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jon-sedai · 9 months ago

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I have a few jumbled thoughts about the ending of the Long Night, especially as it would relate to the whole idea of “the dragon has three heads”. The Long Night represents a disruption in a larger, cyclical framework—a period where imbalance overtakes the natural order. And within this context, I see each ‘head’ of the three-headed dragon as uniquely responsible for restoring balance and bringing the world back into harmony. Each ‘head’ embodies a distinct facet of restoring balance to the world, yet they work together, either in tandem or sequentially, to set things right once more. So I’ve been trying to tie together some thoughts I have regarding what each being in this triumvirate is uniquely suited to do. Because I personally don’t think any one person will be responsible for being the hero, as that just seems so antithetical to this series; and I also think the Long Night is just way too multifaceted to be ended by a singular action or person.

This is what we know about the Long Night:

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Old Nan said quietly, “what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north.Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.” “You mean the Others,” Bran said querulously. “The Others,” Old Nan agreed. “Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks.” Her voice and her needles fell silent, and she glanced up at Bran with pale, filmy eyes and asked, “So, child. This is the sort of story you like?” “Well,” Bran said reluctantly, “yes, only …” Old Nan nodded. “In that darkness, the Others came for the first time,” she said as her needles went click click click. “They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every creature with hot blood in its veins. They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. All the swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted the maids through frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children.” (Bran IV, AGoT)

We focus so heavily on the Others—understandably so—that we often overlook some crucial details. The Others don’t exist in isolation. They arrive in the wake of an extreme winter, which enables their existence for they are “demons made of snow and ice and cold” (Samwell V, ASoS). And with the sun and its heat gone, they move within the darkness. So confronting the Others in battle, in and of itself, does not end the Long Night. The true struggle lies in addressing the elements that allow them to exist in the first place. To fully defeat the Others, our heroes must first restore light and the balance of the seasons.

No single character in this series has the ability to achieve this on their own. Even the key magical protagonists are only equipped to address certain aspects of the conflict. That’s why the dragon must have three heads, each embodying a crucial responsibility: one to restore the natural cycle and end the long winter, another uniquely positioned as the antithesis to the Others, and a third tasked with confronting darkness by bringing light back into the world.

By now, you can see where I’m heading with this, right? I believe the three heads are Bran, who represents summer and stands as the antithesis to winter; Daenerys, whose dragons are the direct counter to the Others; and Jon, who occupies a more complex role as both the one who harnesses light and embodies it. Beyond this, each of these characters has been positioned as a chosen one, with distinct yet mirrored magical destinies that set them apart from the other POV characters.

I’m reminded of a quote from Arya’s POV in Dance:

One time, the girl remembered, the Sailor’s Wife had walked her rounds with her and told her tales of the city’s stranger gods. “That is the house of the Great Shepherd. Three-headed Trios has that tower with three turrets. The first head devours the dying, and the reborn emerge from the third. I don’t know what the middle head’s supposed to do….”

While I have more detailed thoughts on this passage, for now, I believe Daenerys represents the first head, Bran the third, and Jon the middle. Each head is tasked with a unique responsibility—one that is specific to them, that the others cannot fulfill. To end the Long Night, the three heads work together, but each plays a distinct part. There is some overlap, particularly with the middle head, who might serve as the balance between the extremes, yet each figure is positioned to occupy a particular space within this framework.

So I want to lay my thoughts here and see if we can get some wider discussion 👀

The first aspect of the Long Night - and perhaps the most important if we’re thinking of what makes it happen in the first place - is the long winter that precedes it.

Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland… (Bran III, AGoT)

This winter provides the very elements that sustain the Others: snow and ice. It’s this aspect that I believe extends humanity’s struggle during the Long Night. With an almost endless supply of ice and snow, can our heroes truly defeat the Others through direct combat alone? I really don’t think so. The abundance of snow, accompanied by a persistent cold, suggests that new Others can continuously be ‘created’. While this is largely speculative given how little we know about them, I find it compelling that the Others seem to materialize out of the darkness itself (see Prologue, AGoT). And when Sam kills the Other in Storm, it simply dissolves…

Sam rolled onto his side, eyes wide as the Other shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milkglass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too.

And that might not mean much in and of itself, but I’m inclined to think of the ADWD prologue:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting. A hundred ravens took to the air, cawing as they felt him pass. A great elk trumpeted, unsettling the children clinging to his back. A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air.

The Other and the human skinchanger dissolving after “death” is so fascinating. And it raises many questions. Death wasn’t the end for Varamyr as his spirit went into his wolf. So is that the same with the Other who also dissolved into white air? As long as magic and suitable conditions (i.e., winter and all its elements) exist, then the Others can never truly die and thus could take on another form?

If that’s the case, then winter itself must be addressed to cut off the Others’ vital resources—along with the magic that sustains them, though we’ll get to that later. And who better to combat winter if not Bran Stark of “Winter-fell”?

Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. “Why?” Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling. Because winter is coming. […] Bran touched his forehead, between his eyes. The place where the crow had pecked him was still burning, but there was nothing there, no blood, no wound. He felt weak and dizzy. He tried to get out of bed, but nothing happened. And then there was movement beside the bed, and something landed lightly on his legs. He felt nothing. A pair of yellow eyes looked into his own, shining like the sun. The window was open and it was cold in the room, but the warmth that came off the wolf enfolded him like a hot bath. His pup, Bran realized … or was it? He was so big now. He reached out to pet him, his hand trembling like a leaf. When his brother Robb burst into the room, breathless from his dash up the tower steps, the direwolf was licking Bran’s face. Bran looked up calmly. “His name is Summer,” he said.

Bran’s wolf, a reflection of his own identity, only receives his name after Bran glimpses his magical destiny. With winter’s horrors looming, Bran must become the summer that rises to challenge it.

As the Prince of Winterfell, Bran’s title and inheritance—rooted in the Stark legacy from the first Long Night and Bran the Builder—signify a dominance over winter. He is the summer prince, heir to the place where “winter fell, defeated”.

“And who is Summer?” Jojen prompted. “My direwolf.” He smiled. “Prince of the green.”

Prince. The man-sound came into his head suddenly, yet he could feel the rightness of it. Prince of the green, prince of the wolfswood. He was strong and swift and fierce, and all that lived in the good green world went in fear of him. (Bran I, ASoS)

Because winter brings death to the land, summer is needed to restore warmth, vitality, and breathe life back into the world. And that’s why Bran’s identity not just as the “prince of the green”, but as the last of the greenseers (of course once Bloodraven kicks the bucket) puts him in a unique position during the Long Night.

He will be the one to end the winter.

I’m still piecing together what this might ultimately look like, as we need more information about greenseeing and how Bran may fully harness it. However, from what we do know, it seems greenseeing is extends to earth magic—shaping and manipulating the natural world, as seen with events like the Hammer of the Waters. Additionally, greenseers can perceive past, present, and future, which essentially aligns with the passage of time. And isn’t that what the cyclical nature of the seasons embodies? Time flows, and with it come physical changes in the land: winter brings barrenness, spring rebirth, and summer growth. Humanity needs someone who understands this cycle and possesses the power to influence the earth itself.

Since Bran has already glimpsed the heart of winter, it’s possible he will find himself returning there, perhaps retracing the steps of the last hero. Additionally, the Isle of Faces and the God’s Eye, rich with weirwoods and sacred significance, seem like fitting locations for him to play a pivotal role in restoring balance; especially when we consider his role as a Fisher King/Grail figure who is linked with the renewal of once barren land. Whether Bran has to dig deep into the earth’s roots or manipulate the flow of time itself, the Long Night cannot end without his dominance over winter.

However, while restoring the balance of the seasons is crucial, neutralizing the immediate threat posed by the Others and their thralls is extremely important- and that’s where Dany comes in!

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper’s rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. (Dany III, ASoS)

I’ve argued before that, of our three chosen ones, Dany is the best suited to take on the role of military commander—and I don’t think that’s a far-fetched claim. She has one of the cleanest and most impressive military records in the main series, proving herself a formidable tactician. Not to mention, she commands the dragons—living embodiments of fire—who have been positioned as the direct counter to the Others, creatures of ice. While the Others bring cold and death, Dany and her dragons are fire made flesh, a force of life and renewal.

There are other narrative arguments for why Dany’s role is going to be so heavily militaristic.

Until one day Prince Rhaegar found something in his scrolls that changed him. No one knows what it might have been, only that the boy suddenly appeared early one morning in the yard as the knights were donning their steel. He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, ‘I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.’” (Dany I, ASoS)

“No one ever looked for a girl,” he said. “It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought … the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King’s Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it.” (Samwell IV, AFFC)

“Azor Ahai, beloved of R’hllor! The Warrior of Light, the Son of Fire! Come forth […]” (Davos I, ACoK)

Azor Ahai is said to be a warrior, and while Dany doesn’t fit the traditional image of what that means, she is still an active participant in warfare. Moreover, one of the central aspects of her character is her role as an agent of freedom:

“…this Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, is above all a rescuer.” (Tyrion VI, ADWD)

She has spent much of her arc directly combating slavery which might seem unrelated, but the Others come with their own type of bondage in their creations of undead. The slavery of the Others is not just physical, but spiritual, and Dany’s role in battling them aligns with her fight for freedom. She isn’t suited to combat winter itself, as Bran is, but her strength lies in physical battle, which Bran is not. To put it another way: if Bran is Frodo journeying into the depths of Mordor, Dany is Aragorn, turning Sauron’s eye with her dragons and leading the fight to defeat his armies.

