then. As anything more than the person who patched up his never ending litany of scrapes and bruises. But who, at first sight, you’d seemed to take in and then never again look away from. Who you’d felt you’d known, recognized, at first glance. It was everything about him, really. His countenance – the air about him, slightly threatening, but in a way that told you you’d always be protected, safe,cared for if held in the circle of his embrace. And then his physicality – his face, his body, his smell . The feel of his skin beneath yours when you were closing or covering his wounds. The broad, thick planes of him, his long legs and tall frame that towered over your own. The man could overtake you if he chose to. You’d look at him and couldn’t help but think how hard he’d fuck. And you thought about that often. What it’d be like to cradle the heavy weight of him between your thighs, inside of you. What his skin would feel, taste like beneath your tongue. How you’d map the smattering of sun freckles on his chest and shoulders. And his eyes, deep and dark, and you knew they saw everything. That they were ever aware of what was going on around him. Wondered at what they’d feel like roving the hills and swells of your naked body – just for him. That he could probably see the yearning coming off of you like heat waves off the hot pavement. 

Joel who seemed to care fiercely about Ellie, who he saw as his daughter from the little you’d been able to garner from her and others about their connection, and not much else. He’d come to you on more than one occasion after Ellie’d been into the clinic for attention demanding an update on her condition, asking if there was something wrong. Ensuring she was alright, that she’d remain alright. And being completely taken aback and offended when you’d refused to disclose patient information. There was a rift between them, so it seemed, not that anyone had been brave enough to talk about it aloud. The unspoken elephant in Jackson was the current  ongoing estrangement between the two. Something that, without knowing him beyond being his doctor, you could see hurt him worse than anything you could’ve ever treated him for. And there was Tommy, his brother, and his wife Maria – who it was also obvious he appreciated and cared for.

He was cordial and helpful and always willing to be a good neighbor to those in the community. But he was set apart. A man estranged in a way you could see was self imposed. You could recognize it for what it was, the same shroud of loneliness that blanketed you. And what was it they said about the experience of loneliness? It creates a vicious cycle that only further perpetuates itself the more alone you become. You start to reek of it the longer you enshroud yourself in it. Contagion spreads. But then one day, you’d seemed to distract him from maintaining that self imposed exile long enough to entice him into looking at you, even if for a second, really looking at you. 

It was like this: he’d never looked at you. Until he did.  And then it was like fire, like a natural disaster or disease, like cordyceps . Uncontrollable, and as hard as you both tried, or didn’t try, it could not be put away once it had been set upon. You’d circled and circled each other – blood in the water – him in reluctant silence, you almost desperately, until you’d come together in a clash of limbs and tongues and teeth, and then he was shoving you onto your desk in the small space of your examining room and then shoving, hard and savage into your cunt, and that was it. You’d given him as much as he was willing to take, and if he’d wanted to take more, you’d have given it willingly and gladly. It was not a question of how much you were willing to do, or how much of yourself you could part with. If in that instant he’d asked you to open your vein to him and let him drink you think you might have invited him to gorge himself. The way he’d moved in your cunt that day, hand wrapped around the column of your throat as he drew a thin helpless sound out of you – like he owned it already, like he’d always owned it, and it’d just taken him a second to come and claim what’d always rightfully been his. The way he’d brought his fist down, hard, on the desk beside you as he emptied himself inside your pulsing walls, growling the start of your name between clenched teeth before it turned into a guttural wordless snarl. You knew there was a part of him angry at you in that instant. Furious at how fucking good it felt to take him inside you, to finally give in, to ravage and take and fuck the way both of you had wanted to for so long.

You’d wanted him with a kind of anguish that frightened you for the fervor of it. Something you’d never experienced. There’d been others before, well, one other, but that now seemed laughably pale and tepid compared to this. A blight of inconsequential nothingness in your past, that had in no way prepared you for what you’d come to experience with Joel. This was something to cause terror if examined too closely. But he’d peered at you one afternoon, opened his arms to you and invited you in, and how were you ever supposed to resist sinking your teeth into his flesh? Ripping out a piece of him all for yourself.

He’d promised that’d be the only time. That it could only ever happen that once. You’d both taken the lie for what it was. You knew this couldn’t be stopped once it had been started. 

You’d always been a girl willing, glad, to do as you were told. To abide by the space allocated to you, to take what you’d been given with gratitude and accept your limitations. But loneliness makes monsters of even the best of us sometimes. And in a world now filled with monsters, it was easy to assimilate into one if given the opportunity, to let greed render you into what it may.

-

Joel watches your wonder at the sight of the little bird through the window, and he considers his own monstrousness. Your naked form is draped over his bed, tangled in his sheets, the loveliest thing he’s ever laid eyes on. The soft afternoon sunlight swirling along the planes of your skin, warm and buttery, and he accepts that he’s been deformed by his own brutality and violence. That he’s done a lot of truly heinous things in this life, but taking a little bird like you for himself, is perhaps the worst. The sparrow flits away and your eyes follow it– up, up, up. There’s a soft gleam in them, and his heart and gut twist at the sight of you moved by the sparrow. It’s been months of this, of the two of you tangled together. He hopes he never sees an end in sight, but at the same time, feels it pull at him. A vicious self sabotaging need to bring his fist down on this tenuous house of cards you’ve built together. Watch it smash into pieces. 

There’d been times where he’d look at an infected, right before killing it, and felt an understanding so poignant.

That is what I have become. 

He never needed to have been bitten to lose himself. To have been overtaken by something beyond his control. The viciousness of life had done it for him. Infected him all the same. 

He was better now. He could acknowledge that. Ellie, and all that came with her, had served as a balm to his ragged edges. Jackson and its people. Having Tommy back, and the family he’d built with Maria.  But he wasn’t naive. He’d known his day would be up eventually. His reckoning with Ellie would come, and it had. Nothing stayed buried forever, and eventually she’d discovered what he’d done. To keep her alive, to keep her for himself. 

Perhaps his greatest sin was always trying to keep the women he loved. Always a failure.

Sarah, Ellie. You. 

And now here he found himself again, on that same field in the middle of the night, surrounded by the end of the world, and clutching his whole life in the circle of his arms. Failing. Losing again and again.

Ellie had always been his reflection. A more hopeful, innocent mirror to all his cynicism and violence. But the same, nonetheless. 

But you. You were his opposite in every big way that mattered.

Good and soft and honest. Strong.

And yet, there could be violence within you, when you so desired it. You’d let him have a peek of it on occasion.

Like the sun that burned his eyes from their sockets. 

Violent, but necessary for survival. 

You’d dedicated yourself to saving lives and healing, for Christ’s sake. All Joel’d ever done was destroy and kill. Even what he and Ellie had was on the precipice of death now. 

And despite all of this. Despite everything he’d done to push you away. To hurt Ellie, no matter his intentions, he wanted. Savagely.

He wanted Ellie to understand why he’d done what he’d done. To forgive him. And even if she couldn't agree, then to just accept it. To set it away and let things be between them. To let it go . 

What a selfish fucking thought, Joel Miller.  

But he couldn’t help it; the goddamn world was over. Couldn't they just accept the bad things they’d done, or not done, and put it all away. And yet, at the same time, he could not hold it against her. Not even fault her. Because he knew her– he’d always known that the road would always inevitably lead them here. And still, he’d made the choices he’d made. In a way, he knew he deserved her ire. And so he bore it. Accepted it. Waited. But then– something new. You had come. 

And he wanted you.

With a violence he’d never felt in a life filled with little other than violence. He could sanctify you with the fervor of his wanting. If he wondered at your own desires, he’d ask if there wasn't ever something you’d wanted so bad it pushed you into the depths of selfishness. A selfishness that bordered on cruelty to the outside world, but you just could not help yourself. You just had to reach out and take. He wanted to be that thing for you, that thing that turned you cruel and selfish. 

And maybe that’s what this was, him taking you for himself; cruelty– like taking Ellie’s choices from her. But he couldn’t have helped it. He’d tried. God, he’d railed against this vicious want. But after the first time he’d touched you, tasted you, hell, the first time he’d fucking looked at you; all sense of choice had been taken from him. 

All that was left after that was what would happen. What was inevitable. The thread that connected them was deep and dark and red. Not to be ignored. 

The two circumstances were one in the same. And he couldn’t help but compare the present destruction of him and Ellie to what would become an inevitability between the two of you if he tried to be with you in any real way. Things always ended in one place for him. 

And he’d ripped out so much of himself to cure the pain of Sarah’s loss, he now felt he had nothing left to offer, and what little he did, had gone to Ellie. The feeling of inadequacy was suffocating. Of missing some essential part of himself. He didn’t know if he was capable anymore, of that, of giving himself to someone new. 

But he was afraid.

“C’mere, Birdie.” You crawl into his lap. 

“Birdie?” A sweet, shy laugh. There was something about you, so akin to that sparrow. So small and fragile, but with the enviable ability to fly away if necessary. Within yourself, within your heart. There was a space within you he found unreachable to him. And he hated it and envied it all at the same time. Raged at himself for even wanting it in the first place. Knew that it only existed as a form of self preservation, of protection, against him. And the sound of your voice – lilting like the song of that sparrow – it fucking haunted him, it haunted him, it haunted him. Maybe he was a little like that bird, as well. Hollow. 

Sometimes he just wanted you to hate him. To yell and scream and gnash your teeth and fucking demand something from him. Demand he let go of his cowardice and hesitations and fear. But he knew that very well of self preservation also allowed you to intellectualize his actions, parse together his motives and follow the thread to his root. Understand him in a way he shied away from. 

He existed in different spectrums of himself. Different shades of a past that all coalesced into this man he was now trying to be and remain. Which was, perhaps, the hardest part of it all. To maintain that semblance of a good man he was fighting his hardest to be. A good father. A good brother. Helpful to his community and neighbors. Open to the world. It was fucking hard. Falling into old habits, letting the past crest up like a wave and drown him, that was the easy route. Staying on the straight path was the true test. And he knew– he knew how much he had to hold on to now, and all the responsibility that came with that. To cultivate and maintain his relationships, his friendships. He was appreciated, respected in this place he’d made a home. He’d lived a long time without respect from anyone, the world – or himself. He wanted to hold on to that.

But he was also aware that there was something missing. Something he still wanted, and before he’d met you, he’d been unsure of what that was. But the feel of a woman beneath him, around him– someone to know him as a man, and not a father or a brother or a friend– yes, that was definitely missed. And then, not just any woman, but you, you, you. Your appearance in his world had changed things for him. A burst of blinding light, an inferno creeping in his veins, without preamble or warning – the intensity of it almost unendurable for its sudden unexpectedness. It was empirically impossible for one to turn away from a change of that magnitude. 

He thought of Tess sometimes. Her easy companionship. Her friendship. It was simple being with someone who never expected anything from you except to not get yourself killed. To stick to what was expected of you and not fuck up too badly you couldn’t keep your end of the bargain. But then… that wasn’t necessarily the truth of what they’d had either. Something still difficult for him to confess, even after all these years. And anyways, he was too old for that now. Shied away from getting into something like that again. A small curl of self consciousness making the appeal of it unsavory now. And this, between the two of you, he couldn’t codify it. Didn’t know what to make of it. Knew what he wanted of himself, of you. Knew what he would like to be able to give you and to take from you as well. Saying it out loud, confessing that, following through on it, was harder though. 

Birdie, Birdie, Birdie

You reach up to scratch gently through the underside of his chin. The soft, thick bristles catching beneath your nails. Just one more inevitable thing in a world full of inevitabilities. 

Sarah. Cordyceps. Ellie. Taking you for himself. His unwillingness to accept a thing, never made it any less true. Stubborn ass that he was, still after all this time, he could not kick the bad habit. 

You settle your plush bottom into his lap and weave your arms around his neck, his hands coming up to curve around the bend of your elbows, pull you in tighter, as if he could stitch you to his very skin with the intensity of his wanting. 

“You’re like a little bird,” he nuzzles the soft space behind your ear, sucks on the edge of your jaw, breathes you in. “My Birdie.” The soft sound you make goes straight to his hard cock and you spread your legs wider across his lap, grind yourself down onto him.

-

You bask in his attention, mind hazy and floating. You’re drunk on his touch, his scent, the sound of his voice, and you feel like you need to give him something. Give him some more tangible piece of yourself. Something you wish he could put in his pocket, tuck in his memory, carry with him always like a small, smooth stone, the weight of it knocking gently against his thigh as he moved about the world. You slink down the bed, settle yourself between his strong legs.

His middle is soft and thick, and you press a kiss to the swell beneath his belly button, further down to nuzzle into the soft thatch of hair around his cock. You breathe in the heady musk of him, and he’s restless, verging on aggressive beneath you — his control held on by the grace of a snapping thread. You take him in hand, show him you’re merciful, and give the hard thick length of him a slow tug. His size is obscene, held in your small hand, you can barely get your fingers around his girth; it makes you cunt clench and weep jealously. You gaze up at him, and the look in his eyes is feral, teeth bared in a gleaming snarl at you. You often think that he unmoors you, but in this moment, you have the power to unmake him. 

You press small kisses to his thigh, the jut of his hip bone, nuzzle your nose at the soft skin there. And then finally, you offer him your tongue, tap the broad, dark red head of him once, twice, and then soft little kitten licks, across the crown, down his shaft. Not yet ready to give him the reprieve of your hot suctioning mouth. You lift yourself up on your arms to hang your head over his erection then, letting salvia pool on your tongue you let it dribble down in a long obscene thread onto his waiting cock, slide down. “ Fuck – fuck, fuck,” he growls then, savage: “Fucking swallow it or come up here, and give me that cunt. No more teasing, Birdie.”

You bend back down to tongue the slit and he hisses, snaps his teeth together; he’s harder than a fucking rock. You start to jack him slow and tight in long pulls, from the very base, up, up to twist your fist around the weeping head, pressing soft kisses to the tops of his thighs. And then finally, finally you wrap your puckered mouth around him and start to suck, hollowing your cheeks and laving your tongue all around the thick girth. It’s sloppy and so wet, your saliva dribbling down to slide over his balls and into his hair. Messy little girl . He grips the back of your head, fingers fisting in your hair. You look up at him in permission, and he starts to fuck your mouth in earnest. The muscles in your throat tightening around his head with every thrust. “Shit, shit, that’s good.” He lets his head fall back, and you take in the strong column of his throat. You can feel your pussy leaking onto the sheets beneath you at the sight of him and you squirm, rubbing your thighs together to relieve some of the ache. He’s so fucking hot. And you want him so badly, always. 

He feels your desperate squirming between his thighs, “Play with that little cunt, baby. I know it hurts.” You moan in response, suck him deeper, swallow around him as you slide your hand under your belly, down between your thighs and play with the wet mess there. You cup yourself and start to rock your hips, you know he’s watching your movements, the rise of your ass, letting the heel of your hand grind against your throbbing clit and then slide down to your entrance, dip your middle finger in to penetrate you there, gentle and shallow. You pick up the pace of your grinding, everything is so slick and wet, and your mouth opens on a shallow gasp, his throbbing length slipping out of your mouth and falling wet and heavy onto his belly. The two of you watch each other as you fuck your hand slowly, and then he’s rolling you over with the strength of his thighs, quick as a viper, as he manhandles you to his liking. He’s sliding on top of you, and then he’s got you on all fours, face pressed down into the pillows and ass up, up in the air, pulling on your hips and spreading you wide for his eyes to feast on. You feel his big hands grip your ass cheeks and pull you apart, your pussy wet and aching, you’re sure he can see your hole clench desperately. He bends to give your flesh a sharp, painful nip and you keen in response, his tongue soothing over it after. 

“Please, Joel – please.”

“What do you need, baby? Hmm?” he croons. “You need my cock to fuck this little pussy?”

“Please–” you cry, a mess of tears and spit covering your face. 

He runs a gentle knuckle over your soaked, puffy lips. “So red… so needy… Say it, wanna hear it.” He gives you his thumb, catching just over the edge of your opening, your mewl is high and whining.