But I don’t think her role ends there.

The Others are not dead. They are strange, beautiful… think, oh… the Sidhe made of ice, something like that… a different sort of life… inhuman, elegant, dangerous. SSM

I’ve already mentioned that beyond the elements of winter—snow, ice, and cold—the Others are sustained by magic. Building on the idea of the Other dissolving into mist, it’s possible that magic is what binds these beings together: magic fuses a consciousness with snow and ice into a corporeal entity. So, in addition to battling them physically, our heroes—and Dany in particular—may have to confront this magic that gives the Others their form and power.

“Half a year gone, that man could scarcely wake fire from dragonglass. He had some small skill with powders and wildfire, sufficient to entrance a crowd while his cutpurses did their work. He could walk across hot coals and make burning roses bloom in the air, but he could no more aspire to climb the fiery ladder than a common fisherman could hope to catch a kraken in his nets.” Dany looked uneasily at where the ladder had stood. Even the smoke was gone now, and the crowd was breaking up, each man going about his business. In a moment more than a few would find their purses flat and empty. “And now?” “And now his powers grow, Khaleesi. And you are the cause of it.” “Me?” She laughed. “How could that be?” The woman stepped closer and lay two fingers on Dany’s wrist. “You are the Mother of Dragons, are you not?” (Dany III, ACoK)

The birth of Dany’s dragons seems to have strengthened fire magic, tying her deeply to the very fabric of magic itself. The AGoT bookend suggests that the Others’ ice magic and the dragons’ fire magic may be connected, part of a larger magical ecosystem, or perhaps opposing forces that coexist on opposite ends of the spectrum. Ice and fire, death and life—both seem bound by the same mystical forces. Given Dany’s connection to magic and the fact that the reemergence of her dragons parallels the resurgence of the Others, she seems best suited to combat the magic that enables the Others to take form—serving as an inverse to her bringing dragons to life. And this underscores her dual role as both a destroyer and creator of life

The specifics on Dany’s confrontation with the Others and the magic that creates them remains unclear. She could venture to the heart of winter/the Lands of Always Winter and face the source of their power, creating narrative symmetry between the dragons of the Lands of the Long Summer and the creatures from the Lands of Always Winter. Alternatively, she might find herself in the Isle of Faces if her dream of fighting the Others at the Trident is fulfilled literally. The Isle, with its rich magical ecosystem, would be a fitting place for such a climax.

Bran, too, seems destined to go to the Isle of Faces (I’m a firm ‘Bran, King at the Gods Eye’ truther). This could be where their paths cross and their roles intersect. Bran, with his deep connection to nature and time, might provide Dany with guidance on how to engage with magic and influence its effects on the world. With Bran’s knowledge and Dany’s firepower, she could then deliver the final blow. While much of this remains speculative, what is clear is that their roles complement each other.

And that leaves Jon, the “light bringer”.

They said the words together, as the last light faded in the west and grey day became black night. “Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow,” they recited, their voices filling the twilit grove. “Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.” (Jon VI, AGoT)

It’s important to see Jon’s primary function as an extension of his current role. He is a man who watches for the night—a sentinel standing against the encroaching darkness. This role is deeply embedded in his identity, and it’s fascinating to see how it manifests in his prophetic dreams.

It’s black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don't want to. I'm afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it's not them I'm afraid of. I scream that I'm not a Stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. It gets darker and darker, until I want to scream." He stopped, frowning, embarrassed. "That's when I always wake." (Jon IV,AGoT)

Last night he had dreamed the Winterfell dream again. He was wandering the empty castle, searching for his father, descending into the crypts. Only this time the dream had gone further than before. In the dark he'd heard the scrape of stone on stone. When he turned he saw that the vaults were opening, one after the other. As the dead kings came stumbling from their cold black graves, Jon had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering. (Jon VII, AGoT)

The Winterfell crypt dreams contain many intriguing elements, but I’ll focus primarily on two key motifs: death and darkness.

Jon is the most natural fit for the middle head of the dragon because he exists at the intersection of extremes: light and darkness, destruction and renewal, death and life.

When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs, and Bran wrapped himself around Robb’s leg, sobbing. Arya stood her ground and gave the spirit a punch. It was only Jon, covered with flour. “You stupid,” she told him, “you scared the baby,” but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too. (Arya IV, AGoT)

While Bran is connected to summer and warmth through his magical familiar, Jon possesses a unique sensitivity to death, embodied by his bond with Ghost.

He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs. Don't be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him. (Jon VII, ACoK)

Furthermore, Jon’s fate at the end of ADWD implies that through his death and eventual rebirth, he becomes a ghost in his own right—caught between life and death, existing yet not fully alive. This intertwines with his connection to darkness, as Jon straddles the boundary between light and darkness: a shadow.

All in black, he was a shadow among shadows, dark of hair, long of face, grey of eye. (Jon VII, ACoK)

“I can show you.” Melisandre draped one slender arm over Ghost, and the direwolf licked her face. “The Lord of Light in his wisdom made us male and female, two parts of a greater whole. In our joining there is power. Power to make life. Power to make light. Power to cast shadows.” “Shadows.” The world seemed darker when he said it. “Every man who walks the earth casts a shadow on the world. Some are thin and weak, others long and dark. You should look behind you, Lord Snow. The moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall.” Jon glanced over his shoulder. The shadow was there, just as she had said, etched in moonlight against the Wall. (Jon VI, ADWD)

Shadows, like ghosts, are echoes of something once tangible. They arise from obstructed light, existing in a realm that is neither completely dark nor wholly bright, hovering between presence and absence. They highlight where light is absent. But shadows also exist only in the presence of light, revealing the delicate boundary between illumination and the lack thereof.

So building on that idea, it’s significant that Jon’s frequent journeys into the Stark underworld, where death and darkness prevail, take a pivotal turn in ASoS when he becomes vividly aware of light fading in real time.

He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness. "Father?" he called. "Bran? Rickon?" No one answered. A chill wind was blowing on his neck. "Uncle?" he called. "Uncle Benjen? Father? Please, Father, help me." Up above he heard drums. They are feasting in the Great Hall, but I am not welcome there. I am no Stark, and this is not my place. His crutch slipped and he fell to his knees. The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. "Ygritte?" he whispered. "Forgive me. Please." But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his golden eyes shining sadly through the dark…

This is particularly noteworthy because of a similar, parallel dreams:

That night he dreamed of the feast Ned Stark had thrown when King Robert came to Winterfell. The hall rang with music and laughter, though the cold winds were rising outside. At first it was all wine and roast meat, and Theon was making japes and eyeing the serving girls and having himself a fine time . . . until he noticed that the room was growing darker. The music did not seem so jolly then; he heard discords and strange silences, and notes that hung in the air bleeding. Suddenly the wine turned bitter in his mouth, and when he looked up from his cup he saw that he was dining with the dead. (Theon V, ACoK)

The fires that ran along the blade were guttering out, and Jaime remembered what Cersei had said. No. Terror closed a hand about his throat. Then his sword went dark, and only Brienne’s burned, as the ghosts came rushing in. (Jaime VI, ASoS)

The ASoS crypt dream runs parallel to Theon’s ACoK dream and Jaime’s ASoS dream, with a common element: the presence of death and growing darkness.

While the crypts are inherently dark, Jon perceives when other sources of light are extinguished—true to his role in the Night’s Watch, which is to keep vigil against encroaching darkness. This ability to sense the fading light underscores his ghostly nature, where he reflects light while simultaneously existing in a state of absence. It also highlights his role as a shadow, existing in the blending of light and darkness. As both a shadow and a ghost, he can navigate these dual states, acting within the world’s transitions between day and night.

Which brings us to what I consider a continuation of Jon VII; while that chapter is marked by a lack of light, this next chapter is characterized by an abundance of it:

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. ‘Snow,’ an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall, he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard, a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, and a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she’d appeared. The world dissolved into a red mist. (Jon XII, ADWD)

At some point between these two dreams, Jon found (or even created) light and he wields it as a weapon. And it’s clear that Jon’s sword in this dream is the actual manifestation Azor Ahai’s Lightbringer:

“In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour, a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.” (Davos I, ACoK)

Lightbringer has two major requirements: to give off heat and to illuminate. Jon’s sword does both!

We’ve seen a number Lightbringer-esque weapons (e.g., Beric’s and Thoros’), but Stannis Baratheon’s sword is the most intriguing proxy.

Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer, Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the fires where the seven gods were consumed. The room seemed to grow brighter as the blade slid from its scabbard. The steel had a glow to it; now orange, now yellow, now red. The air shimmered around it, and no jewel had ever sparkled so brilliantly. But when Stannis touched it to Davos’s shoulder, it felt no different than any other longsword. “Ser Davos of House Seaworth,” the king said, “are you my true and honest liege man, now and forever?” (Davos IV, ASoS)

While Stannis’ sword is visually dazzling, it is, in essence, a well-made fake. Its bright glow meets one of the two requirements for “light-bringer”, yet its impressive variety of hues with no actual heat serve as a clue that it is not the true sword of heroes. When the world cloaked in darkness, a weapon that shines as brightly as the sun is undoubtedly a powerful symbol. And Stannis’ sword is bright….

….but it’s almost too bright. His sword emits the wrong kind of light—one that is all glamor with little substance. This great conflict is referred to as the “war for the dawn”. So what humanity needs is a reminder of the dawn itself:

As a red dawn broke in the east, Grey Wind began to howl again. (Catelyn X, AGoT)

A swollen red sun hung low against the western hills when the gates of the castle opened. (Catelyn IX, AGoT)

Dawn and the sun are often associated with red hues in the text, a color heavily tied to fire (e.g., House Targaryen and R’hllor). Stannis’ sword gives off light, but it lacks the essence of true warmth. In contrast, Jon’s sword is the real Lightbringer: it is hot enough to burn against the cold and it radiates the actual red hues of dawn, thus illuminating the world around it.

Jon’s role as the archetypal fantasy protagonist necessitates a magic sword—Lightbringer will be his Excalibur; his Anduril. But more than just being a weapon, his Lightbringer symbolizes the transition from darkness to light. Dawn, a moment of transformation, begins with deep red hues that retain the shadows of night before blooming into the full brightness of the sun. Like the early dawn, Jon straddles the line between night and day, existing between life and death, darkness and light. As the middle dragon head, he embodies balance.

I’m not really sure how that plays out in the endgame; hell, I still can’t figure out how Jon will “forge” Lightbringer in the first place. But he has to end up somewhere for his arc to reach its magical climax. I’ve speculated that Bran and Dany might find themselves at the Isle of Faces or the heart of winter. The latter is a strong possibility for Jon, especially if he too recreates the last hero’s journey; not to mention his connections to snow and winter. But he could also return to the Wall, a mighty structure that symbolizes the boundary between life and death. The Wall is also imbued with ancient magic that radiates outward (e.g., strengthening Mel’s magic and prolonging Maester Aemon’s life). Therefore, it could serve as the ideal location for Jon to reignite and wield the light that has long been hidden.

Though Bran, Jon, and Dany each have distinct roles in restoring balance, their actions are deeply intertwined, with shared themes across their arcs. Jon and Bran connect through their existence in darkness, as seen in their ACoK dreams. All three share connections to death: Bran inhabits the realm of the dead (Mel I, ADWD; Jon’s ACoK wolfdream), Jon embodies a ghost-like nature that straddles life and death, and Dany is called the “bride of fire, daughter of death”. Additionally, Jon and Bran are linked to winter, and both Jon and Dany share the legacy of Azor Ahai and Lightbringer, with dragon breath also echoing the red hues of dawn. Together, they are not just separate forces but three heads of the same dragon, working in concert to ensure that the Long Night ends and the cycle of life and death continues.

TL;DR:

The dragon has three heads, each with a unique role in maintaining the cycle of balance, despite their overlaps in common themes. Bran, the Prince of Winterfell, embodies summer and inherits the legacy of the kings of winter, making him the most suited to confront the Long Night’s origin: winter itself. The Long Night cannot end without Bran’s triumph, as winter represents death while summer signifies new life. Dany, linked to the ebb and flow of magic and the direct antithesis of the Others, is best positioned to engage them in battle and counteract the ice magic that enables their existence. As the perfect manifestation of fire magic, she serves as a powerful weapon, embodying the theme of destruction by being “breaker of chains”. Meanwhile, Jon straddles the boundaries of light and dark, life and death, destruction and creation. His unique position allows him to navigate these extremes, bringing forth the lost light while holding back the consuming darkness. As the embodiment of balance—dead yet alive, icy yet fiery—he ensures the proper equilibrium between these forces.

Dragons, symbols of life, fire, and summer, starkly contrast with the cold death represented by winter and its children. Daenerys, as the Mother of Dragons, embodies the nurturing aspect of life, actively bringing forth new existence by counteracting suspended states of life (e.g., awakening dragon eggs and freeing slaves). Bran, representing youthful vitality, symbolizes young life that is both born and maturing. Jon occupies a unique position in the middle; he is like spring, a new life emerging from darkness, akin to an awakened dragon—life once petrified but now revitalized. Together, these three form a multifaceted dragon that embodies various dimensions of life, each contributing uniquely to the fight against the Long Night.

#yikesssssss this might be the longest post I’ve ever written shajsbsjbshs #have a lot of thoughts so I hope this all made sense despite the length #but I’ve been wanting to write a more detailed post on thematic meaning of ’the dragon has three heads’#asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #jon snow #bran stark #daenerys targaryen #three heads of the dragon #the long night #the others #random speculations

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fantasticfourthwingimagines · 26 days ago

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So Xaden fic only has two scenes left to write! Bad news, or good news if you want to look at it that way, is that it is already almost the length of a novella at 14k words. 😅

#this is the longest thing I’ve ever written #should I break it into parts and just post a part like every day?#or just dump it all on you at once?#this literally started as a song fic for slim pickins by Sabrina carpenter #and then it spiraled #I have no idea what it is now #I just hope you guys love it #update

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feralgodmothers · 1 month ago

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This fic just keeps getting longer and longer

*me, 10 days ago* Oh, I’ll just write out this little idea I have, no big deal!

#hopefully by the time it’s done the length won’t overstay it’s welcome #I mean… idk #it’ll fit the criteria for a one-shot #it’s just turning into the longest thing I’ve ever written before #which is intimidating #txt #personal #writing #making posts about it relieves the anxiety a little bit at least 😅

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damthosefandoms · 6 months ago

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I’m not me if I’m not writing crossovers btw like this is NOT new. no one here is surprised

#that IS the longest thing I’ve ever written tho #I worked my ass off on it for Katie and she forgot all about it lol #still bitter. love you tho #my post

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se-dissimuler · 7 months ago

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mutual (janniksinner) compared sebchal and sinnettini and i went 😦. it’s not even the same too because seb had the ‘excuse’ that he’s achieved the ‘peak’ of f1 already so he wasn’t that afraid of charles eclipsing him. maybe he was but he also accepted that his time was passing

meanwhile matteo and jannik are closer in age and jannik’s achieving everything matteo didn’t but he still loves (or at least admires) jannik anyway. something to think about.. ❤️

#today i posted the longest posts that i’ve ever written #yaoipilled evening let me get this out of my system

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skullfaced-fruitcake · 2 years ago

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TELL ME MORE ABOUT THE MARINE ARCHIVES AU (I'm using the Eyes power to Compell you and it's working)

OKAY SO BASICALLY. I made this AU because of the dumbest pun imaginable, involving Helen and Melanie.

I’ll show the pun at the end of the post.

Under the cut is an assortment of fish character conversions and headcanons. :)

Melanie King: pufferfish.

Helen Distortion: I originally thought of her as an eel, but later on I changed her character to a catfish. Y’know. (as much as the Distortion can be one single species)

Michael Distortion: cuttlefish. They can change their colors/patterns to deceive prey!

Jonah Magnus: Malawi Eyebiter. This one might be self-explanatory, but I think it’s fun to picture little eyebiter Jonah living inside Eel-Elias’s head. speaking of which,

Elias Bouchard: Green Moray Eel. Did you know that green moray eels aren’t even actually green. How fucked up is that.

Jonathan Sims: Cuatros Ojos (Four Eyes). They technically only have two eyes, but their eyes are split so that they can see above and below the surface of the water!! I think they’re neat. They’re also known for refusing to die when they’re outside of the water and exposed to air.

Nikola Orsinov: clownfish. Pretty self-explanatory, I think.

NotThem: octopus. Slimy little bastards who mimic other animals.

Georgie Barker: jellyfish. It just feels right to me.

That’s as far as I’ve gotten with character conversions, but I also have some random headcanons:

During the fisheyepocalypse, holes in coral could be seen to have eyes peeking out of them.

Allegiances between entities are slightly different! For example:

The Dark and the Stranger kinda band together at the bottom of the ocean, and the Vast is extremely powerful.

The Buried has a lot more to do with water pressure, but many statements that would have been related to heavy rain or getting choked on water now have to do with suffocating on air underwater.

The Hunt now obviously has a lot more to do with underwater predators than wolves and things like that above water. They have more power in this fish world.

The Vast also has pretty easy prey, and avatars sometimes take the shape of very large creatures such as blue whales.

The Slaughter is probably not as powerful here, because I don’t know how many fish go to war with each other…

I’m not gonna lie, I didn’t look up spider fish because that sounds like nightmare fuel to me, but I know that they exist. They scuttle around on the floor, and that’s what the Web embodies itself as, instead of regular spiders.

I think that the Extinction might actually be more powerful here, and may have become a fully fledged Fear. Y’know, because of all the plastic, oil, and general trash that’s contaminating the ocean.