“ Please, please, please–”

“ Tell me, Birdie.”

Hitching breath, he pulls out his thumb, swipes over your clit, just barely. “Please, fuck my pussy.”

And then his hand is gone and he’s giving you the whole unrelenting length of him in one quick thrust, and he’s fucking huge and harder than stone. Pressing up against your cervix until it hurts and holding there, and you want more, more, more. It feels so fucking good and you’re so wet – dripping down your thighs, you can feel it pooling in the crevices behind your knees, mingling with the collected sweat there. It’s lewd. Your walls clamp down on him, tight as a fist, and he lets out a snarl: “Don’t move.” A shudder wracks through him and you can feel him throbbing inside you, holding him heavy and hard in the deepest part of your cunt. You mewl, high and desperate, “Don’t move, don’t make a sound—” You can’t help the whimpers, he pulls them out of you forcibly.

“ Fuck–” and then he’s ramming into you relentlessly, over and over, kissing your womb on each thrust, and you see stars behind your eyes. His hands hold you open to watch where he impales you. “Prettiest little pussy, fuckin’ perfect and tight, Birdie” he says through gritted teeth. He pulls out suddenly, bends to swipe a long wet lick from your clit to your asshole. Oh, he’s filthy. You can only moan in response, flushing red and hot from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. Your breasts are heavy and aching, the tips furled into tight points. And then he’s fucking back into you. “Gonna fuck it full of my come, baby. You want that? Want me to stuff you full, pretty girl?”

“Yes– please, please. I need it–” His hand slides up the length of your back to curve over your shoulder, pulling you back onto his impaling cock harder. His balls slap sharp and wet against your clit, and then you’re coming around him, something so deep and sensitive inside being rutted against unrelentingly. Your cunt pulls tight, almost painful, a hot little furl around him, milking his own orgasm out of him. He groans deep in his chest, torso folding over your back pressing you deeper into the mattress, and you can feel the heavy throb and jerk of his cock spitting inside of you. The fist in your hair jerks your head to the side and he swallows your pleas, tongue licking deep into your mouth. “Good– good girl,” kisses the tip of your nose, your brow. 

-

“Little bird… s’soft” he whispers later. “ Who’s gunna look after these fragile wings that dream so big and want to fly so high?” The tips of his fingers ghost up and down the length of your spine, over the fine wings of your shoulder blades. His skin is rough, his trigger finger thickly calloused, and each pass makes you shiver. 

“Can’t you?”

“Don’t think so,” he mouths at the tender nook behind your ear, along your hairline, “Ain’t got it in me. Not gentle enough, don’t think.” But how could that be true when no one in all your life, in all the world, had ever touched you as softly as he was now?

“My Birdie,” he murmurs, and he’s still semi hard inside of your sore, stretched out cunt. Leaking out of you. Messy. The both of you had stopped being careful a while ago. Stopped caring, really. And you know it’s an unspoken point of resentment in him, the fact that he can’t control himself. That he feels an instinct to fill you and mark you. To make you his in the most primal way he can. The fact that he can’t pull away from you, in this most precarious of moments, despite all the other ways he can, it chafes . The both of you look away from it, like so many other things between you – turn your faces away. Unwilling to stop, and do the right thing. Unwilling to consider the possible consequences. 

Sometimes you wonder if the thought of those consequences appeal to him. Appeal as a form of subjugation. If that were to happen then he’d be forced to stop forcing himself to push you away. He’d be able to keep you the way you know he really wants to. 

It is a delirious and precarious situation, the business of believing in something that’s constantly denied to you. 

You wrap your hand around his thick wrist and bring it to your nose, breathe him in deep, press a kiss to the tender skin over the blue hued spidering of his veins. His heady scent of soap and sweat and musk, all mingled with your own scent on his skin. It makes you clench tight around him and he groans deep and wanton in his chest, grinds his hips further into you from behind. 

“You know what I think you’re missing?” he murmurs into the sensitive shell of your ear– your messy hair moved by his breath. “Besides more of my cum–” He laughs – and oh, he thinks he’s so damn funny– another thrust, sharper now. Regaining strength. He grasps the inside of your thigh and pulls you open, hooks your leg back and over his hip. Moaning low, you say, “What’s that?” You wind your hand up and back to clutch his hair while he starts to fuck you slow and deep. You want all your conversations for the rest of time to be just like this, whispered into each other’s ears always. 

His other hand slides down your belly, to slot his fingers over the place where he fits inside you, feeling the tight stretch of it. He cups you there and anchors you to roll your hips more deeply on to his hardening erection, the mound of his palm grinding into your oversensitized clit. This sort of stamina’s not normal for an old man, you want to tease. But then he says: “Some selfishness,” a little bit like a question. A little bit like an admonishment too. And you pause, he’s serious and it makes you afraid that it’s also posed like a warning, just for a second. “Be selfish, Birdie. Be selfish for me, just a little bit.” For me, he says, and it appeases you, comforts you. You think you may agree. 

“Who says I’m not already?”

Chapter II

Netherfeildren Masterlist

[radiowallet]

Meant to Be - Part 1

The Arrangement

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand, Eventual Oberyn Martell x Fem!OC (nameless, third person) Summary: Preparations for Oberyn's future are made. WC: 4.7K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, grief, death, political intrigue, arragned marriage, drinking, mentions of food, allusions to vaginal sex, Oberyn being a sexy little shit. Oberyn Martell comes with his own warning.

A/N: Hello besties! Welcome to my first foray into a multi-chapter GoT fic. Before we dive in, a few things to keep in mind: This is an alternate universe that takes place after the main events of the show. Bran is still king of Westeros. Sansa is still queen of the north. Oberyn lives. Doran never had any children. Our Fem!OC is from Winterfell, but she is not a Stark and is a blank canvas physically. I'm excited to play around with two tropes I don't write (arranged marriages and soulmates) and try something different! Thank you for joining me on this little journey!

Masterlist II Series Masterlist

>>> Part 2

Arrange yourself for my heart

Plan for it, in all its splendor

Prepare and shape and mold yourself

To me, For me, With me

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

Oberyn had always considered Dorne to be the center of Westeros. The thought was born out of bias, his love for his home and his people always tilting the scales in a way most would deem unfair. But it was more than just a loyalty birthed from love that tied his heart to the southernmost part of the map. Dorne was beautiful - hills of sand, a burning sun, and two seas with water so blue and waves so deep. The fruit was sweeter, the wine stronger, the days dipped in languid honey gold. 

With the war over and justice delivered in more ways than one, Oberyn had thought there would be no better feeling than his return to the sandy shores of Sunspear. Even with his heartbeat muted with grief for a beloved sister lost, he still felt a soft swell of peace when his feet touched those first sandy dunes, the sound of crashing waves filling his head, the sun-soaked air coating his lungs.

Oberyn did not think it possible for that peace to be so easily taken.

“Marriage?”

“Yes, brother. Marriage.”

Funny how one word can skew the direction of one’s life so quickly. How the prospect of something that most would easily agree to, perhaps even take joy in, could shake and shatter an easy landing.

Doran says the word so matter of factly, leaning back in his wheelchair, regarding Oberyn across the long width of the table, his studious gaze more piercing than it has any right to be. A full breakfast is spread out between them — berries and cheese and honey-glazed breads sweeter than sin — meant as a welcome home in honor of the second-born prince, a celebration for his triumph over The Mountain. Tonight there would be a feast, one to mark the end of the war and the Lannister’s reign; a newly crowned King of Westeros to toast to. 

Oberyn had been looking forward to the pomp and circumstance, if only to give him a chance to drown himself in Dornish wine, the promise of sleeping off the effects in Ellaria’s arms in his own bed a tempting reward for his troubles. He had expected a lecture of some sort from his brother in the between of it all; a request he take a seat on some council or maybe a post within the city watch. He would have even entertained an encouragement to begin the search anew for his soulmate.

But now he sees his brother’s ploy for what it truly is. 

A trick.

A game.

An arrangement.

Tension stretches out between the two men, years of twisted perception coloring their opinions of one another, all manner of things unsaid mixed amongst the decadent feast that now lies untouched.

“I have never entertained the idea of a wife. Not once. I hardly see why you think I would now, my Lord.” Oberyn lets the last word drip from his lips with utter disdain, refusing to acknowledge the propriety of station when his brother has tried to trick him so. One of the many benefits of being second born was the lack of obligation on his part, and he had exploited the fact in excess, happy to allow his brother all the privilege of a crown. 

A privilege, it seemed in his brother’s mind, had run its due course.

“Because, Prince Oberyn,” Doran starts, his words spoken with a careful pace, “you are to be named my heir.”

The ground falls out from beneath his chair, every single sound within the great hall expanding and focusing in on him; every color too bright, every noise too loud. The crash of the waves against the palace walls is suddenly overwhelming, a sound that once reminded him of his home now a painful cacophony in his ears.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Oberyn is standing, one word heavy on the tip of his tongue, and yet it will not come. 

Doran, ever patient, continues on. “You will be Lord of Sunspear, Oberyn, as is your right by birth and by decree.”

“And if I refuse?” He murmurs, eyes trained on the grainy wood of the table below. “The marriage? Your throne?”

His eyes flit to the other man just in time to see his reaction. Doran, for his part, looks surprised, the sentiment pulling a chuckle from deep within Oberyn’s chest. Could his brother really be so obtuse? So set in his own ways? Was he truly incapable of accepting that some may not long for power? 

At the sound of his laughter, the older man scowls, dark eyes set upon him with barely cloaked anger. For a moment, Oberyn thinks he sees his brother move to stand, a pained look stealing across his features briefly before settles back further into his seat and speaks again. 

“Have you no sense of honor left, my brother? Did your battle with The Mountain steal the last of your love for your family away? Or perhaps justice was the only thing keeping you tethered to us?”

“I avenged our sister–”

“Who is gone! She is gone, Oberyn,” Doran urges, one finger pushing down onto the table, emphasizing his point with practiced precision. “And it is us who remain! To carry on, just the same as those who came before. It is our right! Our duty! We need an heir. A legitimate hei–”

“My daughters are legitimate!” The interruption is roared, the scream of his voice echoing up into the wide open ceilings, coated in an anger he had thought he left to die beneath the suffocating rubble of the Red Keep. The fury leaves him as fast as it came, and in its wake there seems to be only one option left.

He turns away abruptly, icy cold spite bleeding out between the brothers with every step he takes away.

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

The charcoal in her hand smells of smoke, earthy and bitter, a scent that will cling to her fingers long after the day is done. It’s a perfect bedfellow to the fire crackling in the far corner of the room, the bright blend of reds and yellows giving just the barest illusion of warmth. 

Winterfell was named well. Even with winter fading into the pages of the history books, the north still carried a bitter cold, one she feared she would never be fond of. 

Her entire lifetime had been spent between the cold stone, searching for moments of warmth beneath her mother’s skirts or father’s arms. They were stolen, like bits of bread or cheese when the cooks had their backs turned, a tiny treat to melt on her tongue when nothing else in the frigid halls of Winterfell could. 

Her parents were gone now, casualties of time and its ever pressing need to march forward. She counts the smallest of blessings that they were gone before the Walkers came, thankful at least that they were spared the heartache of war.

They passed quietly, together in their bed, hands intertwined, palms pressed tightly; soulmates destined to walk those last steps together. A strange twinge dips down low in her belly; something like jealousy, she thinks, that her parents found each other so easily. They moved together with such certainty. A confidence given by fate or the Gods or whatever it was that made the world exist as it did. 

And in contrast, she had decided long ago, that she would gladly trade the suredness of a match to her soul if it meant she got a say in the outcome of her life.

Still – did her life look any different now than it did back then? Perhaps in the grandest of schemes. But…

Her father had been in charge of the stables, her mother a close companion to Lady Stark. And now she held a similar seat, sitting near the side of Sansa Stark, once her childhood playmate, grown into the Queen of the North. School lessons and daydreaming exchanged for talks of trade agreements and wall management. If she closed her eyes it would be easy to imagine two young girls in thick dresses and fur lined coats giggling over future soulmates and happily ever afters.

For the smallest moment in time, Sansa had hoped her soul’s match to be Joffrey, waxing poetic about true love and blonde haired babies. Though there had been endless heartache surrounding the truth, it had been a day she celebrated when the raven arrived from King’s Landing, Sansa’s elegant handwriting informing her that she and Joffrey were not to be wed. 

So many things never came to pass, for either of them. Soulmates and love stories set aside in the name of survival, and through it all, she watched as the younger girl grew to hold the weight of a crown she was born to wear. And she was content to live the rest of her days honoring the Starks the same as her parents did, ever aware of all she has to thank them for.

A roof over her head and a job to do – a noblewoman by the queen’s decree – she helped uphold House Stark at Sansa’s behest and in return, was given the freedom to do as she pleases within the confines of Winterfell’s stone walls. Council meetings littered with talks of policy and procedures sitting neatly between walks through the woods and time spent fireside, her fingers stained black, her dresses soaked with snow, her head swimming with negotiations. Lineage and duty tied her to this cold place, history and love filled it with warmth. 

She considers the scrap of parchment in her lap, the blacks blended into varied shades of grey, a picture of an empty chair staring back at her. She traces the shape of it, a regal rendering, more throne than chair, but it looked lonely in the bleak streaks of black and white. Something missing that she couldn’t put a name to. 

The image had come to her in a dream, the compulsion to sketch it following quickly after. When the queen had dismissed her for the day, she retreated quickly and quietly to the main sitting room, fingers itching for the warmth of charcoal, for the smooth feel of parchment, the empty chair sitting heavy at the back of her dream.

Perhaps if she could see it, hold it, in more than just her mind’s eye, then its purpose would present itself. 

The only answer she’s given is the snap of the fire at the far end of the room. 

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

Oberyn has no desire to make mention of Doran’s plans to Ellaria. Upon his arrival to his quarters he sends for her, the servant given the task in a venomous tongue that he’ll remind himself to apologize for later. For now he kicks off his boots and strips down to his trousers, pacing the room from end to end, the monotony doing nothing to contain his frustrations. 

He considers the how and the why and the who of his current situation, anxious for someone to blame, desperate for a way out. He snaps his jaw and bites his teeth, sinking deeper into memories as he stalks about his quarters; marriage, to whatever end, never seemed as advantageous as most made it out to be. He had learned a whole lifetime’s history on the subject within the walls of the citadel, his own familial experiences confirming what books had taught him. 

A sister wed to a dragon in the name of peace —dead. A brother betrothed to his soul’s true match — alone. 

And now he…

No. 

Oberyn refuses to even consider the ridiculous notion coming to fruition.  

He leaves the very idea of weddings and brides and political good-will behind him, moving to the open terrace just off of his sitting room, intent to sulk in silence beneath the late morning sun. He throws himself down onto the nearest chaise, pouring himself a full glass of wine, and then a second, urging the sweet liquid to wash away the bitter taste of breakfast. His eyes close, the crash of the waves lulling him into a restless sleep, the heat of Dorne burning the backs of his eyelids as he ignores the reality of his brother’s sensible voice.

A different voice of reason is what drags him back from the flames. 

“Something troubles you.”

Ellaria Sand has always been too clever for Oberyn’s own good. She watches him with a calculating eye, a patience that matches his impetuous nature in more ways than he could bother to count, and in many ways she is his perfect match. There was no one better to lead his fledglings, his sandsnakes, his family. Even now, after years of sharing in each other, bending and curving to match their hearts together over time. They know what makes the other moan, cry, beg, and he is more than confident in his affections for her. 

But oh, how she vexes him so. 

“The only thing that troubles me is that it has been too long since I felt the curve of your body beneath my own.” 

She smiles, her lips yielding sweetly to him, but something curls at the back of her dark eyes, some sort of secret that he’s certain he should already know but cannot remember. He will not ask and she does not speak it. Neither would dare in the state that he’s in. Instead she steps between his spread legs, thin fingers loosening the sash that barely holds her dress to her skin, revealing herself to the Dornish sun above. 