The Corruption probably has a similar influence, but maybe a little less potent because of the lack of hive-minded bugs (at least, I think there are no hive-bugs underwater. I don’t really want to look that up).

I think it’d be really funny if the Spiral just worked like normal, and it opened like, mini doors in coral for fish to swim through.

Although I guess in this AU, there needs to be some sort of institute and fish society. So yeah, the Distortion could function pretty similarly to canon TMA.

As for the Lonely, I think that would work pretty similarly (see above), but its famous fog might not work out underwater. Maybe it just makes the water go really still and cold, indicating the absence of other life-forms.

The Eye is one I’m not so sure about, but if we believe the previous (^^) statement, the Eye might function pretty similarly to canon.

Now I’m gonna include the joke that started this off in the first place, but bear in mind that this might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever thought of….

Fish!Helen: What do you call a fish with no eyes? Fish!Melanie: ... Fish!Helen: A fsh! :)

(I’ll tag you because I know that tumblr can be weird about answered asks. @samwise1548 )

#its okay the pun is pretty much the dumbest thing ever #but i like this au lol #damn i guess the eye really did compel me because this might be the longest post i’ve ever written #tma #the marine archives #tma au #ALSO im sorry for the ass formatting; tumblr just will not work with me

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maruyaaya · 11 months ago

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hihi ^^ i just read your oikawa and noya fanfic and can i ask how you thought of them together? i have never thought of them but now i think that they are cute!

YESSIR!!! if i am to be so very completely honest and real with you, anon, i came to the idea of shipping oinoya because they are my top two favourite characters in haikyuu 💀 (akaashi is third <3). idk one of my fav things ever is just to take my two fav characters in a media and ship them together. hence mizuan (pjsekai), donjay (dc), ranaya (bandori), etc etc. so i will be honest i was entirely selfish in my idea for my oinoya ff. BUT i am nothing if not devoted to my rarepairs (i make up 21.4% of the ranaya tag on ao3 LMFAO some poor ranaya fan just trying to find content and they keep coming across my annoying gay ass 💀💀) so before i devoted myself to writing 17k words about oinoya, i needed to think about if this actually made sense to me.

and boy it did.

so the first thing i’m thinking is “dude do oinoya even interact in canon???” and they do! well, sort of. they have indirect interactions if that makes sense. oikawa aims his serve at nishinoya and nishinoya remarks on multiple occasions that he thinks oikawa’s serves are so cool. there’s this little bonus sketch where noya even wishes that oikawa would always be the one serving.

like guys i think it might be a little gay to be so obsessed with another players serves.

and that’s where the concept for my fic came from. the idea was literally just “what if oikawa’s practicing his serves and nishinoya finds him and they just start practicing together?” and then they slowly fell in love doing that. the main driving force was how much they both respect the other as a player. i feel like they both respect each other’s skills, but (at least, in the beginning of the fic) don’t quite like the other as a person. like they’re on opposite teams, oikawa’s dramatic ass considers it a principle to hate everyone on karasuno, noya doesn’t like oikawa’s “pretty boy attitude”, and they just don’t really like each other. however, they both think the other is a really fucking good volleyball player so they both resign themselves to practicing volleyball together; you don’t need to like someone to acknowledge that they’re good at volleyball (as said by noya himself in the fic)

the very first time i came up with the concept of them practicing volleyball together, the first person who heard about it was, of course, oli (akur000 on tumblr) because they are always the first to hear my fic ideas. then the idea slightly evolved in the tiktok dms of one of my irl friends, sanja (who does not have a tumblr but i love her just the same (she also proofread my google translate spanish in the fic with her four years of high school spanish)), and honestly the fic just grew from there. i started writing, the title came to me while i was listening to the crane wives song allies or enemies bc it just immediately struck me as a song that fit them esp in the context of my fic. “now listen close // you owe me ears for dropping eaves // forget it all // you caught me in a moment weak” and “what happens now? // do we have another go? // do we bow out, and take our separate roads? // i’ll admit i’ve had my doubts // but i want to be let in, not out” and “all is fair in love and war // but i can't fight with you anymore” which fun fact! i almost made the title of the ff be that last line of “all is fair in love and war” but then decided that i didn’t make oinoya antagonistic enough for that title so we ended up with are we allies or enemies? (this will be the death of me)

so let’s talk canon basis. there isn’t really much of one, but there is a little bit! so as mentioned, nishinoya often talks about how cool he thinks oikawa’s serves are. he’s eager to receive them. example below. he even mentions that when he was in middle school, his team went up against kitagawa daiichi and there was a guy who “could serve really well”; i don’t think it’s a stretch to say that he is very likely referring to oikawa.

so we know nishinoya respects oikawa but what about oikawa? what does he think about noya? well we get considerably less from his side, but that’s not to say that we get enough! while watching the shiratorizawa v karasuno match with iwaizumi, oikawa refers to nishinoya by his name. this is notable only because oikawa doesn’t do it for other members of karasuno. you can see in the below image that he calls tsukishima “four eyes” and even refers to hinata as “chibi-chan”. (kageyama is, of course, mentioned by name but honestly he’s a whole other basket of worms). nishinoya is mentioned by his name. not by a nickname, his number, or a describing feature. what this means to me is that noya stood out enough as a player to catch oikawa’s attention and he made note of it; he remembered nishinoya. oikawa doesn’t learn the name of every member of every rival time he plays (why would he?) but he does remember nishinoya’s and i think it’s likely because he admires nishinoya’s skills. noya stands out to him as a particularly skilled player. oikawa’s petty, but he recognizes when someone is good at volleyball.

so what we get is a mutual respect between oikawa and nishinoya. they both think the other is good at volleyball. another thing from canon that pulled me into them is the way they are the members of their respective teams with the biggest reputation (though i’d say noya is second on karasuno reputation wise bc obviously kageyama has the biggest reputation on karasuno). i don’t think anyone will debate me on oikawa having the biggest reputation of any seijoh member. he’s feared by other miyagi schools and for good reason. i think nishinoya’s reputation is clearer in the manga than it is the anime, but there are so many occasions where karasuno is about to start a match and someone in the crowd goes “lol who tf is karasuno?” and someone replies “idk but they have kitagawa daiichi’s kageyama tobio and chidoriyama’s nishinoya!!” like i’m not even joking that the phrase “chidoriyama’s nishinoya” is uttered so many times when spectators are trying to figure out who karasuno is. i only have two examples that i can pull from the manga off the top of my head, but trust me that it happens a fair few times. oikawa and noya are both known to be really good players.

and honestly? that’s kinda the extent of the canon basis of their relationship. so then what can we discuss next? well, we can discuss what exactly about that makes such a good dynamic and why i think they would genuinely work as a ship/couple.

oikawa and nishinoya both love volleyball. they're both incredibly skilled and they love playing, but i think that out of the two of them, nishinoya is the only one who actually likes volleyball (at least, as of 2012/2013 canon). this is part of a longer oikawa character analysis i could write, but i think that though he loves volleyball more than anything and no world exists where he would allow himself to quit, during high school (and middle school too), he stopped enjoying it and focused more on "becoming great" rather than "having fun". it's not until the brazil trip where he meets up with hinata and remembers that volleyball is fun that he regains that like for volleyball. i think a very strong theme in haikyuu is the loving vs liking of volleyball as evident in characters like hirugami. volleyball is everything to oikawa.

oikawa is willing to sacrifice everything to succeed. he wants to be the best, he wants to win. volleyball is absolutely everything to him. he goes pro because he cannot fathom a life where he isn't putting absolutely everything he has into volleyball. he'll bleed and he'll bleed and he'll give everything. that's why he loses his enjoyment for volleyball. he loves it, of course he loves it, but he doesn't like it because it's so painful to him. and yet, he can't understand ever giving it up.

nishinoya, on the other hand, does love volleyball, but it isn't everything to him. he quits volleyball because his friend quit. he likes volleyball, but he can give it up. he doesn't go pro because he likes volleyball as a hobby. he would never want to do it as a job because i think it would rob him of the enjoyment he has for it. nishinoya likes volleyball because he gets to play with his friends. he doesn't have that all-encompassing obsession with volleyball that oikawa has. for him, volleyball is about the game, not the result. he just wants to play.

so the idea of putting oikawa and nishinoya face to face is really interesting to me because you have two players, both extremely talented and with the ability to go pro, but only one of them wants it. you have oikawa, who doesn't think he has a future if it isn't to do with volleyball and then you have nishinoya, who could never professionally pursue volleyball because it would destroy everything he loves about the game. i didn't have the opportunity to explore this in my ff, but something i was really thinking about oikawa looking at nishinoya and seeing someone who could go pro, but doesn't want to and he just doesn't understand it; a part of him is convinced that nishinoya is throwing away his talent. he just doesn't get it and this could be such a big point of contention between them.