Oberyn sits up, large palms smoothing around the dip of Ellaria’s hips to cup her backside and pull her forward until the weight of her settles in his lap. She fits to him, molds herself around his body, hard edges and soft curves matched in a way he knows and loves and craves more than words allow, the hard length of his cock fitting deep inside her warmth.

His lips find her skin, mapping a steady path up the column of her neck until finally they meet in a long overdue kiss. Their lips slant together, a soft press at first, just enough to remind him that she is here before he dips his tongue, eager to remind himself of her taste. She’s spiced honey and burning smoke, biting at the corners of his mouth, and Oberyn would gladly suffocate on her if given the chance. 

When he breaks away, it’s with a broken sob masked behind a curse, his forehead falling to her own. A wish neither of them would ever dare to say out loud hangs like a cloud above them, blocking out the heat of the sun. But it does not stop Oberyn from pressing himself to every inch of Ellaria’s skin, hoping against his own foolish heart that this is the day their match is revealed. 

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

Sansa Stark strikes an imposing figure. Her red hair and piercing blue eyes burn bright against the soft greys of Winterfell and yet she does not seem out of place. She moved through the halls with purpose, each step taken with intent, each decision made with a warm heart. She cared for her birthright with both her hands, holding it in a way so much like her father but in other ways not. 

She was born for it. Then bred for it.

 

And still, it exhausted her.

 

Sansa sits before her now, boots kicked off, wiggling her stocking-covered toes just out of reach of the fire, her head tipped back and her eyes closed, content in what must be her first moment’s peace since she walked into the great hall this morning.

 

“I’ve had a taxing day, and I’m not sure where to start.”

“Can I suggest the beginning?”

A sharp glare peeks out between long lashes before a crooked smile and the poke of a tongue are pointed her way. She can’t help but tease the queen. Their companionship has always bordered on familiarity, a shared affection between them born from a childhood raised together, a lifelong friendship cemented in the hours of war. Most nights were spent in a manner such as this, idle chit chat fractured between the complaints of leadership while the scratch of charcoal and the crack of the fire kept cadence with both women’s words. Tonight was no different, save for the topic at hand.

“Prince Doran has made a request of me.”

“A request?”

It was not unheard of but still strange to hear from so far south, especially in a time of peace.

 

“A lady for a betrothal to his younger brother.”

 

“The Red Viper?”

Sansa sits up, then nods, eyes trained on the fire, the flames seemingly giving her the strength to carry on. She makes no mention of her time at King’s Landing or her brief passing with the second-born son of Sunspear, her bottom lip caught between the uncomfortable snare of her teeth. If there is a statement to be made on him, on his character or his choices, the queen does not share it, instead watching as the shades of reds and yellows dance before her.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t found his soulmate yet. If the rumors are even considered to be half true, the numbers should be in his favor.”

Girlish snickers ring up high into rafters, the pair of them moving down to the floor, knees folded beneath them, goblets of wine tipping but not spilling in the process. They scoot forward, just enough to feel the warmth of the fire staining their cheeks, sneaky smiles shared between sips of wine.

“Were they asking after Arya?”

Sansa snorts with a roll of her eyes. “I think the entirety of Westeros knows what a fool’s errand that would be.”

 

“You, then?”

Her old friend tracks her gaze from the side of her eyes and they both smile and laugh. A fool's errand, indeed.

 

“Truthfully, Doran did not ask for anyone specific. I think he would be fine if I sent one of our mules as long as Oberyn is wed before summer arrives. No…the decision has fallen to me and my council.”

 

There is something Sansa is not saying, an annoyance left unspoken, digging a trench between the two women. Finally, with a huff and a laugh, she says what the queen is unable to.

 

“The council suggested I make the journey south and accept the Prince’s hand.”

The truth is what finally steals Sansa’s attention from the fireplace, and suddenly she is turning, grasping her hands and speaking with conviction. “I cannot make you. I would never. I…I know the agony of a forced nuptial.”

And then, softly, “But yes. Your name was the first.”

“I am not surprised,” she smiles despite herself. “I do vex the council so.”

 

“A woman of your nature, unmarried and unmatched, allowed to sit at your station is difficult for them to understand. But they forget that it is not their role to object to your presence.”

For a moment’s time neither woman speaks, choosing instead to sit together in silence, fingers tangled, the smell of charcoal and cherry wine permeating the air between them. A life of quiet snow and solid stone is considered, matched to the steady steps of duty and honor mixed with memories of love. She remembers her parents, the love they had for each other, and the love they held for Winterfell and the Starks. She matches it to her own heart, her own dedication, a life promised in honor of the north and to the woman sitting right beside her. 

The only answer possible presents itself clearly.

“I will go.”

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

The knock on the door is insistent, dragging Oberyn from sleep in a way he vows revenge for. He had been ignoring it the best he could, burying his face in the curve of Ellaria’s breast, lips finding the pulse of her heart, taking comfort in the beat of it. He’d be content to lay here, his cock hard between his legs, his lips shifting lower to capture the swell of her tit, but the knocking has yet to stop and it isn’t long before she’s pushing on his shoulder, telling him to take care of his business and hurry back to her.

He drags himself from the bed with a curse and a grunt, a cursory glance spared towards the open windows. The violet bursts coloring the sky tell him that dusk is fast approaching, and he can only assume it is a servant on the other side of the door to alert him that the celebrations will be starting soon. He makes the calculated decision to leave his robe on the floor, hoping to either scare whoever it is back to the kitchens or perhaps to tempt them inside to his bed.

 

Oberyn strokes himself slowly, his cock heavy in his hand, still slick with Ellaria’s arousal. He flings the door wide with an exaggerated flourish, a cheeky greeting dancing on the tip of his tongue.

“You can tell my brother I will be dining here tonight, but you’re welcome to jo-”

He stops short at the sight of Doran, dressed head to toe in regal shades of gold, seeming so tall when it’s Oberyn who stands and the Lord of Sunspear sits, his wheelchair pushed to the threshold of his little brother’s sanctuary.

 

“I’m quite alright, thank you. My tastes do match that of Dornish tradition but I’ll stop short of laying with my brother. We’ll leave that sort of thing to lions and dragons, yes?”

There is suddenly the weight of a robe around Oberyn’s shoulders and warm breath in his ear, Ellaria greeting Doran with a nod and a smile.

“It is good to see you, Prince Doran.”

“And you as well, my dear. How fare the girls?”

“Growing like weeds and twice a thorn in my side. They take after their father that way.”

“The best of us do. Speaking of, do you mind if I borrow your dearest paramour? I promise to only take a moment of his time from you.”

Oberyn watches the exchange through a frowned pout, arms crossed in a petulance he’s been wearing since this morning. The pair of them speak as if he isn’t even present, and before he has a chance to object to any of it, Ellaria is pushing him out into the hallway as he hastily ties his robe closed.

 

“I can only assume you are here to promise me that all plans of weddings and succession are done with. Perhaps even an apology to go along with this vow?”

“I think you know that I am decidedly not.”

“Well then you will be disappointed, dearest brother, to find that my stance on the matter has not changed.”

Doran sighs, his forehead falling to his hand, the years more apparent to Oberyn now than ever before. He thinks of maybe lightening the blow, an apology or an offer to sit at his right hand, to alleviate the sting of his refusal, but the words die on his tongue, his brother finding his voice first.

 

“You were given much leeway, Oberyn. Freedom. Mother and Father framed it beneath the guise of looking for your soulmate. A part of me had foolishly hoped, dearest brother, that you were doing just that.”

 

Oberyn wants to laugh, tries to, knocking his knuckles against the wall with a forced chuckle. But the sound breaks too soon and he looks away, considering the high arches and wide open space of his childhood home. How strange that all of sudden it feels entirely too small for his liking. When he finally turns back to Doran, he smiles.

 

“Who’s to say I wasn’t, brother? Skin to skin contact to find the true match to your heart. Is that not what the ancient tomes say?”

 

“You treat it like some game,” his older brother hisses, what sounds like a sneer chasing after his words. “But you do not know what it feels like. To find the other half of your heart, your soulmate. The whole world falls away. It’s a feeling unlike any other and you dismiss it, as if it is this fleeting thing you are too good for.”

Doran’s voice trails off, his eyes misting over in a way that Oberyn has only seen once before. He knows his older brother is thinking of his own love, his own loss; lucky enough to find his soulmate early on, unfortunate enough to lose her not long after. The pain had stolen the light from his brother’s life, any and all joy relegated to the back of his heart. Even the idea of taking a second wife in the name of duty had been too much for Doran to bear.

 

Oberyn was sick for the thought of it.

It hadn’t been hard for him to decide there and then that his love would never hold such rigid definitions

“But you do not know,” Doran keeps going, his voice crushed in frustration. “You run around with that Sand girl—“

“I love her.”

The admission rings out loud in the empty hallway, and Oberyn reveals in it, satisfied in his honesty, no matter the cost. 

“I have no doubt,” Doran agrees quietly. “But if you had found your soulmate, whether they be in the brothels or the beaches, what then? Could you bring yourself to choose?”

He refuses to look away, mournful eyes tracing Oberyn from top to bottom, and for a hair of a second he feels himself so small. Merely a lad desperate to ask his older brother what choice he should make. But the moment passes, impetuous frustration filling up the space between them yet again, his words boiling over the curve of his lips. 

“Why?” Oberyn hisses, bending down until he and Doran are nose to nose, as level a playing field as he can give himself. “Why now? When peace has finally found its way to us?”

“I am dying.”

He forgets how to breathe.

His vision blurs as his face goes numb. His fingers clench around empty air, fingernails digging deep enough to scar the skin of his palm. His skin pulls too tight. His blood burns too hot.

 

He stumbles back, can’t help but, another punch to his overwrought gut, his bare feet tripping as he tries and fails to find his footing.

“No…n-no. It is…you are…” He is muttering, mumbling in disbelief, unable to comprehend this one final truth laid down at his feet. His brother, the one he loves so dearly but resents more than he knows how to say…dying? Taken away? No.

“No.”

“The maesters have done all that they can, and still I grow weaker every day. There is no measure of time they can predict for me, but something in my bones tells me that any day marked as past is a gift that brings me closer to Mellario.”

“And you…have no heir,” Oberyn breathes out, the actuality of his brother’s request finally bearing witness before his eyes.

“I do, little brother.”

Oberyn clenches his jaw and turns away, ignoring the sting of tears in favor of facing the solution head on. There was no way about it now – he would become Lord of Sunspear – or risk allowing the decisions of Dorne’s leadership to fall to the new, and still so very young, king. And though he has no desire to play the game of thrones, it is not lost on him the rules that follow. 

Marriage.

Children.

This will fall to him now.

“Tell me about the girl.”

Doran gives a name; the same given by Sansa Stark, sent by raven only a few nights prior. 

“From the North?” He can’t help the incredulous sound of his voice, and he cringes inwardly at his own knee-jerk assumptions.

“Did your conquest of The Mountain and the end of the Lannister reign not appease you, little brother? Are you still carrying that thirst for vengeance inside you?

Oberyn scoffs. “Certainly not. The Starks were a victim of circumstance, same as most of us. I am just surprised. I thought they named the eldest girl their queen.”

“They did,” Doran confirms, his stance as steady as his answer.

“I did not think she was a fan of forced marriage, what with her messy history with them.”

“She was a little girl then. She is a queen now. Though if it helps alleviate your own feelings towards this particular arrangement, the lady took it upon herself to volunteer. Perhaps a desperation to hold on to her own agency. Not unlike someone else I know.”

“Volunteer? She has agreed to this? Then surely you will call her what she is, Doran – a crown-chasing child.”

“I can assure you she is neither. She is a woman grown and it is her allegiance to the north and her queen that has her agreeing to this arrangement. Nothing more.”

“Then she’s more fool than I feared,” Oberyn murmurs, touching his thumb to his bottom lip. 

“Well then, you’ll be two fools in matrimony. Rest well, my lord. Your bride arrives within the month.”

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

Dedications:

Biggest hugest thanks to @jazzelsaur and @astroboots and one poorly timed apple watch notification that inspired this fever dream insanity of a story. If not for the truly unhinged and chaotic nature of our DM's, this fic would never have been borne. Also shout-out to these two hoes for listening to me prattle on about GoT lore, soulmates, and all manner of "giving characters agency" discussion. I love you both a not normal amount.

Follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications for fic updates.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

hello! i'm sorry if this is super random, but i was wondering if you could possibly rec soem of yuor favorite spn blogs? writitng or gifs or anything related to spn?

(if this isn't okay, i do apoligize)

Hi! I'm going to do a bit of a hodge podge of recs for you!

@spnfanficpond - The SPN fanfic pond is an awesome source of TONS of blogs that write for SPN and they have multiple posts of fic recs!

@mrswhozeewhatsis - Look, another Michelle! Michelle has her own writing along with being an AMAZING fic recommender. She often reblogs others works and there's something there for everyone!

@supernatural-imagine-oneshot - Okay, this blog hasn't been active in a long time but the stories here are all incredible. This blog in particular is a big reason for getting me into fanfic and wanting to write it.

@supernatural-jackles - I'll happily recommend Jen's entire catalogue for your Dean and Jensen loving heart. She's not around much these days but I never read a bad fic from her and she handled writing about hard topics wonderfully.

@torn-and-frayed - Just go and do yourself a favor and read Steph's series Send The Pain Below right now. This series was one of my first forays into reading RPF and hot damn it doesn't dissapoint.

@kittenofdoomage - Rhi is pretty much on AO3 now but you can get to her stuff there. This is where I discovered ABO and fell in love! Iron Heart made my apocalyptic story loving heart so very happy and still does!

@campingmonkey - Elaina writes for not only multiple fandoms including SPN but she makes gifs too! Single handedly has saved me when I'm looking for the perfect gif but can't find it in existence. She's got another blog too @acklesmallville for all your Jason Teague needs!

@beaujensen - Because we all need more gifs of Beau Arlen in our lives

@justjensenanddean - The reason I get distracted on my timeline and forget to write sometimes lol. They got gifs, pics, keep up to date with news, cons, etc. and reblog other Jensen stuff too so yeah, this is one of my favorite blogs.

@zepskies - Zep is my new addiction. There's SPN stuff along with other shows Jensen's been in like The Boys and Big Sky. She does canon, she does AU and her writing is just damn good (aka this is the kind of writer that makes me want to step up my game). And I love how responsive she is to literally every comment, reblog, ask, etc. She sets the bar high for the rest of us!

I hope that gives you some good stuff to dig into!

[wounds-seen-and-unseen]

And so I gird my courage to embrace a journey

Hello!

This is my foray into the world of whump. In the past few days, I have seen and enjoyed a lot of excellently written whump, so I’ll be reblogging it here, and I have some ideas of my own as well.

l will be updating this post timely regarding my squicks, if any. As of now, I can only say that I do not like sexually explicit content.

I’ll be reblogging whump fics I liked! It’ll take some time to be entirely done though. I’ll reblog master lists first, then slowly the fic posts. I hope that’s alright with the writers of the said fics.

So here is something about me.

I go by Nila/Archer (my mutual @hum-suffer was very kind to give me so nice a nickname!) I am a medical student. I try to be medically accurate in my writing, but sometimes that is sacrificed for an emotional impact.

Most of my angst/whump/hurt-comfort fics will be featuring two well known characters, from vastly different works. One is Jaime Lannister from the GoT/ASOIAF franchise and the other is Arjun(a), the protagonist of an Indian epic, The Mahabharata.

These two characters will usually be in an AU situation which would differ story to story, which I will be sure to mention at the beginning of each original story post. Should you not be comfortable with what I stated here, please do not interact with this blog.

I also have some ideas with original characters, involving prompts I have seen around Tumblr, which I will post when I can. (I am, sadly, forever having exams)

I will follow back from my main blog, @ambidextrousarcher

I hope I get to interact with the lovely community here!

[djwiththejd]

The Fall of the House of Usher (2023) Episode 1

A foreword, of sorts: If someone had told me in high school or even college that I would willingly sit down to watch a horror tv show, I would have laughed in their face. Who knew it would take my college professor Emma's teachings of Pym and my first foray into Critical Theory that I brought with me to law school to get to this point. I haven't even finished watching School Spirits yet so the depression has really taken me for a ride, but my boyfriend says I need a hobby, and I spent two and a half hours and 7 and a half pages of notes on just the first episode of this show, so I'm going to write about it because I miss writing.

If you're here from twitter, may the gods have mercy on your soul.

Now, let's move on to business. My recap of Episode 1 of The Fall of The House of Usher. There will be spoilers for the Poe stories as well as detailed commentary of the events within the episode, so obviously I'm going to put a SPOILER WARNING for whatever you read below. Also, since the first episode introduces the story and the characters, it will probably be long as heck and full of background that no one but me cares about because I'm a huge nerd. I don't care if you skim. Read at your own peril; stay tuned for danger.

Firstly, let's talk about the original short story and see if Wikipedia can help me write a good, short summary of the premise/plot of that story. From within the first two minutes of the show, I can tell that we are going to deviate wildly from the plot.

In the original short story, published in 1839, the tale is told by an unnamed narrator who has been called to the House of Usher at the behest of his childhood friend Roderick Usher who is ill and needs help. Roderick and his twin Madeline are the only living members of the Usher family left alive in their family mansion. One thing that high school teachers everywhere probably tried to teach their students is to pay attention to the narrator's notice of a thin crack that extends from the roof, down the house, and into the nearby lake. This may be important later, but for me right now, I view it as a double entendre. Spoiler alert, at the end of the original short story, both Roderick and Madeline die, leading to the "fall" of the House of Usher, in that the last two living descendants die and therefore end the family name, and also the literal "fall" of the house, the family mansion that they lived in.

I have to admit I watched the first two minutes, tweeted about it, then got so engrossed about halfway through the episode that I grabbed a legal pad and started the episode from the beginning.

Firstly, the opening starts with a countdown to New Year's 1980 before we see a quick image of a cawing raven and a creepy vision of Carla Gugino's smiling face. The episode is titled "A Midnight Dreary," a line from Poe's "The Raven," so at this point I'm confused because obviously this is a completely different short story, but I roll with it. Unfortunately, I didn't have the foresight last night to look ahead and see what the other episode titles were, because then I would have probably understood the plot a little better.

We cut now to a stained glass window in a church (hello Jesus symbolism, can't wait to ponder you later) and then the pastor seems to be giving a eulogy about three dead people. We cut to an older gentleman with a teen girl sitting behind him who seems to be remembering 6 different visions. Side note: I googled the eulogy, and it cobbles together various lines from Poe's poems as well as quotes that are ascribed to Poe. At this point I guess that the older man and older women in sunglasses are the twins, and wonder who the teen girls are behind each of them before seeing MARK MOTHERFUCKING HAMILL on the screen. Even in my notes I just write him down as Mark Hamill, or MH, which is a real shame because his character's name is Arthur Pym, which is the main character from the only "book" Poe ever wrote, and there's a lot of controversy around whether it was finished or not, but I spent several classes in undergrad analyzing that book in particular, so it has a very soft spot in my heart.

Roderick(?) turns back and sees a figure with a blacked out face in the rafters, but then the girl turns around, nobody is there. When she turns to him, she calls him Grampus, so I can assume this girl is his granddaughter and not his daughter. Then Roderick (?) says, "She's here." Not quite to his granddaughter, but mostly to himself. How cryptic. I'm sure we won't think about that until it jumps right into our faces. At this point, in hindsight I had assumed that the "very pale girl" behind Madeline was her granddaughter, but oh how wrong I was.

Outside the church, we see press all over, but the church itself was noticeably empty. Then, then, we cut to a cork board. This confirms Roderick and Madeline are who I thought I was, and also gives Mark Hamill the name of Arthur Pym. Then, I painstakingly went in and paused at nearly every second of the next scene to read the details on the children, their dates of death, and any bits of information I could get from the articles about cause of death (aka COD.) The death dates are clustered very closely together. I don't know quite yet if it goes from youngest to eldest, but I'm sure we shall find out.

Then, the big reveal. Well, to me at least. I saw that the Assistant U.S. Attorney was C. Auguste Dupin, and let me tell you I pumped my fist in the air and nearly woke up my sleeping boyfriend next to me. Why? You don't care but I'm going to tell you. Dupin was introduced in The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841), my favorite Poe short story, and also the first ever piece of writing ever coined as "detective fiction." Yes, my absolute favorite genre of writing was created by Edgar Allan Poe, so as problematic as he may have been, I will always be grateful to him for this. Besides, the plot for Rue Morgue was so wild, I saw Dupin's name and had to pause and tweet about it. Specifically, I tweeted about hoping that one of the CODs would be strangulation by an escaped monkey. Mind you, like an idiot, I still haven't looked at the damn names of all of the episodes of the series. Since last night, I have been told to keep an eye out, so that's fun.

I can't believe I typed all of that up from the first like, three minutes of the show. I warned you this was going to be long.

Then, we pan out to the corkboard being a whole ass murder board. We love that. Still no clue who Pym is and why he's alive, but the random guy who walked into the office to talk to Dupin just said something about a Pym Reaper, so I got a chuckle out of that. There's emphasis here about "him" wanting to talk. Obviously, by process of elimination, this him is Roderick.

Dupin takes a taxi (oooh, vintage) to this location, and we see it is a dilapidated house. The "House" of Usher, methinks? I will say it definitely gives rise to the gothic vibe of terror and dread, but thankfully we're not going into Gothic architecture, that would have been a little too on the nose. The clothing I've seen is very modern and the death dates are all in November, so I genuinely thought it was set last year but it wasn't. Everything is apparently set to happen next month. In the future. How foreboding.

Roderick invites Dupin in and Dupin attempts to console Roderick for his losses, but Roderick seems much more focused on the drink in his hand. Henri IV Dudognon Heritage Cognac Grande Champagne. I googled it and apparently it is a real drink. I have to say, Roderick really doesn't seem to curry favor with Dupin when he suggests "a single pour is probably worth double your annual salary" but then he offers a glass to Dupin. This man is clearly going through something. By now, I can surmise it is the death of his family, but is this The House of Usher? Is this dilapidated building the same setting that we see in the original tale? Is Dupin now taking the place of the unnamed narrator of past?

Dupin still tries to apologize, but Roderick just seems...resigned to his fate. Also, Dupin asks where Mr. Pym is and we find out that Mark Hamill is playing a defense attorney. Amazing. Three years of law school and a JD later, and Mark Hamill, one of my favorite actors, is playing an attorney with the name of one of my most intriguing literary characters. All of my worlds have collided.

Roderick waives his right to an attorney and sits Dupin down across from him to talk. Dupin says Roderick got away with it, Roderick says no one really ever gets away with anything, not really. Dupin pushes back and says Madeline would beg to differ. Roderick says you can ask yourself, she's downstairs in the basement. At this point, I am convinced that Madeline is dead and buried, but this episode will not reveal that information to me. Trust me, I'm holding onto that theory because it is close in parallel to the original story, but I am soooo open at this point to being surprised because the actor for Roderick has sucked me in completely. Bruce Greenwood. I have painfully powerful facial recognition, so it delights me that I've never seen him in anything before so I can get sucked into his acting completely. Seriously, I just recently recognized the brother in Get Out from a single episode of Victorious because that one episode is my favorite. It can ruin my immersion sometimes.

Anyhow, back to the story. I'm rambling, but I have ADHD and I miss stream of consciousness writing so this is more for me than it is for you.

Roderick's phone vibrates, he says it is his granddaughter, Lenore. My eyeballs are rolling back into my head. We have a connection to The Raven, finally. She's not dead at present, so we shall see if she follows her namesake into the Great Beyond. Dupin tries to graciously allow Roderick to take that call and cites that "grandkids take priority" but Roderick calls him out!

He says "Don't lecture me about family values. You're just as shit in that department as I am."

At this point I am confused but I can't look away. Roderick says he wants to give his confession. Dupin whips out a recorder. November 20th, 2023. Roderick confirms we are in his childhood home. I am vibrating like a cat because I think my theory is correct, and I realize that based off of the death dates of his children, that much of this series will be told from this setting, in those chairs, and with flashbacks to important moments.

I was not prepared for the beginning of this story. In 1953, the house is warmer, more cheerful. R and M are just children, and Roderick speaks about "the woman who would shape every choice we would ever make." Their mother. Eliza. Aptly given the same name as Poe's mother. Personal secretary to the CEO of Fortunato Pharmaceuticals. The same company the Ushers own in modern times. Already I have questions about the lineage of the twins, but you know how it is.

"Not here. Not ever. We agreed." Very cryptic words, Mr. Longfellow. Madeline always hated him, she "always knew." Knew he was a liar? A terrible person? Or did she know he was their father?

Then we get into the religious phrases the mom uses. "Like Jesus, he loves from afar." "He's complicated, like God." I always find it very interesting but also very sad when the words a woman uses to justify a man's abuse is cloaked in a veil of religion. I won't go into detail on that, though. There just isn't time.

Jump to 1962. Nine years later, the twins look to be teenagers. Their studying is interrupted by a bell, and we cut to Eliza ringing a bell in bed. There is a plethora of crosses now hanging on the wall behind her, so that's...lovely. Both twins rush to her, and Eliza pushes a glass of water away. At first I thought it was rabies, but then Eliza seems to be suffering from pain in her pelvic region based off of how her actress was portraying her pain. Honestly, my theory is that she probably had an untreated STI which may have spread to other organs. Either way, her denial of medication or a doctor horrifies me. The screaming and the vitriol is a complete tone shift to who she was prior. But what I really find interesting is that Madeline, not Roderick, seems to be the brains of the pair. She is the one who coaches Roderick on what to say and how to say it to Longfellow, even though Roderick eventually messes up. There seems to be a double entendre in the way Madeline says "it's the least he can do." Because I have suspicions that Madeline knows he is their father, I keep autofilling this in my head. The shift in Mr. Longfellow's mood from humorous, almost mocking disbelief to anger and contemptuous pushback against the twins when Roderick tells him "she loves you" is enough for me. Even Madeline following up with "It's the least you could do. For her. For us." isn't necessary anymore for me to believe he is the father.

Longfellow's denial only seals the deal.

Cut to Eliza's...corpse. She didn't make it, but in trying to keep with her wishes, they tear apart the shed and build her a coffin and bury her in the backyard. Of course, because *spoiler alert* Madeline was accidentally buried alive, I had a hunch Eliza might climb out of her grave. I was proven right, and Eliza wakes up, tries to attack Roderick, but stops when Eliza calls her "Mommy" and grabs her arm. (Actress for teen Madeline is also fantastic, her look of horror was evocative as fuck. 10/10. No notes.) ELiza then walks out, goes into the gates of Longfellow's house and proceeds to choke him to death (with apparently superhuman strength) before finally collapsing next to his body.

What I *love* about this all is that when we cut back to the present, and Dupin asks about why Roderick is telling him all this, Roderick says it is because she's standing right behind Dupin! And you know what drives me nuts? SHE IS. SHE'S TOTALLY THERE AND HE DOESN'T TURN AROUND! Dupin does not see her and we see eliza walk out of the frame.

It is important to note that Roderick talks about the cleanup of that story to spare "his" family, the Usher family, of any embarrassment. He confirms that Longfellow was his father but doesn't claim him as family because Longfellow never claimed him, but it explains why he acknowledges all six of his children from five different mothers.Roderick wouldn't close the gates. Finally, we have confirmation, verbal confirmation from Roderick about who his father was.

Side note: Dupin has a husband, how progressive. I'm down for it. We love it when the elderly LGBTQ+ community is acknowledged.

Two weeks ago:

Then we switch to a trial against Fortunato Pharmaceuticals and the Usher "crime" family, according to Dupin's opening statement. As someone who did pretty damn well in both evidence and criminal law, I'm side-eyeing this opening statement. Let me tell you, law school ruins your ability to suspend disbelief for so many court things in television and movies. Also Fortunato? After The Cask of Amontillado? That's the short story I had to read in high school, and I enjoyed it enough. It does, however, tie in well if the company is also destroyed, locked away, hidden from society, whatever you want to call it to tie into the ending of Cask.

I will say this, Roderick fathered gorgeous children nonstop. Every one of these actors is stunning. I found it odd that the camera panned to Lenore and her mother(?) for a close up when Dupin talks about corruption ut when panned out Lenore is hidden from the view of the audience. At this point, I had not drawn any conclusions as to why that is. I kept fixating on "The Pale Girl," who we later find out is Juno, Roderick's newest wife. Let me tell you, that revelation was crazy because I thought she was Madeline's sole daughter who idolized Dita Von Teese and Dolores Umbridge in the worst hybridization of ways, but Ruth Codd's facial expressions are stunning. I'm visibly uncomfortable when I look at her, and that's fantastic. She's showing me so much with her body language, I can't stand how good she is. Anyhow, I love her. I will be following more of her.

Then, Dupin drops the bomb. The bomb. The thing that makes Madeline's face go from quiet amusement to concern. The statement that makes every Usher child react. There's an informant in the midst. And it is one of them.

Pym, in my opinion, correctly calls out the failure to disclose the identity of this informant. When counsel approaches the bench, this opening statement about the family witness is struck from the record, but it does what Dupin intends it to do. It rattles the whole family. Pym probably makes so much damn money off of these people.

Roderick calls a family dinner for everyone and their spouses. Then we cut to introductions of each family member. Frederick turns out to be the father of Lenore, and his wife's name is Morrie, I think? I had to check Wikipedia for this, but her name is Morella, she's a former actress and model, and now she makes hyper-realistic cakes. Freddie gives me Dan Levy vibes. He blames Perrie, who I assume is Prospero. Lenore calls out that the informant would "have to be pretty brave, I guess" and asks if the charges are true. At this point, there is a massive, MASSIVe red flag waving in my head. Is Lenore the informant? Or is she the red herring? It gets more juicy when she suggests that "if someone really broke the law, shouldn't they be punished?" The red flag...of justice? Morrie casually warns that breaking away from family rank would get you written out of the will, highlighting the difference in values between Lenore and the rest of the family.

Then we cut to Tamerlane and her husband, Bill T. Wilson. (Very cute reference to a short story Poe wrote called William Wilson.) She also says her money on the informant is "one of the bastards." All this does it solidify her and Freddie as the two children Roderick had "in wedlock." Bill suggests the informant is Freddie, and Tamerlane pushes back. She muses that it might be Perry, Bill suggests Juno, her "new stepmom." Tamerlane bristles at this, but also drops that Juno doesn't "know anything." If she really is so new to the family she doesn't know its secrets, then she's the most innocent one there and is also the only one who took the charges against the family seriously enough to not be able to hide it on her face. Tamerlane mentions Goldbug, a short story I have not read, and Tamerlane drops an important tidbit: She doesn't care about the world, she cares about what her dad thinks." I had to google who tf Blippi is for this conversation. Also, they do threesomes? Also, TEST MONKEYS?

Yep. We're going to have the true Rue Morgue murder. We are now introduced to Victorine. And her surgical partner/life partner. They have a successful surgery of some sort on a test monkey. Post-op the women are seen talking about struggling to get peer review because of nightshade. Whatever this nightshade powder Roderick sent over, it's working, but it is the same stuff that paralyzes South American tourists who get it blown in their face. Spooky. Victorine jokes about keeping away from Perry. That boy does not have anyone on his side for this. He's painted as young, immature, and apparently a date rapist so far. However, Victorine points the finger at Camille!

We jump to Leo, apparently on the phone with his boyfriend Julius. He convinces Julius to not come to the family dinner, but he finds out that Julius is on his way up while he's getting head from a woman. So Leo is a bisexual and he's a cheater. Love that about him. Has a black cat named Pluto.