(i will be potentially writing another oinoya fic where i can explore this specific concept more bc frankly, i'm obsessed with it 🤞🤞)

both oikawa and noya are very passionate about volleyball. they're both also very passionate people in general. they're very overdramatic. like out of their entire teams, they're probably the only people who would care about "fraternizing with the enemy" or whatever tf they get so dramatic about in the fic (tanaka would probs have an intense reaction at first but i think that would just be his general distaste for oikawa). like you cannot tell me that if some other member of seijoh was dating a member of karasuno, oikawa wouldn't throw the biggest temper tantrum ever.

i think that oikawa is a character who isn't used to playing the "straight man" in his dynamics. because he's around iwaizumi so much, he's often the one who gets to be the silly one while iwaizumi tells him to shut the fuck up. around nishinoya, he has to occasionally be the straight man which i think is a new role for oikawa and one that i found kinda fun to explore. like you get oikawa, now faced with someone who has so much energy that it looks exhausting and he starts thinking that maybe he finally gets why iwaizumi always seems so fed up. it's a fun dynamic to explore and it's not one that's very prevalent in most oikawa ships so it's something a little different.

and i think oikawa really likes that about nishinoya. i think he absolutely loves watching noya be so exhilarating and full of energy off the court and then immediately becoming silent and focused when he stops onto the court. i think he would find noya's serious demeanour while playing to be very attractive (taking volleyball seriously is a major green flag for him).

another part of their dynamic i like to explore is the confidence levels. oikawa appears to be very externally confident, but internally, he doesn't really believe any of that; he's actually very insecure. nishinoya, on the other hand, is externally confident and it's true. he has confidence in his abilities and though he is always willing to learn more, he, at least, knows that he is good. i think that noya would be able to help oikawa a lot with that part of his insecurities because nishinoya admires oikawa so much. i think they work together in that sense.

they’re both also always so eager to learn! they always want to improve, they always want to get better. yaku says that that’s what makes nishinoya such a terrifying opponent. they both have a very intense drive to improve. and that’s something they could do together; they can practice together and teach each other. you can’t tell me that noya wouldn’t absolutely love showing oikawa how to do his rolling thunder move and oikawa would get such an ego boost when noya would ask him to show him how to better his libero sets.

and ugh i absolutely love the idea of oikawa moving to argentina and then noya, who is in the process of travelling the world, visits him in argentina. noya would absolutely go watch oikawa’s games and whenever noya comes to visit, oikawa has to bring him onto a court to play some volleyball. the whole argentina team knows noya by name and i think they’d love to bring noya in for a little practice game from time to time. noya, while travelling, sends oikawa pictures of him doing obscure shit in the countries he’s in (eg: the one that noya sends asahi of him fishing in italy LMFAO) and oikawa’s team thinks that they’re the funniest things ever. it’s like “tooru, where is your boyfriend now?” and oikawa points his phone at them to show them a picture of nishinoya hugging a penguin in fucking antarctica or some shit.

also guys can we talk about how the ship name for oikawa/nishinoya might be oinoya, but they could also be called noyaoi which guys… that’s the funniest fucking thing ever. like are u kidding me?? this ship is called no yaoi and you don’t ship it??

i’m so sorry i rambled for so fucking long 😭😭😭 i could talk for longer on oinoya but i fear i have written far too much on this post. basically tl;dr oinoya is a good ship with a really good dynamic and i think more people should consider it seriously.

#this has to be the longest tumblr post i’ve ever written this is so embarrassing #i’m so sorry anon you did not ask for this essay #i just really love oinoya i’m sorry LMAO #oinoya #oikawa tooru #nishinoya yuu #fic: are we allies or enemies? (this will be the death of me)#imeda answers asks!!

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findinghomes · 1 year ago

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im soooo excited <3333

THANK YOUUU!!! IM SO EXCITED TOO :D

#once it’s all done and posted it’ll be the longest thing I’ve ever written by a long shot!!!#it’s taken longer than I wanted but I’m still so proud of it :D #finn answers

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mcondance · 3 months ago

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no plan

"my heart is thrilled by the still of your hand / it's how i know, now, that you understand... there's no plan, there's no race to be run / the harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun"

life pleasure's are best enjoyed slowly. also, you really like kissing spencer.

warnings and notes there’s like two running themes here, my first time writing cowgirl yayyy, fingering, so sappy so much love, unprotected sex, “girl” pet names, spencer’s mouth….. he needs a warning yes he does.

mcon’s note hi guys so i actually started this on august 30th. this is the longest thing i’ve written and finished and posted in a long time so i’m very happy i was able to do this. enjoy pls enjoy enjoy. title from no plan by goatzier hozier. not proofread y'all know i don't do that. 3.8k words <3

Sunlight fades through the window, lighting stripes of fairy dust and pale yellow through the room.

“Spencer,” you whine, dropping your phone somewhere in the covers.

“Yeah?” He responds. It’s light and airy. He loves you.

“I miss you.”

“I’m right here, angel,” he laughs, dog-earring the page of his book and tossing it onto his nightstand.

“I know,” you whine, “But we haven’t kissed in so long. I think I might die.”

How dramatic you are.

“Come here,” he beckons you closer, and he can see the excitement radiating off you as you crawl over to him. His eyes do that thing as you settle into his lap, the thing they always do when you’re this close to him. It’s unconscious, you’re sure, but either way it lights you up inside.

His hands settle onto your waist, comfortable in the spot they’re always in. This near to him, you get butterflies like the day you met him.

With a soft smile he kisses you— and it’s smooth, and deep, and he tastes like the candy you’ve both been nursing— feels just like it too. Smooth like caramel candy shared between two lovers.

Perhaps you’re a little too dependent on his kisses. It’s not your fault, though, really. You feel him reaching into your soul and admiring every part of it whenever your lips touch. If you could bottle this feeling up, you might, but you wouldn’t touch it because feeling him against you is unmatched.

You’re too dependent on his kisses. You’re also dependent on air.

Gasping just a little, you pull back, your eyes blown and your lips a bit slick with his spit. He cracks a smile at the sight, his chest tightening just a little.

“Are you alright now?” He asks, chuckling fondly.

“I live on the edge of needing you to kiss me all the time, and that just pushed me into the safe space. I’m perpetually in a state of needing you to kiss me, though, so I’m alright but in a very baseline, on watch way-”

Oh, he’s so sweet. His lips against yours cut you off and give you what you were rambling for.

You fall in line with his kisses like habit, melting against him so liquidy you might drip straight through the headboard and on into peaceful oblivion. Spencer’s so warm and heady beneath you, solid and overwhelmingly hot. You are melting, goopy like chocolate pressed against a warm body in a pocket. It’s fine, though, beautiful even, because Spencer has just what it takes to handle your melting.

Shifting, you inch ever closer to him. One of his hands finds the side of your face and his thumb rubs softly over the swell of your cheek. Tenderness gives way to more butterflies in the candied pit of your stomach, filled with fluttering. Spencer kisses with intent to devour, and that’s what it feels like he’s doing. He surges forward to have more of you, to renew the kiss and satisfy the hunger that sits impatiently in him until he gets to let it feed.

Your chest tightens.

Bursting with air, you separate from Spencer, finally. You’re a sight for Spencer’s sore eyes, chest heaving, lips shiny with his spit, pupils dilated and your hands gripping his hoodie.

“You alright now?” He asks, but his eyes are low, now, and his voice has dropped an octave or two. God, he’s so pretty. His question is in vain, though. Understanding flashes in his eyes. This time when you kiss him, there’s something else lying underneath.

It’s embedded in the both of you, at this point. Spencer’s skilled hands fiddle mindlessly with the little bow on the front of your shorts as your own hands tangle erratically in his hair. He’s got some type of hold on you, some something that renders you unable to function properly, eating away at your mind until all that’s left is Spencer, and Spencer only.

In the midst of your one-track thoughts, a paired thought exists. You want him. Wordlessly, you urge him to forget the bow and arc over the front of your shorts to touch you. You really want him to touch you.

“Spencer…” you whine, rocking forward on him just a bit before you capture his mouth again.

“Mhm?” He hums distractedly against your lips, still toying with that goddamn bow.

“In.” It’s pathetic, and needy, and you moan it for him so breathily his head spins.

“In?” He asks, moving from feather-light touches to a firmer press along the band of your shorts.

“Please.”

“Okay,” he resolves, thankfully, like he knows you need him to touch you more than you’ve ever needed anything.

It’s always mind-breaking when he first touches you, when his hand meets the warmth between your trembling legs. The sensation isn’t new, nowhere near novel, and yet, you’re gasping and looking down to watch his movements. Slowly, he reacquaints himself with you. His deft fingers kiss softly along the band of your panties, and you stop watching him work to kiss him again, sloppy and hungry and messy.

Thank god for his mega-brain, because your kiss doesn’t stop him at all.

Two fingers stop their playing and focus on their goal. When he slips into your panties and swipes gently over your clit, you moan halfway into his mouth and halfway into the air as you’re forced to break the kiss because fuck.

“You’re so wet, angel. You’re always so wet for me,” he praises, reverently. His words rip a moan out of your throat, and you drop your head down onto his shoulder, hands hanging uselessly over and around his shoulders. Spencer kisses the heated skin of your cheek. You jerk against him. He’s so tender and it drives you crazy.

Feeling explodes through you as he commits to a pass over your clit this time. “Yeah,” you whine, and you whine again when the next firework bursts inside you.

“Baby?” Spencer says softly against your ear. You become aware of your hips rocking against his fingers, but you do nothing to stop them, or your sounds.