We shift to Camille, apparently the HBIC of the family's PR. She tosses out orders to her drab little assistants hastily scribbling down notes. Her comment about Victorine is not unnoticed, but Camille puts aside her own feelings about her sister in order to push ahead of the PR disaster of the trial. When asked about Juno, Camille has a lot more frustration there for the massive age gap and lack of, idk, decorum about Juno? I'm intrigued as to what "Scraped her off the emergency room floor" means but I'm sure I will find out. Her main priority is sniffing out the informant, she also points to Perry but also claims she doesn't think he's clever enough to talk to the Feds without it ending up on Tiktok. Ouch. Give Perry a damn break. Or don't. He sounds awful. They all certainly seem awful. Like Tamerlane, Camille seems eager to please her father, emphasizing that she wants to be the one who finds the informant to deliver their head to her father.

Juno speaks! and she's Irish. I love that. Apparently she moderated an NA meeting once, so she's either a drug addict or a drug addict seriously affected her family. Tie-in to the Fortunato company? Possible motive? Possible mole? We shall wait and see. I love the comedy Roderick drops in about how the children have to love Juno because the only thing stronger than love is their fear of getting written out of the will.

Then the family doctor arrives with private news on Roderick should hear...My money is either terminal cancer or a slow poisoning. Either way, we don't know what's up before- Surprise! Prospero, aka Perrie shows up.

We see him pour Glenfiddich '96 and I find out he and I are the same age...He pitches a nightclub to Roderick and Madeline who magically shows up and Juno flicks off to Godzilla-knows-where. Apparently he had a full year to come up with a proposal for his first business venture and his idea for a super exclusive nightclub gets shut down mercilessly because the Ushers are about "changing the fucking world." Perrie walks away with his tail between his legs and Madeline checks in with Roderick before heading off to the dining room. She claims when the paperwork is passed out, she'll be able to tell. Apparently she can always tell when someone is...lying? We shall see.

Briefly, we see Carla Gugino put down a drink and say "For the road" which clearly freaks Roderick out because how did this strange woman show up in his mansion's bar?

Cut to dinner, Morrie presents a textbook and Starbucks and we have an Is It Cake momen to light applause from everyone. I can't quite tell if he's being sarcastic about him marrying Morrie, but Freddie moves on to suck up to Roerick by complimenting Juno.

Madeline passes out a new and improved NDA (thank you Pym for your tireless work, I hope you are paid handsomely for this) including details about forfeiture of inheritance, etc regarding being the informant and the consequences that ensue. Victorine's partner Alessandra tries to not sign it until her own lawyer looks it over but one look from the family makes her change her mind.

The siblings bicker before Madeline shuts it down, explains the importance of Fortunato and threatens the informant with certain death. I know it is meant to be serious but I admit I had a little giggle. Then Roderick says "Fifty million dollars." The twins have placed a bounty on the unknown informant's head, effectively pitting the family against each other.

In the present, Roderick laments that this was the last time he saw all of them together, and the last time he saw some of them alive. He claims responsibility for the deaths of all of his children. Even though Dupin claims that these bizarre deaths are all verified to not be linked, Roderick doubles down, and then finally brings up "a woman." Now things are getting juicy. Carla Gugino appears in a variety of lighting and with different hair, so that suggests we'll see here several times throughout the show.

We cut now to New Year's Eve, 1979 heading into 1980. The twins are dressed as Gatbsy and Daisy, I gag a little at the incestual implications even though I knew they were coming, and sit back and watch how the twins first meet the woman, now known as Verna. Apparently they enter a bar hoping for enough people to be around to provide them with an alibi. Whatever they came from at Fortunato Pharmaceuticals, they need witnesses. We see again that Madeline is the mastermind behind every plan. A conversation about resolutions with Verna ensues.

We pan to the present. Dupin talks about some other event that happens that night. Verna predicts their lives will take a complete change of course on that night. Roderick again tells Dupin that every piece of this story is important. We flash back to the funeral. Roderick sees the faceless woman in the back, but then the next time he looks back, he sees the mangled corpses of his six children. When he exits the church, he sees a creepy court jester, like a malevolent joker from the playing card, briefly waiting for him in the car. He starts, notices his nose is bleeding, and then suddenly falls backward. Madeline and Pym rush to him, but arthur stares ahead to *gasp* a raven, and he says "It's time. It's time. It's time." How mysterious.

The episode ends and I finally look ahead to all the episode names like I should have done before. Each episode is based off of a different Poe story, and probably relates to the cause of death for each character. I haven't read some of them, but I feel like I will before I start each next episode. Or I will let myself be surprised. We shall see. Anyhow, I have spent all morning typing this. If you've read this far, I salute you. I'm tired, but also satisfied.

-------

"The last thing my mother did in this life was kill a powerful man. And we carried that secret with us and we loved her all the more."

[ohbo-ohno]

After rotating your non con puppy play ghoap stories in my head non stop, I had a Thought:

There's fleshlights that are short and open ended called quickshots, and maybe Ghost decides one day not to cage his pup for their walk, but instead to be really mean and let Soap get hard, encourage it even, but shame Soap in the process. He slips the quickshot over just the head of Soap's cock where its so sensitive and then uses KT tape to adhere it to Soap's belly. As his pup crawls after him, the stimulation gets him hard and yay he's not caged but oh no now he's hard and his cock is out the end of the toy and on full display and he can't do anything about it and Ghost (or one of the others) comments on how the pup must be enjoying his walk, look his little cock is out of its "sheath". Can't stop crawling after Ghost, can't touch himself, can't stop the stimulation or get soft, just whimpers even more

(If this is too much I'm sorry, please ignore! - 🦨)

this is referencing my lil mini noncon puppy play verse - howling and barking, kinktober 11, kinktober 20, and this oneshot!! go read the triggers of at least one of them, they'll apply to this too :)

okay okay okay hello skunk you've come in with a hell of an ask for your first!!

my day 11 kinktober is (to my knowledge??) my only foray into public sex, and it was smth i did to try and push myself a bit - that day specifically is probably the only piece of my stuff that i felt actually kind of uncomfortable writing, it gets to me for some reason haha. public sex is usually a hard no for me

it also exists in that limbo kind of universe that any heavy bdsm erotica does, which is like "this is not at all realistic or really possible, but we're all horny here so get over it" yknow??

anywayssss

i had to google quickshots (here, for those curious lol) and (1) they will almost definitely be making an appearance in my stuff at some point because you cannot tell me that ghost wouldn't edge soap with that and (2) im obsessed with your vision

smth about soap's dick being taped to his stomach... keeps trying to hump something to get any stimulation but all it does is rub the head of his dick against his abs :( maybe if he works had enough the quickshot will shift just the tiniest bit, but it's never enough to do anything for him

he'll be kneeling beside ghost outside while the other man smokes a cigarette, quivering and just barely shifting his hips, whimpering and whining cause he's so desperate but he doesn't want to humiliate himself further :( inches his hips just a little further up once and yips real loudly, nearly crumples in on himself when he hears laughter

nearly collapses on the walk back to their room because he's so fucking close and ghost just drags him along, nearly strangles him with the leash :( johnny's yipping and barking, trying so hard to crawl fast enough and the way his chest heaves and the way he curls in on himself a bit rubs his cock just right and he's got the really long, really miserable orgasm as ghost drags him along :( hears ghost groan and complain about being tired of having to clean up after his puppy :(

[frozenjokes]

Hermitdragons Masterpost (Wings of Fire x Hermitcraft/Third Life AU)

Grainshifter (Grian) was born to the Nightwings under one full moon, giving him the power to read minds. However, as fortold by Nightwing seers, he also possesses animus magic, a power that the Nightwings will use to bring their tribe into greater glory, becoming Watchers that feed off the strong emotions of the other dragon species, particularly fear. When Grainshifter attends Jade Mountain Academy in disguise as a Skywing called Grian, the Watchers take notes, and years later they surprise him with his very own death game featuring all his friends.

hello hello! this fic is on hiatus, and while I would like to finish it one day, it is my first foray into fic writing basically ever, and my writing has improved dramatically since a year ago when I started to write this. It’s been a while since I’ve reread this, but I have been told it’s good! lol. However! There’s still a lot of content (70k words and SO MUCH ART) so let’s get into it!

Fic One - Ruler of Everything

After Grian betrays Nightwatcher secrets to one of his best friends, Scar, he is punished by the Nightwatchers and placed into a death game with all of his past friends from the academy. However, there are two dragons he does not know; Scott, a Seawing who seems mostly normal, and Martyn, a dragon whose mind he can not read at all. Whose mind no one can read. Whose body can not be manipulated by animus magic. Soon, it is clear that Grian is not the only dragon here that is being punished.

Fic Two - Mechanical Hands (this fic does not exist but in theory it would after the first)

Grian comes to terms with his relationship with the Nightwatchers, finally realizing and accepting that they do not love him, and only want to use him. He teams up with Martyn in a shared goal of destroying animus magic, but a massive problem still stands; they’re both still stuck in these death games. And their friends are still under the Nightwatchers’ magical control. As the games go on, things are starting to feel hopeless, but revealing the secret of Martyn’s immunity to animus magic that he has so desperately tried to keep might just be the solution these trapped dragons need to escape.

Beyond these summaries, I’m going to try and keep these story explanations brief, however, if you’re interested is All Of The Art + commentary + more story explored through the art, then you can keep reading under the cut :) also just as a warning there is a lot of undetailed cartoon blood below

Designs

before writing, these were my first pass of most of the designs in the series! As you can probably tell from the references of the main three characters at the top, Scar, Grian, and even Martyn have changed quite a bit, and if I ever return to this series, other designs will probably change as well. Except Joel and Bdubs. Those are peak. The biggest change from these designs, is that Jimmy is not actually a dragon in this fic!(which is why I included the third picture with him, Scott, and Grian) He is super human, and he dies first for A REASON. He just looks the way canon Jimmy does, minus the wings.

Full Pieces

I made two fully rendered pieces for this fic. To the left is a scene from the academy where Pearl, Ren, and BigB are play fighting in the mountains while Grian and Scar watch. Grian is very uptight in the academy, struggling socially, and his friends, painfully aware Grian comes from a bad home situation and possibly raised in a cult, are trying to help him relax and have a nice time in school while he has the chance.

On the right is a scene from far into the death game, where Scar is overtaken by the magic of his red life, and is threatening to force Grian to kill all three Dogwarts dragons, and at the same time, blowing himself up in the process. The dragon on the left is Skizz and I hate his design, however the little tie thing is hilarious.

Chapter Headers

I made a ton of headers for the chapters of this fic, though most of them are broken on ao3 as far as I’m aware. However, you can see them here!

dragons featured in order of appearance: Scar, Pearl, BigB, Grian, Martyn, Scott, Jimmy, Ren. This isn’t actually every header but I’m going to run out of images and these cover most of them. The ones I left out aren’t anything special.

Mini Comics + Misc Art

I have literally run out of image slots. But that’s okay (most of the stuff was covered, but if you want to scroll through the hermitdragons tag then feel free). Hope you enjoyed regardless! This series is still very close to my heart, and even though I kind of lost touch with it, it’s something I still love dearly. Thanks for reading :)

[virgoilluminati]

Hello, I just wanted to say that I love love love your page and I love how you write. It is so beautiful and deep. Belongings has me on the edge of my seat and I can’t wait to see where it goes.

Can I get a Harry Styles one shot with the prompt 23-25. I had in my head like him maybe helping the reader to stay up and look after their children because he’s always away on tour and he feels guilty he always has to miss out on their milestones. Idk I thought it would be so sweet 🥹🥹🥹❣️

Sweet Cocoa

A/N: so my original plan was to do all 3 of those prompts but then I realise I was going overboard and I much rather this fic with just prompt 23. I love this fic it’s so cute and fluffy and ahhhhhhhhh I love these imaginary children ❣️

Requests: Yes - Prompt 23 “How about something warm? It will help you sleep.”

Word Count: 2.1K

Prompt list here

——————————————————————————————

The stage lights dimmed, and the crowd erupted in thunderous applause as Harry finished his concert, pouring his heart and soul into every note. With a smile on his face, he waved goodbye to his adoring fans and walked backstage, feeling a mix of elation and exhaustion. He couldn’t wait to see his wife, Y/N, and their two young children, Abel and Elliot.

Elliot, their eldest son, had Harry’s unmistakable resemblance, with his tousled brunette curls and adorable freckles that adorned his face. At four years old, he had been fortunate to experience the early years of his life with both Harry and Y/N always by his side. They treasured every moment, cherishing the precious memories they had created together.

Abel, on the other hand, arrived during a whirlwind phase in Harry’s life. She was born amidst the chaos of album creation, touring, and even Harry’s foray into the world of movies. Harry couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for missing out on most of Abel’s life and the significant milestones that shaped her early years.

For example: whilst Harry had been there to witness Elliot’s first steps, he couldn’t be there for Abel’s.

The magical spirit of Christmas filled the air as the family gathered in their cozy living room. Twinkling lights adorned the Christmas tree, casting a warm glow on the scene. Harry, Y/N, Abel, and Elliot were surrounded by their loved ones, creating a joyful atmosphere.

Amidst the festive cheer, Elliot, with his bright eyes and contagious smile, stood in the middle of the room, wobbling on his tiny feet. The excitement was palpable as Harry, holding Y/N’s hand, watched their eldest son prepare to take his first steps. It was a moment Harry had eagerly anticipated.

With a burst of courage, Elliot took a few unsteady steps, his little hands reaching out for support. The room erupted in cheers and applause, celebrating this monumental achievement. Harry’s heart swelled with pride and joy as he quickly moved closer to his son, his eyes shining with love.

“Elliot, you did it!” Harry exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement. He knelt down, his arms outstretched, waiting to catch Elliot in his embrace. And just as his little boy stumbled forward, Harry scooped him up, spinning him around in a joyous dance.

Elliot’s laughter filled the room, a symphony of pure happiness that resonated in Harry’s heart. In that moment, surrounded by their loved ones, Harry felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for his growing family.

However, halfway across the world, while Harry was immersed in filming his new movie, “Don’t Worry Darling,” he received an unexpected FaceTime call. With a mix of excitement and apprehension, he answered the call, only to find Y/N holding her phone and pointing it towards Abel, who was standing unsteadily on her own two feet.

Harry’s eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat as he witnessed Abel taking her first steps. Even though he was physically distant, the surge of emotions he felt mirrored the exhilaration of that Christmas day when Elliot took his first steps.

“Abel, my love, you’re doing it!” Harry exclaimed, his voice laced with awe and pride. Despite the distance, his eyes never left his daughter as she wobbled and toddled, finding her balance with determination. He couldn’t help but feel a bittersweet pang, wishing he could be there in person to witness this milestone.

Y/N smiled warmly, her own eyes filled with a mixture of joy and understanding. “She’s been practicing so much, Harry. We wanted to share this moment with you.”

Harry’s heart swelled with love and gratitude for Y/N’s thoughtfulness. He blew a kiss through the screen, sending his love and pride to his little girl. “I’m so proud of you, Abel. Daddy loves you so much.”

As Harry closed the FaceTime call, he couldn’t help but reflect on the parallels of these two precious moments. Both Elliot and Abel had taken their first steps, marking a significant milestone in their lives. While he had missed Abel’s steps in person, he was grateful for technology that bridged the physical distance, allowing him to be present in some way.

Opening the door, Harry was greeted by the sight of Abel and Elliot, their eyes shining with excitement. They rushed into his arms, hugging him tightly. “Daddy, you were amazing!” Abel exclaimed, her voice filled with admiration.

Harry chuckled, feeling the warmth of their love surround him. “Thank you, my little stars. But now it’s time for me to be your superhero and help Mommy, okay?”

Abel and Elliot nodded eagerly, their faces beaming with enthusiasm. They understood that Daddy was tired, but they also knew he was always there for them when they needed him the most.