“Hm?” You manage, jolting against him when he works another break of pleasure out of you.

“Can we get these off?” He asks over another broken whine from you, Spencer gets to see how much of a mess he’s made of you already when you lift your head off his shoulder to gaze dazedly at him. You nod vacantly, happy to do anything if it means Spencer can touch you more. “Good,” he smiles, his melting eyes warmer than your own skin at the sight of you. Like an addict, he can’t help but kiss you again, and with one hand cupping the back of your head, he lays you down. The hand still in your panties wastes no time in pulling your shorts and underwear down your legs, and still the kiss isn’t broken. Even as he slides your bottoms the rest of the way, you’re still kissing. You weren’t lying about always needing to kiss him.

“Up,” he whispers, scooting back to where he was sitting at first. You follow right behind him, half-lidded eyes focused on his pretty face as you settle into his lap again, curling your hands into his hair and resting your forehead on his shoulder. Now that he can touch you freely he immediately brings his hand between your legs again. It’s so much. His arm braced on the small of your back only adds fuel to the fire.

With no mind for your sanity, he falls into the rhythm that makes you cum quick and easy, circling your clit with the precision of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Oh fuck,” you groan.

“Mhm.”

“Shit.”

You’re dumbed-down and delirious from just a few touches. Spencer’s fingers are skilled and experienced, and it shows in how you’re beginning to shake against him. He’s done this a thousand times, and each time is different than the last, and beautiful still.

A kaleidoscope of sounds flow together to fill the heavy space. Cars passing, a fan blowing, the soft whirring of electricity throughout the house, and under it all, soft and sweet and pretty, your saccharine moans and huffs of breath, all light for him. Too good and too soft, his fingers crack you open and drift right over your nerves.

“God, Spencer.” You can’t say much more than that, won’t even try. To keep from grabbing his hair far too hard, you move your hand from his hair to his shoulder, gripping the thick fabric of his hoodie once again. You’re surprised the seams don’t give.

You start to grind against his fingers again, and he huffs an incredulous breath of air through his nose. You know that sound like your favorite album— it’s the sound he makes when you’ve turned him on beyond understanding. Spencer’s always loved when you don’t hold back, when you see your pleasure as yours and you treat it as such. He’s always wanted you to feel good. By now, his genes have recoded to the DNA of your ecstasy. His fundamental layers have found you in place of their nitrogenous bases. All there is inside him is you. All this flurries through his mind as he watches you, his girl, bask in the pleasure he’s delivering.

His arm grips tighter around you when you try to lift up away from him. You run, always have and always will. You just get overwhelmed but Spencer sees through it and makes sure you take what you want.

“You’re okay,” he calms you, tightening his arm around your back, “you’re okay.” You whine, petulant and pleasured, so overwhelmed, but you take it. You always do.

If his intention is to break you open and make you feel pleasure beyond anything you’ll ever be able to comprehend, he achieves it. You pride yourself on being pretty smart, and Spencer praises your intelligence at every chance he can, but now, you’re brainless, empty-headed and dazed and confused. Spencer’s just so good, in every way. You think he was made for you, by some design of the cosmos or atoms and molecules predisposed to fit together, something crafted. Everything he does leaves you floating closer and closer to your peak, wafting and swirling through the air on the wind of his patient and practiced work.

“Nothing you haven’t taken before, huh?” He hums, and that… that fucks you. “You’ve taken this before, right, angel? And you take it so well every time, I love seeing you do this for me.”

Before he can finish, you’re cutting him off with a whine from the back of your throat.

“You’re gonna make me come,” you mewl. It’s strained, and a warning and a mindless declaration all at once.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Show me.”

There’s a common thought that, if a couple has been together long enough, they begin to resemble each other. Convergence, in psychological terms, you and Spencer have talked about it before. You see it now, as Spencer looses a groan at the same time as you, mirroring your pleasure as you come hard on his lap. All your live wires jump and pop, and he, like breathing, just keeps making you feel good.

“You’re so good,” you hear him hum, and it should be impossible but your climax catches a second wind and you gush out onto his sweats even more, slicking his fingers too. You cry out at his words, shivering as the waves crash again. Like the moon controls the tide, Spencer guides you through your orgasm, his fingers bringing the waves crashing down against a sandy shore, slowing down like the remnants of the ocean still trailing through the sand.

You’re breathing heavy as you come down, tuning into your body again. Slowly, you become aware of Spencer rubbing up and down your back, his head resting on yours. His hand is warm, and it brings you down nicely. The hand that was just on you is somewhere. There’s a beat of silence, maybe two, definitely three, undercut with yours and his breathing, and the quiet rub of his hand against your hoodie.

You’re not quiet for long, though.

“Can we kiss again?”

He laughs, the ridiculousness and endearing nature of your question after what you both just did makes him fall even farther in love with you, despite him already loving you so very much. You lift your head, your hair in disarray, and meet his glowing eyes.

“Of course, angel.”

You waste no time in sealing your lips again. Spencer wastes no time in sliding his fingers down towards where you’re still leaking onto his lap. Against his lips, you moan, and it clips into a whine when he feeds you two soft, sweet fingers. The feel of his fingers inside of you is always mind-blowing, and this time is no different. Spencer can feel you pulsing and beating around him, the rush of blood and feeling tangible around his fingers. He hums as you both settle into this, still giving you the kisses you begged so nicely for.

Moments like these, on days like these, are what you love more than anything in this world. It’s not the sex— though Spencer’s fingers virtually making love to the inside of your cunt is so nice— but the togetherness that exists here and in other moments like these. Where nothing exists but you and Spencer and the beauty of a world made so much more beautiful by a lover.

Spencer’s fingers really are so nice. “Spencer,” you almost stutter when he moves his slow, languid drags inside you to knowing rubs against that spot that makes you feel a little crazy.

“Baby,” he responds, something you love and get even wetter around him about.

He knows you’re about to start running away from it before you do, and his arm tightens around your back, right before you tense and try to move up and away from his fingers. “You’re alright, pretty girl, it’s just a lot. Just breathe.”

Jesus, who taught him to talk like that.

Your compromised and overwhelmed mind is made no clearer by the way he’s curled his fingers and starting fucking you smooth and soft. “That feels so good,” you sigh into his mouth. If you could breathe his air for the rest of your life, you would. Dopily, you let your head fall onto his shoulder.

Spencer sighs just as wistfully as you did, appreciative of this moment just like you are. He’s always loved using his fingers on you, loved having you around him in this way. Sloppily, lazily, you move on him, grinding on his fingers and shooting his heart rate up into the clouds. If he could use his brain right now he’d be thinking about just how fast his heart is beating. His reactions to making you feel good, always so visceral, make it all so much more unbelievable. You can still barely understand the way he groans when you get all tight around his fingers, the way he sometimes whines when you shake against him. You’ve learned that pleasing you gives him gratification beyond anything you thought possible.

He hums again, in awe at the display of rapture laid right in front of him.

“And you’re so wet, baby, dripping all over my fingers. God, I don’t know how you do it. You’re perfect, you know that?”

“Spencer,” you rasp, a warning, one word tells him he’s gotten you so damn close. Always so sensitive and receptive to his praise, always liquid in his hands when he melts you down with his warm words.

“You gonna cum?” He asks like he doesn’t know. He knows all your tells, your shaking thighs and heavy breaths and high-pitched whines that sometimes don’t even make any sound. As if by fate or some cosmic design, he shifts his hand just a little and his fingers brush against that spot so perfectly you’re bursting before you can even register it. You squeak and choke out a moan, seeing nothing but black behind your eyes as you cum again on his hand. Like always, Spencer sends sounds of satisfaction to your burning ears, dragging your climax out so beautifully.

”Jesus,” you laugh breathlessly and incredulously as you move your head off of his shoulder, not even settling into your body this time. Finally, you notice how hard he is in his sweats. Languidly, you drop your hands to the tie of his sweats, toying with the elastics as he kisses you gaudily, open-mouthed and, to be honest, lewd. Spencer can be so lewd when he wants to be, or perhaps when he has no control over it anyway.

You waste no time in undoing the strings and hooking your fingers into his sweats and boxers. Ridiculously you don’t part from his lips and instead lift up in a way that’s slightly uncomfortable, but it gives you what you want.

Spencer’s hand wraps around the base of his cock, a sight that gives you pause where you hover above him. He looks so fucking pretty right now— his eyes burn bright and wide, drawing you in and entrancing you, making you feel like you have syrup running through your veins in the place of your blood. His usually messy hair is even messier, ruffled from your tugging, his lips swollen, shiny, parted to allow his excited breaths room to dance through the air.

“Pretty,” you say simply. Spencer gives you time to admire him, basking in your unashamed worship. With your eyes trained down, you lower yourself to him, and Spencer does his part and lines himself up with you, and he breaks the waters and slips inside of you just a little. Already you whine, and Spencer grunts quietly, this little bit of feeling still enough to enchant you both. His other hand is warm where it sits on your thigh, his thumb rubbing softly over your heated skin. Your face twists as you sink farther onto him and he fills you just like you’re so familiar with. Never afraid to be loud, Spencer moans, throwing his head back to meet the wood of your headboard. His hands find your waist through your hoodie, a tangible weight that adds to your ecstasy.

When you’re flush against him, and your face is tucked into his neck, he can’t do anything but breathe. You, overwhelmingly turned on, can’t wait.

Spencer’s breath, meant to calm himself and keep him in the moment, catches in his throat when you lift up and then move back down, fucking him. Immediately, you ramp your moves up with no purpose and Spencer can see how overzealous you’ve gotten.

“Angel,” he hums, quietly as to not alarm you or make you feel like you’ve done something wrong. “Baby,” he slurs, gripping your hips just a little tighter. “Take it slow. We have all day.”

“I can’t.”

And it really does feel that way. Sometimes you want to fuck him so bad it hurts. But he knows that sometimes, waiting makes the end and all the slow parts in between so much better.

“You can, angel. Do it for me, yeah?” When he asks like that, you have to. You know if he asked you to do something completely irrational, and he asked you like that, you wouldn’t second-guess him for even a second.

So you slow down, bringing your rocks up and down to slow, soft grinds. Like this, it’s smooth and he drags against a static-y spot every time you lift your hips.

“You see how good that feels?” Spencer asks with a strained voice, his eyes low and dark as he watches you work him slow. You look disgustingly perfect, your moves gentle and careful as you do your best not to completely lose your mind. You nod, seeing his chest rising and falling so much faster than normal. That’s what almost breaks you, the knowledge that you’re fucking him up as much as he is you.

“It feels so good,” you mumble.

“So good. You’re fucking me so good, angel.”

“Oh,” you moan so brokenly, laid bare by his words.

“Up and down, just like that, baby. So good when you take your time, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s so good, Spencer,” you cry, so innocently it sends sparks up his spine.

He’s entranced by the way you roll your hips on him, seeking your own pleasure out, very boldly angling your hips to rub him against that spot inside you. You always feel good around him, but when you’re fucking him slow it’s different. Something like magic curls around the two of you and it enthralls him, makes him feel so blissed his lips curl into a dopey smile. Like this, you feed off each other, and his smile has you gushing around him.

Right now, there’s no one in the world but you and Spencer, nothing to do but this. Now, your end goal is out of sight, a distant finish line that bears no importance here.

So you kiss him slow like molasses, just barely moving your hips on him. Your glides up and down his cock have turned into unrushed, legato arcs.

“I love you,” Spencer groans into the kiss, not daring to move his mouth from yours.

“Love you,” you choke out, just barely being able to.

Minutes bend and bow and twist in on themselves, you don’t know how long you grind onto him but you know that distant finish line has become clear.

“Spencer,” you call, muffled by the way you’re so lax your mouth barely moves. Spencer knows your tone, though, and his hand between your legs is instant. He doesn’t rush this either— just runs slowly over your clit, and you fall deep into his touch. You feel suspended, heavy and relaxed. “Cumming,” you sigh, and even this is nice and slow. It flows through you with ease, spreading throughout all of your limbs. It’s serene. You know Spencer won’t be too far behind you, he’s never been able to see, to feel you come and not follow you. You make sure to keep rocking on him to help him through, and it’s not long before he’s humming “baby,” and hitting his peak, too.

Fondly, he places a kiss to the top of your head. You giggle, wrapping your arms around him and finding your fingers behind his back. He breathes out heavily, a sigh of contentment, happy for a slow day with no goal to achieve.

“Did I kiss you enough?” He asks, remembering your words from earlier.

“Nah…” you tease, lifting your head to meet his eyes with a smug smile on your face.

"I don't even know why I asked."

"Me either. You're a smart man, you should know." Your face is bright and shining.

He laughs. And then he kisses you again.

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x black reader #spencer read x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #mcondance 2025 #— 🪽

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wasabi-gumdrop · 2 years ago

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i cant believe we’re already at chapter 10 🥹💖

thanks for everybody’s support 🫶🏼

neon glory by s_a_b_i

rated E (nsfw) • krbk • college au • fwb to lovers •

#this is the longest thing i’ve ever written #and we’re only halfway through 🤸#hopefully i can post chp 11 this month ✌🏼#neon glory #krbk #krbk fic #wasabi writes #mind the ao3 tags 💕

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intensely-reading · 2 years ago

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If Given a Chance

Word Count: 77.6k words (6/6 chapters)

Relationship: Childe/Zhongli

Tags: Zhongli-centric, Canon Divergent, Fluff and Angst, pre-1.1 story style, SLOW BURN, friends to enemies to lovers!, VERY FRIENDSHIP-CENTRIC

(Written before Version 3.0)

Summary:

He pulls at Childe’s locks again, bringing the other’s mouth back up for a searing kiss. Childe shifts, bracing his weight on his right forearm so he towers over Zhongli, brushing a gentle thumb against his cheek. Zhongli feels as if his skin is on fire, every part of him hypersensitive to Childe’s touch—responding earnestly to the other’s actions. Childe’s hand brushes against his chest, and Zhongli feels the exact moment he breaches his chest cavity, right where his gnosis is held. (After the Tsaritsa’s war ends, everyone else has the chance to fix what was broken.)

Read it here!

Author’s Commentary:

It was not supposed to be this long lmao.

If you like: Zhongli living his best life with the people he loves, Zhongli and his Archon friends, Zhongli and his adepti, Zhongli and his relationships (and I guess Childe’s there too), that’s essentially the gist of the story

Indulgent excuse to write Zhongli interacting with others

#genshin fanfic #genshin impact #tartali #tartaglia #zhongli #posted on ao3 #it’s the longest thing I’ve ever written and COMPLETELY BY ACCIDENT #this story taught me I do not have the endurance for 50k+ stories

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titaniasfairy · 27 days ago

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hush up

hi y'all! here's something to chew on, its the longest thing i've written for this blog! i lowkey hate it but that doesn't matter.

18+ MDNI

pairing: remmick x female!reader

wc: 2.7k

cw: sub!remmick, cunnilingus, riding, gagging, creampie, remmick is a brat

remmick doesn’t know how to listen.

he gets lippy with you at the drop of a hat, refusing to listen to you when he knows that you’re right. usually it’s little things like when he comes home when the sun comes up, though you’ve told him a million times that if he does it again, you’re not treating his burn wounds. or when he sinks his teeth in you for a little too long, despite you telling him you’re not ready to be dead yet like him. he’ll come up with some excuse like “i couldn’t find food for miles” or “i haven’t drank in days” when he knows full well that he’s lying through his ungodly sharp teeth.

most days you can handle it, he’s your man after all. even if he isn’t a man at all, not anymore. but today you weren’t having it.

it was after dawn, the early-morning sunlight beaming through your bedroom windows as the roosters crowed. usually, your mornings start before anyone else’s. you rise before the sun does and start the day with a cigarette on the front porch, waiting for your lover to come home from his nightly hunt for his dinner. each morning he’ll say his greeting, you’ll ask how was dinner, then invite him in. it didn’t matter if remmick knew the house like the back of his hand, knew where the creaks in the floor were, or where you kept the shotgun, his invitation was only per day. you had yet to refuse him, but it felt good that you had the power to turn him away like a stray dog.

you knew something was off when you woke, you never slept in till sunrise. still, you rose from your bed and put your house shoes on. before you could leave the bedroom, you heard heavy footsteps on dirt that followed to your porch. he was late, really late.

“baby please! they’re coming for me— open the door!”

remmick’s voice was hoarse and rough, like he’d been screaming all night. you rushed to the door and swung it open, revealing your lover on your doorstep. his hair was matted with sweat and his face was covered in dirt stains. one of his eyes was nearly swollen shut and an open cut was laid across his face. he was scorching hot, you could hear the sizzling on his back from the sunlight. the sun had left holes in the wife beater you bought him, the dress shirt he had been wearing the night before long gone. you looked behind him and around in the yard, looking for whatever he said was after him. “what the fuck happened to you?” his arms were raised and his hands rested on his head to slow his hasty panting.

“it’s the choctaw! they found me in the woods and i’ve been running ever since— you gotta let me in, baby, or they’re gonna find me.”

his mouth was running faster than his brain was, stumbling on his words and biting his own tongue. remmick keeled over and put his hands on his knees, his back moving up and down from his heavy breathing. despite his idiocracy, you believed him. he’d told you before about the native vampire hunters that live around town, though he’s always been able to slip from their grasp.

“cmon, but go wash up before you get my sheets dirty.”

“thank you, sugar.” he gave you a quick kiss on your forehead in gratitude before slipping past you and going straight to your washroom. you closed the door behind him and lit a cigarette, leaning against one of the porch posts. you shook your head in disbelief at the situation, you always tell him not to go too far off-property or he’ll get himself in trouble. you’d only puffed your cigarette once before you heard the water running behind you, at least he listened to you about that. sometimes remmick acted as if he was still a boy, with no mama to raise him right. you wonder what he was like before he died, every time you asked he’d hush up and look the other way. your thoughts were soon interrupted by a group of men on horseback riding down your driveway. you’d never seen then before, but you knew who they were.

the men stopped their horses in front of your house and one dismounted and approached you.