As Harry stepped into the living room, he found Y/N sitting on the couch, a tired smile on her face. Her baby bump was prominent, a beautiful testament to the growing life inside her. Harry’s heart swelled with love and appreciation for the incredible woman he had married.

“Hey, love,” he said softly, making his way over to Y/N. “I’m here now, and I’m ready to help.”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with gratitude, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “You don’t have to, Harry. You’ve had a long day.”

He gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch filled with tenderness. “Nothing matters more to me than you and our children. I want to be here for you, every step of the way.”

A mixture of relief and adoration washed over Y/N’s face as she realized the depth of Harry’s commitment. “Thank you, Harry. I’m so lucky to have you.”

Together, they devised a plan to pamper Y/N and alleviate any worries or guilt she had been carrying. Harry fetched a cozy blanket and helped her settle on the couch, making sure she was comfortable. Abel and Elliot scurried around, eager to assist their parents.

Elliot ran to the kitchen, returning with a tray of Y/N’s favorite snacks and a glass of water. Abel picked up her toy toolbox and declared himself “Daddy’s little helper,” ready to take on any task assigned to her.

As Y/N reclined on the couch, Harry sat beside her, his hand resting on her belly. The little kicks and flutters beneath his touch reminded him of the new life they were about to welcome into their family. He felt a renewed sense of purpose, vowing to be present for every milestone and precious moment.

Together, they watched a movie, their laughter mingling with the soothing sounds of the television. Abel and Elliot snuggled close to their parents, their eyes growing heavy with sleep.

As the movie came to an end, Y/N leaned her head against Harry’s shoulder, a peaceful smile gracing her lips. “Thank you for tonight, Harry. This means the world to me.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his voice filled with sincerity. “I love you, Y/N. And I’m sorry for the moments I’ve missed. From now on, I’ll make every effort to be there, for you and our children.”

Y/N’s heart swelled with love and forgiveness. “You’re already an amazing father, Harry. We’re a team, and we’ll navigate this journey together.”

In the dimly lit room, surrounded by the warmth of their love, Harry and Y/N knew that no matter the challenges they faced, their bond was unbreakable.

As the two children lay nestled on y/n, Harry’s gaze wandered over to Elliot, peacefully asleep. With a tender smile, he turned his attention back to y/n, a silent understanding passing between them. It was time to reminisce on Elliot’s birth, a story they held dear.

“I can’t believe how much Elliot has grown,” Harry whispered, his voice filled with awe.

Y/n nodded, her eyes shining with affection. “He’s become such an amazing young person, Harry. It feels like just yesterday.”

Harry reached out, gently clasping y/n’s hand. “I remember that fateful day vividly, my love. It started with our car breaking down, right in the midst of your contractions.”

A wistful smile graced y/n’s lips. “Talk about timing, right? I wasn’t about to let a broken-down car stop us, though. I remember hopping on that bus, holding onto you tightly as the contractions came in waves.”

Harry chuckled softly, recalling the bus ride. “You were so strong, y/n. Despite the discomfort, you never lost your focus or determination. I was in awe of you.”

Y/n squeezed Harry’s hand, gratitude shining in her eyes. “And you, Harry, you were my rock. Your unwavering support gave me the strength to keep going. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

They fell into a moment of silence, their memories intertwining. The warmth of the room seemed to envelop them, creating a cocoon of love and nostalgia.

Finally, Harry spoke, his voice filled with tenderness. “Once we arrived at the hospital, everything felt like a blur. The nurses and doctors were incredible, guiding us through every step of the way.”

Harry’s voice lowered, his words carrying a hint of awe. “And then, in the midst of it all, Elliot arrived. The room filled with overwhelming joy as we held our precious baby for the first time.”

Y/n’s eyes glistened with tears of happiness. “That moment is forever etched in my heart. Seeing Elliot’s tiny face and feeling that indescribable love—it was pure magic.”

Their hands remained intertwined, their hearts connected by the profound bond they shared. In the quietude of the room, Harry and y/n found solace in their memories, grateful for the journey they had embarked upon as parents.

Harry’s gaze shifted to Abel, their youngest, her delicate form a reminder of the challenges they had faced during her birth. A mixture of concern and remorse washed over him as he thought back to that difficult time, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

“Abel’s birth… It still weighs heavily on my heart,” Harry murmured, his eyes filled with a mix of regret and sadness.

Y/n’s hand gently reached out to touch Harry’s, a gesture of comfort and reassurance. “Harry, you mustn’t blame yourself. We couldn’t have predicted what would happen. It wasn’t your fault that you weren’t there.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, his guilt evident. “But I should have been there, y/n. I should have been by your side, supporting you through it all. I beat myself up over it, even though I know it wasn’t within my control.”

Y/n’s voice softened as she squeezed his hand, her eyes brimming with understanding. “Harry, listen to me. We faced unforeseen circumstances, and it was a difficult and frightening time. Truth be told, even I struggle to recall much due to the medication I was on.”

A mixture of relief and sorrow flashed across Harry’s face. “I remember how scared I was to see you in so much pain, y/n. And yet, I didn’t want to miss a single moment. I wanted to be there for you.”

Y/n’s gaze met Harry’s, filled with compassion. “You were there in spirit, Harry, even if you couldn’t physically be present. And when we were finally allowed visitors, we both knew Abel was a fighter. She was so tiny, so fragile, but she had a strength that amazed us all.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled with a mix of pride and adoration. “Our special Abel. She proved time and again how resilient she is. She overcame those early struggles and grew into this incredible little person.”

“I love our family.” Y/N states as she admires all three of her children, including her bump. Y/n’s words filled the room with a tender warmth, echoing the depth of her love for their family. Harry’s heart swelled with gratitude and affection as he looked at their children and then at the bump that held their future.

“I love our family too, y/n,” Harry replied, his voice filled with sincerity. He gently placed his hand on her stomach, feeling the gentle kicks from within. “And I’m so grateful for these precious little ones, including the one growing here.”

Y/n’s eyes shimmered with a mixture of love and understanding. “They adore you, Harry. Even in their own unique ways, they feel your love and presence. You are their father, and your love shines through in everything you do.”

A soft smile touched Harry’s lips as he absorbed her words. He knew he couldn’t erase the guilt he carried for not being present during Abel’s birth, but he also realized that forgiveness and acceptance were vital for their family’s growth.

As the comfortable silence enveloped the room, a slight shiver ran through Abel, stirring her from her peaceful slumber. Y/n, ever the attentive mother, moved to pick her up and carry her to her bed, wanting to ensure her comfort.

However, Harry’s protective instinct kicked in, and he gently interjected, “I’ll take care of Abel, love. You’ve been holding her for a while. Let me handle this one.”

Y/n paused, her eyes meeting Harry’s, filled with gratitude for his willingness to step in. She nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Thank you, Harry. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

With careful precision, Harry cradled Abel in his arms, feeling the warmth of her small body against his chest. He held her close, gently whispering words of comfort as he made his way to her bed.

As Harry tucked Abel in and adjusted the blankets around her, he couldn’t help but marvel at her peaceful expression. His heart swelled with love as he watched her, silently vowing to always be there for her and their entire family.

Y/n stood by, observing the tender moment between father and daughter. She couldn’t help but feel a surge of affection for Harry, appreciating his dedication and the deep bond he shared with their children.

In that gentle exchange, a silent understanding passed between y/n and Harry. They were a team, supporting and nurturing each other and their children through the ups and downs of parenthood. Their actions spoke volumes, reinforcing the unbreakable connection that bound them as a family.

As Abel settled into her bed, her breathing steadied, and a contented sigh escaped her lips. Harry stood by, his hand lingering on her forehead, before turning to y/n with a soft smile.

“Our little warrior is back to dreamland,” he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. As Abel whispered her plea for warmth, her small frame curled against Harry’s back, he couldn’t help but chuckle softly at her adorable request. His heart melted at the sight of her, and he nodded, understanding her need for comfort.

“How about something warm, it will help you sleep?” Harry suggested, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Abel’s face lit up with anticipation, her playful nature shining through. “Hot cocoa?” she asked, her voice filled with cheekiness, fully aware that sweet cocoa on a weekday was a rare indulgence.

Harry smiled warmly, knowing how much she enjoyed the occasional treat. He nodded, feigning seriousness. “I think we can make an exception tonight. Hot cocoa it is.”

Carefully, Harry settled Abel back onto the bed, making sure she was comfortable. He draped a soft blanket over her small body, tucking her in snugly. Then, with gentle strides, he made his way to the kitchen to prepare their special bedtime treat.

The aroma of cocoa filled the air as Harry carefully prepared the warm drink, stirring in the chocolate powder and adding just the right amount of sweetness. He poured the steaming liquid into a cup, watching the swirls of rich chocolate with a sense of satisfaction.

Returning to Abel’s room, Harry found her still nestled in bed, her eyes drooping with fatigue. He settled himself beside her, his free arm cradling the cup of cocoa.

“Here you go, my little one,” Harry whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. “Enjoy your hot cocoa. It’ll warm you up and help you drift off to dreamland.”

Abel’s eyes sparkled with delight as she took the cup in her small hands, blowing gently to cool it down. She took a cautious sip, a contented sigh escaping her lips. “Mmm, thank you, Daddy.”

Harry smiled, his heart full. He leaned back against the pillows, carefully cradling Abel against his chest as she settled in, the warmth of the cocoa and their shared embrace lulling her back to sleep.

In that quiet moment, Harry’s heart swelled with love and gratitude. He treasured these precious moments with Abel, cherishing the bond they shared. As he watched her, cocooned in warmth and love, he knew that being a father meant embracing both the role of caregiver and occasional indulgent treat-giver.

[missgryffin]

fic author self rec

Thanks for the tag @charmsandtealeaves! Rules: When you get this, reply with your 5 favourite fics that you've written. Then pass it on to five other writers. Spread some self love.

Wow this is hard. Okay hmm…I will say:

Castling—When they were still very young, Remus Lupin’s dad married Lily Evans’ mum. It changes everything.

This is my current favorite, as it's what I'm primarily writing at the moment. It's so different from anything I've written before, and I'm obsessed with the ending 👀

Vindicated*—Five years ago, Lily Evans did the hardest thing she’d ever done, and broke up with James Potter so she could stay alive by secretly going undercover in America. Now, she’s been tasked with something even harder: doing a transatlantic mission with him.

This fic has a hold on me; it will forever be one of my favorite pieces.

The Season—James Potter, Duke of Peverell, has returned to London just in time for the season, where Miss Lily Evans is about to make her debut. Only, he’s not looking for a wife, and she’s not particularly interested in a husband.

aka, the fic where I mashed up Season 1 of Bridgerton with Jily and changed all the parts of Season 1 I didn't like. Between the slow burn and the plotting, it was so rewarding to finish this one, and I'm still so proud of how it turned out.

Hands Down*—Hello, I'm Lily Evans, you're inside my head, welcome. I just—I needed to clarify something real quick. And that's this: I don't fancy James. 

My first foray into first person POV! This fic is such a fun romcom, it always cheers me up when I need something light + fluffy to read.

Stolen—He lost a bet, she had a dare, he didn't get her number, and she stole his heart.

I don't write Muggle AUs often, but when I do, I really go all out with the romcom ridiculousness. This fic was so fun to write and is such a special, fluffy Jily.

(*these fics will be back online soon!)

Tagging @wearingaberetinparis @startanewdream @theroomofreq @thejilyship if you fancy!

[podcastjam]

Project Spotlight #4: The Ichorous Rot

Time for another project spotlight! Today, we're chatting with Sam from The Ichorous Rot.

Tell us a bit about yourself and your teammates!

@spinning-logic: Hey-o, I'm Charlie. I will be voice acting, sound editing, and assisting in some writing for our Podcast Jam entry! My first ever fiction podcast was Welcome to Night Vale (as it is for many, I'm sure), and my current favorite is pretty squarely tied with Malevolent and The Magnus Archives--though I'm truly loving Protocol too. I'm dipping my toes into hearing even more podcasts, like WOE.BEGONE and Old Gods of Appalachia. This is the first Podcast I've ever worked on, and hopefully what I learn from it will lead to creating more!

@moookar: Hi hi hello, I’m Mooo! I’m voice acting and writing. I’ve never worked on a podcast before TIR, but boy oh boy do I have lots of experience listening: WOE.BEGONE, Malevolent, and The Grotto are some of my current favorites, and I got started listening with The Magnus Archives and Dimension 20. Most of all, I’m just a fan of any speculative fiction I can get my hands on.

@gooboogy: I'm G! I do the music and some of the voice acting for The Ichorous Rot. I've been listening to audiobooks for ages and I listened to The Adventure Zone but only really started listening to audio dramas about a year ago with The Magnus Archives and Malevolent. It's not until I listened to WOE.BEGONE that I considered doing one myself! I don't have a fav podcast, but I have some fav characters such as Lucas Miller, Elias Bouchard, Kayne, and Ty Betteridge respectively. My fav genre is when Shit Gets Weird and I love it best when there's fucked up little blorbos :3

@fluxoid: Hey there! I'm Niall! I'll be doing some of the voice work for the Ichorous Rot. I've been listening to audio drama (and actual play) podcasts for over a decade now, starting with Welcome to Night Vale (of course). Current favorites are probably WOE.BEGONE and Midst, though I'm listening to many more. This is my first foray into the creative side of things and I'm excited to see where it goes!

@falloutcoys: Hello, I'm Sam! I'll be co-writing for The Ichorous Rot. I got started listening to WTNV in 2014 but really got into audio dramas when I picked up TMA in 2021. My current favorite pods have to be Midst,Not Quite Dead and WOE.BEGONE! This will be the first show I'm involved being published, but I'm writing my own passion project as well (@aboardtheichthyoid).

What's your podcast about?

Our project is set in 1880s West Virginia. Dr. Theodore Yates as he's overwhelmed in his duties as Janesville’s only doctor by a mysterious illness spreading through the town. We follow him through a combination of his own medical notes recorded on a wax cylinder, and snippets of audio following him and his best friend Alonzo as he tries to find a way to resolve The Ichorous Rot. It's a mystery that explores the effects of working class life and generational trauma through a supernatural lens.

What are you most excited about in this event?

This event has been such a great learning opportunity and way to collaborate with others! Everyone has had great ideas and we're able to bounce off each other and flesh out the story together, which is a really unique experience.

Any advice for other participants, or those on the fence about joining?

If you've been on the fence about joining, go for it! This is a really fun experience and it has the lowest possible stakes. Worst case scenario, you've met some great people and learned about producing a podcast. Best case scenario, you make an episode you're really proud of that grows into something much bigger.

While this team is no longer looking for new members, you can follow their project here on Tumblr @theichorousrot. Additionally, with a couple days left to sign up, there's still time to join the fun and work on a Podcast Jam project yourself - find out more information here!

[virtie333]

Trifecta

Well, hello! First of all, thank you to my regular readers who followed me over to this ship. Second, for those who don’t know me, I usually write for straight monogamous relationships, namely Damerey. But I’ve been wanting to sail on this ship for a long time, and finally got the guts to visit.

It must be noted that while Finn and Poe are in a committed sexual relationship at the beginning of this story, I myself do not know enough about gay sex to be comfortable writing it. Yet. Therefore, this first foray of mine will be focusing on Rey and what her boys can do for her. I may venture further into their relationship in the future.

As always, all sexual relations are consensual and loving!

Explicit Sexual Content, Polyamory (MMF), Oral Sex (both M and F receiving), P in V (all are on Star Wars version of birth control), Multiple Female Orgasms (It’s my party!), Creampie x 2, Way Too Many Emotions Just under 7k Words

Also found on AO3

Rey was dozing as she sat on the floor, her back against the sofa, the holomovie that BB-8 was projecting in front of her nearing the end, when a soft sigh of pleasure jerked her awake. Grimacing slightly, she glanced over her shoulder at the two people cuddled on the sofa behind her, knowing what she would see. Finn sat with his head resting on Poe’s shoulder, a smirk on his face, as Poe sat with his eyes shut tight, his jaw slack, his breathing heavy. A blanket covered their laps, but Rey was pretty sure she knew what was going on underneath.

With a soft sigh of her own, she turned back to the movie. She wasn’t mad. How could she be mad? The two people she loved most in the galaxy had finally realized they loved each other and had settled into a committed, faithful relationship. They were still her best friends and still in her life, sharing an apartment just down the hall from her own. She was so very happy for them.

But there were still times they inadvertently made her feel so alone.

It wasn’t their fault. They did an amazing job of including her in everything they did, and they never made her feel like she wasn’t wanted. She was busy enough that they had plenty of private time without her, so when she was with them it always felt like the three of them were whole once more, as it had been during the war, when they first bonded with each other. But when it was late, and they were all tired, the two men tended to get handsy with each other, and while she knew they made an effort to not make her uncomfortable, she was far too attuned to the both of them to not notice what was going on.

The last few months since the war’s official end had been busy for all of them. Finn had set off with Lando Calrissian and Jannah to start looking for his birth family as soon as he was able. Rey had hated seeing him go. She had formed a strong attachment to the former stormtrooper, and had even thought there might be more than friendship once upon a time, but when Finn’s attention had turned to Rose, Rey had stopped thinking like that about him. Eventually, he and Rose’s relationship had turned into just friendship, but then the war had ended and he had headed off to seek his past. She supported him completely, but missed him while he was gone.

Fortunately, she still had Poe. When the newly formed Intergalactic Alliance had asked her to join their efforts as they tried to establish a new, peaceful government on Coruscant, she couldn’t help but say yes. Temporarily. When Poe had also accepted their request for his help, she had been overjoyed, knowing she wouldn’t be alone. And Poe had indeed stayed with her through it all, joking that he was protecting her from unscrupulous politicians and making sure she wasn’t taken advantage of. She knew it wasn’t a joke; he really did scare off anyone that even thought about using her for their own political goals. They acquired apartments next to each other and spent most of their free time together, already planning for the day when they could leave the newborn government and do what they really wanted. Poe wanted to start a flight school and Rey, of course, wanted to start training young Jedi. Poe knew the perfect planet for both schools.

The day they learned that Finn had found his home planet, and that both his parents and his two siblings had been killed years ago trying to defend him and other children from the First Order, they had both immediately taken leave and come to him. They brought him back with them to Coruscant, and without almost any discussion at all, he had moved in with Poe. Rey had been so happy to see the two of them finally settle together; it was inevitable, she had thought. They were meant for each other.

Just as she was meant to be alone.

Rey closed her eyes and tried to focus on the words and sounds coming from the movie. She tried to tell herself she wasn’t jealous. How could she be jealous? It’s not like she had ever had a physical, romantic relationship. Why should she miss something she had never had? But maybe… maybe that was her problem. Maybe she was just… horny. Maybe she should take a lover, someone to help her discover the intimacies of sex without the emotional attachment. Could she do that? Could she trust someone enough to become physical with them?

The credits began to roll and she opened her eyes. Now was her chance to escape. She yawned and stretched her arms up into the air. “I think I fell asleep,” she said. “Did I miss anything?”

“Naw,” Poe grumbled good naturedly. “It really wasn’t that good. We need to pick something better next time.”

“I told you,” Finn argued back. “We should have picked Beckett’s Last Stand. That one looked good!”

Rey looked back just in time to see Poe roll his eyes. She laughed, then pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” she told them softly, her heart swelling with emotion as she looked at her boys, still cuddled together on the sofa. She really didn’t want to leave, but she knew she couldn’t stay. “Have a good night.” She turned toward the door.

“Rey?” Finn sat forward suddenly.

She looked at him, then at Poe, who was watching Finn with a furrowed brow. She looked back at Finn. “Yeah?”

Finn glanced at Poe, then he sat back, his expression almost sad. “Nothing. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Rey nodded and gave them a quick grin. Poe was looking at her again, his eyes huge in the dim light of the room. He almost looked… wistful.

She smiled again, turned, and left the apartment.

******

Tylan Montrose was on the same committee she and Poe sat on. He was tall, smart, funny, and very good looking. He was a few years older than Rey and had been a part of the Republic Navy when the Hosnian System had been destroyed. He had been visiting his family on Vernell when the cataclysm had happened, and he had stayed there to help protect his planet, but he had also been a part of the great force that had attacked Exegol, answering the call for help when it came. He and Poe had become good friends since their arrival on Coruscant, and he had shown a definite interest in Rey. When she had politely declined his offer to go out for caf, Poe, who had overheard, told her that she should have said yes. “He’s a good guy,” he had told her.

If Poe trusted him, then she could. Right?

So, she had found Tylan after their meeting and struck up a conversation with him. After a while, she had asked him to join her for dinner that night at the Rockani, one of her favorite restaurants. He had said yes without any hesitation, a huge smile on his face.

Rey had no clue what she was doing, but she must have been saying the right things that night, because when he saw her to her apartment after dinner and she asked him inside, there was once more no hesitation from him. Unfortunately, only minutes after he started kissing her, she knew it wasn’t going to go any further. She was uncomfortable and felt no desire whatsoever. When she pulled back, Tylan didn’t push forward.

“Too soon?” he had asked.

Laughing nervously, she nodded. “I guess.” She wasn’t sure she would ever be ready. Not with this man. Not with anybody.

He had left without any anger and Rey found herself sitting on the floor, her back to the front door, trying not to cry.

A knock sounded and she jumped. She had a bell. Only one person ever knocked.

Sighing, she stood and keyed the door to slide open. Poe stood on the other side, Finn right behind him. They both looked worried.

“He didn’t stay long,” Poe was saying. “Is everything okay?”

She huffed and turned to walk over to her sofa, sitting down on it heavily. “What? Are you guys spying on me?”

They followed her, and as they often did when they thought she needed comforting (they always knew when she needed comforting), they sat on either side of her, Poe on her left, Finn on her right.

“Of course not,” Finn was saying.

“We just knew you had a date with Tylan and were paying attention when he brought you home.” Poe was looking at her intently. “He… didn’t try anything you didn’t want, did he?”

Rey looked at him, giving him a smile with no humor in it. “Don’t you think you would have found him in two pieces on the floor if he had?”

He rolled his eyes and brought his arm up around her shoulders. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Just not your type, huh?” Finn asked, leaning into her.

She sighed, already more comfortable sandwiched between these two men than she had been with Tylan at any point during their date. “I’m not sure I have a type,” she said. “I just want…”

“What?” Finn whispered.

“Someone with a lightsaber as cool as yours?” Poe asked.

Rey laughed and turned to him. “There is no such person.”

Poe grinned. “True.” His smile faded and he looked past her at Finn. “But… there is us.”

Rey frowned at him, glanced at Finn, then back at Poe. “You?”

Poe nodded. “Yeah. Finn and I.”

Rey’s heart started to race. “I – I’m not sure what you mean?”

“We love you, Rey,” Finn said, bringing his face close to her. When she turned toward him, he brought his forehead in to touch hers.

“And I love you both, but…”

“But?”

“You have each other.”

“You don’t think we’re capable of loving you just as much as we love each other?”

“I… I didn’t think you looked at me that way.” Her voice sounded small. Hopeful.

“We always have,” Poe said softly. “We’ve been wanting to ask if you felt the same for a while. I knew you felt that way for Finn, I just…” he paused, glancing at Finn again, then looking back at her. “I just wasn’t sure you looked at me like that.”

Rey stared at him now, and she felt tears well up in her eyes. “I do,” she whispered. “I always have. Since the first day I met you.”

“I told you so,” Finn said, a smile on his face.

Poe shoved Finn slightly with the hand that was over Rey’s shoulder, then focused on her again. “Do you trust us, Rey?”

“Implicitly.”

He nodded. “Then let us take care of you.”

Rey felt a sudden tightness between her legs at his words, and she squeezed her thighs together, the shot of desire much stronger than anything she had ever felt before. She looked back and forth between the two of them, in awe of how they were both focused on her, looking at her the way she had only seen them look at each other before. Was it possible, she wondered? Was it true that she could really become a part of their bond in this way?

“Yes,” she whispered. “Please, yes.”

They ended up at Poe and Finn’s apartment because Rey mentioned that their bed was much bigger than hers.

Rey couldn’t believe how excited she was as these two men she loved and trusted more than anyone led her into their shared bedroom. Once there, Finn wrapped his arms around her and began to gently nuzzle her cheek. “You’ll let us know if we do anything you don’t like, right?”

Rey nodded, suddenly afraid. What if she didn’t like any of it? She’d touched herself in the past, but it had always led to less than satisfying results. Maybe she couldn’t enjoy sex?

Finn moved his face closer to hers and she closed her eyes as his lips made contact. He was so gentle, and so careful, and she liked it. It wasn’t at all like the kisses she had just shared with Tylan. She wanted more.

She brought her arms up around his neck and opened her mouth, inviting more from him, and he responded by opening his own mouth and letting his tongue touch hers. She shivered, loving the sensation, and began tasting him in earnest. He moaned, his arms tightening around her middle. All too soon, he pulled back, looking behind her at Poe. She also looked over, a bit dazed, and her eyes were immediately drawn to the older man’s bare chest. He had removed his shirt while she and Finn had been kissing.

He looked at her, a question in his eyes, and Rey reached for him, anxious to touch him. To taste him next. He smiled and drew her into his arms as she ran her hands along his bare shoulders.

“Poe’s gonna lead us through this, okay?” Finn said quietly from behind her. Rey looked at him over her shoulder. “I didn’t have a whole lot of experience before he and I became lovers, and none of it was really great until him.”

Rey looked back at Poe. “I have no experience,” she whispered.

Poe smiled softly. “I think you’ll figure it out pretty quick,” he told her. He looked at Finn. “This is going to be all about Rey tonight, Finn. Is that okay?”

“Absolutely,” Finn responded without hesitation. “I can’t wait to see her come over and over and over…”

“Finn!” Rey giggled, feeling her face heat. She looked at Poe, suddenly nervous again. “What if I can’t?”

Poe brought a hand up and stroked her cheek. “Judging by your reactions to us, I think you can,” he told her. “But even if you can’t, we’re still going to make this as enjoyable as possible for you. Deal?”

Rey nodded, and Poe’s lips quirked once more before he moved in to kiss her. Rey didn’t even hesitate this time, opening her mouth to accept his tongue, loving the feel as much as she had with Finn. As they kissed, she felt Finn’s hands on her hips, stroking her through her leggings, squeezing her. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to have them both touch her bare skin. She ran her hands down along Poe’s chest, enjoying the smoothness and heat of his skin. She looked down as her fingers trailed over his nipples, watching as they peaked at her touch. She looked over at Finn, realizing he, too, had removed his shirt. His dark chest was just as smooth as Poe’s but different. The contrast between the two men excited her. She wanted to explore them both completely.

Poe began to kiss and lick on her neck and she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back. Finn’s hands had worked up to the front of her body and were skimming up under the loose silky shirt she had worn for her date with Tylan. She held her breath as they reached her breasts, which she had left bare as she usually did when she wasn’t working. She let out a gasp as his hands cupped her gently, his large, rough fingers squeezing her firmly. A rush of moisture flowed from between her legs, and she wanted to be embarrassed, but she felt too good. Both of them touching her, standing shirtless with her tucked between their hard bodies…

She cried out, her knees feeling weak. She grasped Poe’s arm with one hand and reached back for Finn’s shoulder with the other to keep herself upright. “Kriff!” she swore. She never swore!

Poe lifted his head and she could hear his soft chuckle in her ear. “Yeah, I think you’re going to enjoy this, Sunshine.” He moved back more and she immediately missed his heat. “Let’s get you undressed,” he said, then looked at Finn.

She glanced at the man behind her, who was grinning and nodding. He also stepped back a bit, grasping the hem of Rey’s shirt and pulling it up and off of her in one smooth movement. Rey gasped again, looking at Poe in surprise, feeling far too exposed. He was looking at her breasts, biting his lower lip, and his appreciative expression actually soothed her. He looked up at her, maintaining eye contact with her as he stepped close once more. He reached for the fastener to her leggings on her hip, undoing it while he nuzzled her nose with his. He glanced behind her to Finn, and once more the two men seemed to communicate silently, as both reached for the waistband of her leggings and began tugging them down, taking her underwear with them.

Rey bit her lip as she reached out to brace herself on their shoulders, a laugh of pure joy bubbling up as they worked together to get her shoes and leggings off. Before she knew it, she was completely naked and the two men stood straight, both moving in front of her, both looking at her with hot eyes.

“Perfect,” Poe whispered.

“Kriffing beautiful,” Finn agreed.

Rey felt her whole body heat and knew her skin, so much paler than either of them, was turning bright red in various locations.

Poe smiled again, warm and inviting. “Why don’t you lay down on the bed, Rey?”

Taking a deep breath, Rey did as he asked, her legs still shaking. She crawled to the middle of the big bed, then lay down on her back, bracing herself on her elbows as she watched the men in front of her work at removing their boots and trousers. They were so different, she thought. The way they looked, the way they moved, the way they spoke. And yet, their hearts were almost identical. She felt tears form in her eyes as they gave each other a sweet kiss, suddenly knowing that was why she loved them both. They were both so very good, two extraordinarily kind people who had lived very hard lives and were now ready to live their happily ever after.

And they wanted her to be a part of it.

Her eyes were drawn downward as they turned to face her once more. Again, they were very different from each other, but both were rather intimidating. While she may have never had intercourse before, she wasn’t unfamiliar with male human anatomy, and both of these specimens were impressive. Finn’s was a bit longer, she thought, and the head was larger, but Poe’s was overall thicker. Finn was already almost fully erect, his dark cock standing stiffly out from a thin nest of black hair. Poe had more hair, and he was still only at half-mast. He gripped himself as she watched, running his hand along his length, and she knew it was age and experience that made him seem more relaxed, not lack of desire. She felt her pussy leak and she moaned softly, her hips rocking unconsciously.

Poe gave her a wicked smile and moved to the side of the bed on her right, still stroking himself. “Mmmmm,” he hummed. “You smell that, Finn?”

“Frick, yes!” Finn exclaimed, moving toward the opposite side of her.

They both climbed on the bed, stretching out on either side of her. “Let’s give her the perfect first time,” Poe whispered. Rey let herself fall back completely on the bed, and Poe followed her, taking her mouth with his once more and kissing her like there was no tomorrow. She felt Finn’s hand on her breast, and then his mouth. She arched her back and moaned into Poe’s mouth. She felt a hand, she wasn’t sure whose, gently grab her left wrist and direct her to Finn’s cock. She wrapped her hand around him, and as she did so the person directing her, Poe she determined, took her other wrist and directed it to his cock. Then he left her lips and moved down to mouth her other breast. She cried out, her hips jerking upward as they both began to suckle on her gently, her hands tightening on their cocks. “Oh, my stars!” she cried, as even more wetness leaked from her pussy.

Poe’s fingers found their way down her belly and were soon delving between her legs. “Shit, Finn!” he cried softly, lifting his head from Rey’s breast to look at his partner. “She’s so fucking wet!”

Rey watched as Finn brought his hand down to join Poe’s, and she almost began crying as they both fingered her, touching her where nobody but herself had ever been. “Oh, please!” she cried, tears leaking from her eyes.

“I want to taste!” Finn said, his voice rough. “If she tastes half as good as she smells…”

“Rey?” Poe was looking at her, one eyebrow arched. Asking for permission. At this point, she was quite sure she would deny him nothing.

“Please! Yes, please!”

Both men smiled and glanced at each other before sliding down the sheets. Rey automatically lifted her legs, spreading them wide, and they easily slipped underneath, placing her ankles on their shoulders, holding her open.

“Fuck, Poe! Look at her!”

“She’s dripping! All for us, Finn!”