“good morning ma’am. we have reason to believe that there is a man on the loose, and he may have approached your home.”

there was no reason to be rude to the men, they were just doing their jobs, after all. you tried your best to appear genuinely surprised, raising your eyebrows and widening your eyes. “i ain’t seen nobody, sir, but i’ll be on the lookout.” you tapped your cigarette against the banisters, letting the ash fall to the dirt.

“this man is very dangerous, and if he’s in your home we need to act now.” you knew he had a feeling you were lying, but you kept up the act anyway.

“if there was a dangerous man in my house, i’d know. nothing my gun can’t handle.”

the man gave you a slight smile and nodded in acknowledgment. turning away from you and stepping back to his stead, he said something in a language you didn’t understand and followed it with, “let’s hope she has silver bullets.”

you rolled your eyes and stomped your cigarette out. once they were gone you went back in the house, closing the doors behind you. it was already dark inside, remmick must’ve closed the curtains already. “remmick, they’re gone.” you walked into the bedroom to find him laying on your bed asleep in a new wife beater and boxers he’d taken from the drawer you put his clothes in. his arms were resting above his head, he’d already made himself at home. but to remmick, you were the closest thing he ever had to a home. he was rid of the dirt stains and sweaty hair, but the cuts and bruises on him remained. despite how handsome he looked in front of you, you were still pissed.

“you wanna tell me where you’re goin’ at night? because i know you didn’t run into them choctaw on my property.” you leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and resting under your breasts. he sat up suddenly, holding himself up by his arms. he had that look in his eyes— the one he always gave you when he knew he was guilty. he was like a dog who’d been caught rummaging through the trash. “baby i was— you know them deer don’t come around no more.” he rubbed his eyes, still sleepy from the cat nap he took while he waited for the natives to leave.

“don’t give me that excuse, remmick. i see them all the time around here.” you weren’t giving him an inch, you’d heard these excuses before and you weren’t falling for them anymore. “d’you go into town?” he was fully alert now, leaning towards you on the bed. “of course i didn’t, darling, i know better than that.” you told remmick months ago to stay away from town at night, knowing he’d end up killing some poor soul who had no idea what was coming to them. “then where the hell were you?” you gave him a second to answer, but he could only stutter.

“you got some other bitch you’ve been seeing? because i swear to god remmick i’ll shoot a silver bullet through that skull of yours.”

he stood up from the bed and was on you in a heartbeat he didn’t have, his hands holding your face. “i swear on my ancestors, baby— i’d never do that to you.” he pressed a long kiss on your forehead, those same puppy dog eyes looking down at you. but this time you knew he was being truthful. he shut his eyes and kissed your cheek, leaning into your ear, “you know no one’s gonna make me feel as you do, sugar.”

you had to close your eyes to fight off the arousal pooling in your stomach from his words. his lips tickled the hairs on your neck, sending shivers down your spine. you let out a shaky breath, gaining back your composure. remmick’s hands shifted to your waist, holding onto you like a prayer. you could feel the bulge between his legs press against you, making your breath hitch again. you squeezed your eyes shut, you couldn’t just give into him like that, you had to punish him somehow.

“get on the bed.”

you didn’t have to tell him twice, by the time you had opened your eyes, he was laying on his back with his hands folded on his chest and a shit-eating grin across his handsome face. you sauntered to him, standing over the edge of the bed. the darkness of the room made his face consumed by shadows, his bright blue eyes now dulled to deep black holes. after stepping out of your house slippers, you reached under your nightgown and rolled your panties down your legs, remmick’s eyes never leaving your body. once your underwear was on the floor, you picked them up and threw them on the bed, landing on the pillow next to him. you slowly made your way onto the bed and straddled your lover, looking down on his dumbfounded face. his eyes were wide with admiration and lust, despite his irises having any color to them. his lips were plump and slightly ajar, his mouthing beginning to drool. “one day you’re gonna learn to listen to me, baby” you reached down and wiped some drool from the corner of his mouth, leaving him speechless. “i know what i’m talking about, y’know.” you ran your fingers through his brown locks and gripped them, forcing him to look into your eyes.

“isn’t that right, sugar?”

he moaned when it left your lips, the pet name he calls you so regularly. it only made you chuckle. though you couldn’t see it, you knew. remmick was so hard it hurt, his hips beginning to buck into thin air from no contact at all. you stuck two fingers in his open mouth, wetting them with his saliva. while he was too busy to respond, you slowly made your way to straddle his face. “now you’re going to listen to me, or else you won’t get what i know you want. do you understand me, remmick?” he nodded eagerly, knowing what you were planning. “good boy.” you pulled your fingers from his mouth and wiped them on his cheek. you bunched your nightgown up at your hips and placed your hand on the headboard to steady yourself before lowering onto remmick’s mouth.

“you know what to do.”

in an instant, his tongue was exploring your folds and running itself along the length of your cunt. both of you let out a wanton moan, a combined sigh of relief and pleasure. his eyes were squeezed shut, taking in the addicting taste of you, while you rocked your hips on his tongue, riding his face. remmick’s hands found your hips, holding you down on his wet muscle. usually, you’d make him keep his hands to himself, but you were too focused on getting yourself off to care.

you could feel the vibrations his moans each time he groaned into your heat, his hunger for you taking over his senses. you tipped your head back, your moans echoing off the wooden walls of the house. the pleasure being shot through you made you sweat, overheating your body. you lifted your nightgown over your head and threw it into a corner, leaving you bare. remmick’s eyes opened instantly and his gaze landed on your breasts, making his hips buck and his lips wrap around your clit. he ate pussy like it was his god given gift and his tongue was his blessing.

before you knew it, your orgasm passed through you, striking you like lightning. remmick held you steady while the shocks shot through you and your vision was blinded by white light. your high felt like a tsunami, a giant wave of euphoria that hit you with great force. once you came to, you slowly raised yourself from remmick’s mouth. “what do we say?” you asked, forcing him to use his brain for once. “thank you, darlin’”

“there you go, sweetheart.” your voice was sweet like honey and smooth like velvet to his ears, making his cock ache in his boxers. remmick always loved when you treated him like this, like there was nothing in the world that mattered but you. it made him feel alive again. you noticed the look in his eyes and kissed him hard, lips crushing against his with unrelenting passion. you both moaned into the kiss, tongues overlapping and exploring each other’s mouths. you continued to kiss him while you pulled his boxers down, revealing his throbbing length. he whimpered in your mouth when you wrapped your hand around him and whined when you lined his cock up to your entrance. you pulled away from his lips to admire him when you lowered yourself onto him, his face contorting in pleasure.

you laid a hand on his firm stomach for support, making sure you were taking all you could. when you bottomed out you let out a deep sigh, like a ton of bricks had just fallen off your shoulders. remmick’s hands were already on your hips, but you wanted to be in total control this time. “hands to yourself.” you grabbed his hands and pinned them to the bed, using them as leverage to begin rocking your hips. “cmon’ baby, i need to-“ you shushed him quick and grabbed the panties you’d discarded by his head.

“open.”

surprisingly, he obliged. you wadded up the fabric and shoved in his mouth, letting him taste you once again on his tongue. you put your hands back on his wrists and began to bounce on his cock, your cunt gripping him with vigor. the room had filled with noises of the wet gushing of your cunt, the sinful moans from your open mouth, and the muffled groans of the vampire below you. you got off on how pathetic remmick looked below you, the same monster that others track down and hunt for sport. but you didn’t want to hunt this beast, you only wanted to tame it. he writhed below you, his back arching and his chest heaving. it only made your second orgasm approach itself faster. he had become insatiable, his hips bucking up to meet yourself with each stroke of your cunt on his dick.

“cmon’ baby, i know you can do it.”

remmick let out what sounded like a sob muffled by your panties, the sound sending shockwaves through you and making your pussy clench. your words made him thrust up into you even harder and faster, drilling himself into you. his eyes had turned a deep red, his brows furrowed and he began to grunt like an animal. your hands left his wrists and landed on his throat, you’d be choking him to death if he was still alive. remmick seized the opportunity to grab your hips now that his hands were free, holding you in place so he could piston his hips into you. you threw your head back and screamed in euphoric delight. the coil that had been tightening in your core snapped, you froze as your orgasm crashed over you. you suddenly yanked the makeshift gag from remmick’s mouth, he’d almost bitten a hole through them. your cunt clenched before feeling the warmth flooding it, spilling inside you. loud and deep moans rung through your ears, hearing him reach his own orgasm. you both stayed in place before you fell into his arms, the both of you sweaty and heaving. remmick wrapped his arms around you and kissed your forehead, you closed your eyes and rested your head on his hollow chest before grinning to yourself.

“see what happens when you listen to me?”

an: aahhh i hope y'all like this, i wrote this in one sitting lmfao. also i recited that entire scene with the choctaw from memory and i believe it's almost perfect but i refuse to check lolol. please feel free to send me asks in my inbox!! i love hearing y'all's ideas. - bear 🐻

#bear rambles #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick #remmick smut #remmick x y/n #jack o'connell #SPEEDRUN #sub!remmick #am i ever gonna write him as a dom?#we may never know

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