Rey cried out, arching her hips up toward them, her heels digging into their shoulders, uncaring how desperate she seemed.

They heeded her unspoken request and dropped their heads, lips and tongues and teeth attacking her center. Her inner thighs, the super sensitive area between the crease of her thigh and the edge of her pussy, the lips of her pussy, her clit. They never stilled, working her over as she never, ever dreamed she would enjoy. As Finn toyed with her clit with his tongue, Poe inserted a finger into her cunt. She rocked against it, shocked how much she loved the intrusion and how much she wanted more. Soon, another thick finger joined the first, and Finn began sucking gently on her clit. She felt her body quicken shockingly fast, and the explosion took her by surprise. Her vision flashed white and she screamed, her hands coming down on top of the heads of her tormentors. She gripped Poe’s thick hair and her fingers tightened along the curved braids along Finn’s skull.

She felt her body go limp and she dropped her hands, opening her eyes to see both men smiling at her, almost giddy. “Told ya,” Poe said smugly.

Rey laughed, her body still trembling.

Poe turned to Finn and the two kissed, sharing her juices between them. Rey moaned at the sight, shocked that she could get so turned on again so fast. Poe pulled back first. “Keep her wet down here,” he told Finn. “I’m going in.”

Finn grinned. “Yes, sir.” Rey shifted, hoping she was ready for whatever Poe had planned. It was apparent as she watched them together that while she suspected Finn topped when they had sex, Poe was still in charge. She had to admit, she liked having him in charge.

He slid up to lie next to her again, then gently pulled her right arm upwards. “Lay on your side,” he said softly. As she did so, he positioned himself behind her and then reached down to pull her right leg up. She didn’t resist, but then whimpered as Finn immediately dived in to start licking her wide open pussy once more. “We want you wet and loose,” Poe whispered in her ear. He nipped her lobe, which sent a whole new batch of shivers up her spine. “No pain today. Not if I can help it.” As he spoke, he let her leg down to rest over his hip and he used his hand to direct his cock up to her weeping hole.

She felt him slide inside with no resistance whatsoever, the pressure was intense and amazing. “Oh, my Force!” she cried. “Oh, yes!” She felt Poe smile against the back of her jaw where his face was resting, and then his hips were moving. Back and forth he moved, sliding in and out of her. Finn continued to tongue her clit and she closed her eyes, so absorbed by the pleasure she was feeling that she felt as if she were floating.

“Oh Kriff!” she heard Finn mutter.

“Stay with us, Rey,” Poe growled in her ear.

She opened her eyes and realized she was floating. Not very high, but high enough her boys were having a tough time finishing what they started. She gasped a laugh and dropped back to the bed. “Sorry,” she huffed.

Poe chuckled, and she could feel it as well as hear it with his chest pressed against her back once more. “I’m taking it as a compliment. How about you, Finn?”

“Hell, yeah,” her best friend uttered as he continued his ministrations between her legs.

Poe’s thrusts got a bit harder and Rey could feel her body climbing once more, this time a little slower. But not much. She reached for her release this time, knowing exactly what awaited her and craving it. Her body spasmed even harder, and Poe’s arm tightened around her middle, holding her close to him until she came back to herself. It was an amazing, comforting feeling. She brought up her right hand to lace her fingers with his where they rested on her belly. She used her other hand to push gently on Finn’s head, asking him to stop, as Poe slid out of her.

Finn moved up again so that they lay face to face, and she smiled softly at him. He stroked her cheek gently, then moved in to kiss her. He tasted salty and a bit sweet. He tasted of her.

They lay there together for a long moment, letting Rey rest, but soon she became aware of Poe’s still hard cock poking her buttock, and Finn’s was bobbing gently between them. She looked him in the eye. “I want you, now.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his dark eyes gentle but excited. She felt another gush of wetness between her legs at his husky voice.

“Oh, yes.”

Immediately, Poe moved away from her, gently pushing on her shoulder so that she once more lay on her back. Finn moved to Rey, his muscular body seeming huge as he kneeled between her legs and lowered himself over her. He settled on his elbows as Poe demanded softly, “Lift your knees, Rey.”

She did as asked, and felt the tip of Finn’s cock brush up against her clit. She arched up and cried out.

“You want me inside you?” Finn asked, his voice rough, his jaw tight.

“Yes!” she almost shouted. “Please, Finn!”

“Listen to your Jedi Master, Finn,” Poe grumbled, his expression almost wild.

Finn groaned and used his hand to aid in his entrance, then he slid in just as easily as Poe had. Instinctively, Rey brought her legs up further so she could wrap her ankles around his thighs as he began to thrust. She gasped and threw her head back on the pillow, closing her eyes. How did she never know how good this could be?

She opened her eyes to see Poe’s face next to hers. “You like that?” he asked, his eyes dark, his pupils dilated in excitement. “You like Finn fucking you?”

“Yes!” she groaned, then reached for him, grabbing him by the back of the head and pulling him down for a kiss. He devoured her mouth as Finn started thrusting harder. Rey once more felt her body ignite and knew what was coming. She pulled back, shouting “Yes!” into Poe’s mouth.

“Come again, Sunshine!” Poe demanded. “Come again for us!”

And she did.

******

Poe was the one who got up to get them some water a short time later.

She watched as he walked naked across the room, his penis still erect, the head red and weeping. She looked down at Finn’s cock as she sat up, realizing that he was still hard, too. As Poe brought back a large glass of water, Rey looked back and forth between them. “Are you..” She cleared her throat. “Are you going to… come?”

Poe just smiled at her as he sat on the edge of the bed, handing her the water. “Well, I would like to at some point,” he said, his voice teasing. “I’m sure Finn would, too.” Finn nodded his head vigorously. “I guess the question is where do you want us to come? On you, on each other, or in you?”

“In me!” Rey exclaimed without hesitation, then she looked down, embarrassed, as she took a sip of water.

Poe’s smile just got bigger. “I was hoping you’d say that. You’re up to date on your contraception shots, I assume?”

Rey nodded, looking up at him again, then looking at Finn as she handed him the glass.

Finn grinned as he accepted the water. “It’s gonna get messy,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

“It’s already messy,” Poe argued. “Have you seen what this woman is doing to our bed?”

Rey reached over and slapped his chest lightly with the back of her hand. “And whose fault is that?”

The three of them laughed as they passed the glass around, finishing the water. Rey noticed that their erections had softened a bit during their rest, but Poe had a solution for that.

He lay on his back and patted his thighs. “Ride me, Rey,” he told her.

She straddled his thighs and watched as Finn sidled up next to them, laying half on his side facing them. He and Poe kissed before Poe looked at Rey once more. “Take us both in hand,” he said. “You’ve got two of them for a reason.”

Rey giggled and rolled her eyes. “Very funny,” she said as she took him in her left hand and Finn in her right. She began to slide her hands up and down their cocks, her breathing quickening once more. She could feel them get stiffer in her hands, and she was not surprised when her body responded with even more moisture.

“There you go, Sunshine,” Poe said softly. She was already dripping on his thigh. “Now, when you’re ready, mount me.”

She nodded, let go of Finn, then shuffled forward and up, slowly impaling herself on Poe’s cock. “Mmmmmm,” she moaned. This position was different, but felt just as good.

“Good girl,” Poe said, and Rey felt her breath catch.

“Hmmm, she likes that,” Finn growled. They had both noticed her reaction to Poe’s praise.

Poe grinned. “Just like you like being told what a good boy you are?”

Rey looked at Finn who looked moderately embarrassed. He sat up a bit and leaned toward her. “I guess we’re both lucky we found our Dom, huh, Rey?”

Rey nodded, not really wanting to contemplate the fact that she liked being told what to do. But only by Poe.

“So, does that mean you’re going to keep doing what I tell you, Rey?” Poe asked, one eyebrow raised.

Remembering what Finn had said to him earlier, Rey bobbed her head. “Yes, sir.”

Poe nodded, then shifted his hips, making Rey gasp. “That’s my girl,” he whispered. “Now, lean over and put Finn’s cock in your mouth.”

Rey’s eyes immediately turned to the cock in question, then she looked upward to see Finn, an excited look on his face, lay back down, scooching up a bit so she had easier access to him. Licking her lips, she grabbed his once more fully erect penis and bent over it. Carefully, she wrapped her lips around the large head, curiosity and desire driving her on. Poe was rocking his hips up into her steadily, and as she tasted Finn for the first time, she felt another wave of immense pleasure wash over her. She began to rock her own hips to meet Poe’s thrusts and matched the movement with her hand on the base of Finn’s cock, squeezing him as she sucked on his tip.

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” she heard Finn groan, and she looked up to see him lean over and kiss Poe. “This is a kriffing dream come true,” he said, breathing hard against Poe’s mouth.

Poe groaned and closed his eyes. “If this is a dream, I don’t ever want to wake up!”

His hips increased their pace and Rey couldn’t concentrate on Finn anymore. She sat up, her hands on Poe’s belly, rocking against him, seeking that amazing high she knew existed now. She reached for Finn’s cock again, trying hard to focus on him as well as her own pleasure, but the feelings were too intense. “Oh!” she cried. This felt different. Less like an explosion and more like a tidal wave. Her thighs started to tremor uncontrollably and she felt as if she was falling. “Finn!” she cried as she reached for him.

He sat up and pulled her into his arms. “Let go!” he told her. She did, letting the wave take over and crying out into Finn’s shoulder. She looked at Poe as she slowly came down, wondering if he had felt the same intensity she had.

He was looking at her with wide eyes. “You are so fucking beautiful,” he said gruffly.

She started to back off of him, only to realize he was still hard. “Poe,” she said as Finn let her go. “You didn’t come.”

He smiled. “I will, Sunshine,” he told her. “But I want Finn to claim you first.”

Finn’s expression was startled. “Poe?”

“You found her first,” Poe said with a soft smile. He pushed back and sat up. “But you better hurry. I’m not going to wait for my turn forever.” He gripped his cock, running his thumb over the tip and the bead of precum that sat there.

Finn looked at Rey. “Okay.”

Rey nodded. “Okay.” She bit her lip. “How..?”

“Can I..?”

“Oh, just take her from behind,” Poe interrupted. “You know you want to.”

Rey grinned at Poe’s outburst, then she softened her smile for Finn before turning her back on him, spreading her legs and leaning down to brace herself off of her elbows. She looked back at him over her shoulder. “Come on, General. Give it to me.”

As Finn groaned, Poe shook his head. “Oh, Kriff! We created a monster.” He shoved Finn’s shoulder. “Hurry up and fuck her!”

Finn did as told, moving up behind Rey and pushing into her in one smooth motion. Rey gasped, once again startled and pleased all at the same time by the different feel these different positions gave her. He was so deep like this. And he was so hard!

“I’m not gonna last long,” he huffed as he began to thrust.

Rey couldn’t form any words as the slap of his hips against her ass got louder and faster. Kriff! She wasn’t, either! His hands gripped her hard, his fingers biting into the flesh of her waist. He moved one, placing it flat against her back in between her shoulder blades, but he didn’t put much pressure on her. It was almost as if he was bracing himself, so he wouldn’t fall over onto her. Her fingers gripped the bedsheets tight.

“I’m coming. I’m coming. I’m coming,” he began to chant.

“Give it to her, baby!” Poe growled.

Poe’s exclamation was all it took for Rey to feel her body overload once more. It wasn’t as strong as before, but it felt amazing, especially when combined with the feel of Finn’s release inside of her. She could almost imagine his hot seed coating her insides. As she suspected, he fell onto her, but not heavily, catching himself before his full weight came upon her. He kissed her shoulder blade wetly, then turned to Poe, who was laughing joyfully. They kissed, then Poe leaned down to kiss her as well. “I can’t even explain to you how beautiful you two look together,” he said, his eyes huge.

Finn backed up, pulling out and pushing himself up to the head of the bed, falling back onto the pillows. “Your turn, General.”

Poe looked at him, then looked at Rey. For the first time that night, there seemed to be some uncertainty in his expression, and Rey remembered that they had not asked her if she wanted this sooner because Poe believed Rey didn’t love him the way she loved Finn. She smiled and turned over onto her back, keeping eye contact with him. She spread her legs wide, grasping herself under the knees, holding herself open.

“Your turn, General,” she repeated Finn’s words.

His chest heaving, his cock now rock hard, he moved to kneel between her thighs. He placed his hands gently under her knees, pushing hers away, holding her open himself now. Still looking her in the eye, he moved forward and slid into her without any assistance. Rey was super sensitive now after literally being fucked over and over again by these men and coming… five times now? But she wanted this. She wanted him. All of him.

“You feeling my cum in there, Poe?” Finn said with a grin. “Got’cha a little extra lube this time. Not that you need it with how much she wants you.” His voice had gotten deep and lazy as Poe started driving in and out of Rey. Long, slow thrusts. Finn’s words combined with Poe’s intense look was too much!

Rey threw her head back. “Oh, please! Fuck me! Give it to me!”

With a soft roar, Poe obeyed and began thrusting hard. The slap of their skin, the squelching sound of his entry into her now saturated pussy, the grunts as he worked his hips into her… “Ahhhhhh! Poe!” Rey screamed, coming hard, her body spasming. She reached for Finn and he grabbed her hand, hanging on tight.

Poe’s body seized up as he began to fill her with his seed, his hips pulsing a few more times as he emptied himself. Rey fell limp. She let go of Finn’s hand and brought both of hers up to her face, rubbing against her eyes as she felt the tears come, overwhelmed.

She felt Poe slowly back out of her, but his fingers were up against her pussy immediately. “None of that!” he said huskily. “You stay in there were you belong,” he said as he pushed into her sensitive hole. He was pushing his and Finn’s combined cum back into her. Finn moved to help him and the two grinned at each other, kissing as they fondled her sore pussy gently. She giggled, knowing they were intentionally making her laugh, doing their best to keep her from becoming too emotional.

They looked at her, and their expressions made her want to cry again. It was a combination of love and awe, and she knew exactly how they felt.

Poe cleared his throat. “Come on,” he told her, moving to help her sit up and move back up to the head of the bed. Finn jumped off and headed for the ‘fresher, bringing back a couple of wet washcloths. Together, they cleaned up Rey and each other before settling on either side of her.

Rey was so, so tired, but even as sated as she was, she couldn’t help wondering if they expected her to leave and go back to her own apartment for the rest of the night. Force knows she didn’t want to.

As if he was reading her mind, Poe’s voice broke the silence.

“Move in here with us, Rey.”

For a moment, Rey truly believed she was imagining things, that her hopes and wishes were just manifesting themselves through dreams.

“You don’t have to,” Poe continued, his voice nervous now. “I mean, you’re used to living alone. Having your own space. I get it.”

Rey lifted her head and looked at Finn. “Do you want me to move in?”

He smiled and touched her cheek. “Yeah. But we’re not going to pressure you. We know it will probably cause a lot of gossip if you do.”

She scoffed. “As if I’m not already the brunt of gossip around here. Besides, we won’t be here much longer.” She looked at Poe. “Right? We’re still going to Yavin IV when things here are settled?”

Poe blinked quickly, and Rey could see the tears in his eyes. “Yeah, Sunshine. As soon as we can.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll move in with you.”

“I love you, Rey,” he said softly.

She reached up and ran her hand along his beard stubble. “I love you, Poe.” She turned to Finn. “And you, Finn. You both mean so much to me.”

“I love you, Rey,” Finn told her, his eyes shining now. He looked up and over her head at Poe. “And I love you, Moof Milker.”

Poe leaned over Rey and pushed his hand into Finn’s face. “I love you, too, Fart Face!”

Rey started giggling madly as she started tickling Poe.

He jerked back. “Hey! No fair!” He started tickling her back. Finn joined in and they wrestled with each other for a moment, but exhaustion soon overtook them all.

Curled up between her boys, it didn’t take long for Rey to fall asleep, knowing that whatever the future threw at her, she had finally found her happily ever after.

THE END