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beenbaanbuun · 19 days

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the pet w/ poly!addams!matz

upon spending more and more time with your lovers, more things that have been kept well guarded secrets from the rest of the world seem to reveal themselves to you. the things that go bump in the night aren’t necessarily all figments of the imagination. the legends may be twisted and warped to make them seem a hell of a lot scarier than they actually are, but some things still hold true.

vampires for example. while their genes still technically exist, vampires themselves went extinct long before you were even born. seonghwa had explained it to you in depth one morning over breakfast, but none of it really sank in. you should’ve paid more attention to your biology classes in school; maybe then all the ‘immortality is a recessive gene’ nonsense that he was spouting would make sense to you. the whole ‘my great-great-grandmother was a vampire’ thing just didn’t seem to compute, but it did sort of explain why seonghwa gets a rash when he’s out in the sun for too long.

it turns out jongho isn’t really a bear skin either. he’s an onikuma that hongjoong’s family had passed down through generations. it was during that long, drawn-out chess lesson that hongjoong had explained to you that his family were once livestock farmers that the creature had stolen from time and time again. you found it cruel that jongho was slain just for the crime of being hungry, but hongjoong patiently explained that his ancestors were hungry too. slaying the beast that kept breaking onto their land and taking their sheep was the only way to keep food on the table. you’re just glad the memory of the onikuma lives on; you hope his spirit knows that he’s one of your closest friends.

but then one evening, just after the nightly waltz that you so love to sit and watch, seonghwa drops a bombshell. you’re cuddled up by hongjoong’s feet, gently undoing the laces on his dancing shoes as he and seonghwa pass soft conversation over your head. you’re listening, but not very well. it’s not like much of it is any of your concern anyway… well, except those few words that slip so freely from your mommy’s mouth.

“we should get a werewolf,” he muses to his husband before tipping the rest of his wine down his throat. it’s so nonchalant as if it’s something so perfectly normal for them. in the end, you suppose it is; seonghwa has already alluded to being descended from immortal beings (that aren’t really all that immortal, just… longer living) and the rug you’re currently sitting on is made from the skin of some mythical beast. if anything, a werewolf should just be another thing that you shrug off and accept as just being another part of your increasingly weird life.

but there’s a difference here. quite a big one. seonghwa said they should get a werewolf, and you can’t quite wrap your brain around why he means by that.

the couple seem to notice the sudden interest you have in their conversation though. perhaps it’s the way your body physically tenses up, or the way your fingers become slack on hongjoong’s shoe. either way, the two men hum out a chuckle. seonghwa’s hand finds it’s way to your head, stroking at your hair in the same way he does whenever he needs to calm you down. hongjoong just taps your knee with the toe of his shoe, reminding you of the task you appointed yourself with the moment the pair collapsed onto the couch.

“why ever should we allow some mutt into our house?” hongjoong says as your feet begin to work on his laces again. he always ties them so tightly. you know it’s just to give you something to do with your hands for a little while. “we’d have to house train the feral thing, which would be an immeasurable amount of work. it’s hardly a walk in the cemetery to train a beast to be civil, Cara Mia.”

seonghwa chuckles as he watches his husbands face twist up in disgust. he never has liked werewolves; claims they’re shifty creatures with no good intentions. seonghwa has to wonder what ‘good intentions’ he thinks vampires have, but he chooses not to argue. there’s not much point in the grand scheme of things. vampires don’t exist anymore, werewolves do.

“protection for our darling?” the tall man suggests, curling his fingers against your scalp so his blood red nails scratch delicately against your skin. you let out a satisfied sigh. your lovers smile down at you, “a friend for when we’re busy with work? there’s plenty of reasons as to why…”

hongjoong seems the mull the idea over as you slip the first shoe off. you gently place it to the side before moving the the next foot, laces done equally as tight.

“and you want to let our sweet girl near such an uncivilised creature?”

“it’s either that or a dog,” seonghwa shrugs.

“i’d rather the dog,” hongjoong cocks his eyebrow confidently, but seonghwa isn’t so easy to give up.

“and i’d rather the werewolf,” he says with a smile. he knows, after all, that he always gets what he wants. the proof of that is sitting right between their legs with a collar around its neck. “it would give her something to talk with when she gets lonely, plus the fact we won’t have to clean up after it. opposable thumbs really do work wonders.”

hongjoong sighs; they’re all good points but the thought of letting a werewolf into his home still sends a shiver down his spine. the thought of you being around one is even worse. they’re notoriously difficult to train (the fault of their human-esque desire to be independent) and hongjoong really doesn’t have that much time to waste. he lets out a groan just as you get the knot to the second shoe undone.

“you’re serious about this, aren’t you?” hongjoong asks. seonghwa replies with a nod. “what about you, little dove? would you like a friend?” you think about it for a second before slowly nodding as well. you suppose it would be nice to have someone to fill those empty hours where hongjoong and seonghwa are both tucked away in their respective work spaces. hongjoong lets out a defeated huff, “fine.”

you slip the shoe off of his foot just in time for him to grab you and tug you onto his lap. it’s ironic really—you’d get punished for having a temper tantrum, and yet when hongjoong groans and hides his face in your hair, all seonghwa can do is smile. there’s a reason you’re the one with a collar around your neck, you suppose.

“thank you, mi amor,” seonghwa leans over to press a kiss to his husbands head, “i’ll let mingi know that we’re interested; he was showing me photos of an absolutely gorgeous specimen named yeosang just the other day…”

#ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez oneshot #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #ateez fic #poly ateez x reader #hongjoong x reader #seonghwa x reader #matz x reader #opposites attract universe

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dalliancekay · 3 months

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Crowley is not stupid, Aziraphale is not an idiot and other assorted thoughts

Or how nothing is black and white and my bullying home and religious trauma is a metaphor not a direct translation to what our immortals experience. And vice versa. -

I don't know what it's like to hang out on Earth since the beginning but I'm sure it is richer than we can imagine we could imagine.

Our two favourite, currently men shaped beings, are captured for our storytelling enjoyment when their time on the Green Planet is about to be cut off.

One has been thrown out from their family home ages ago, we are not sure for what misdemeanour exactly, and is now working for a dumpy place where they don't mind inflicting pain if you misbehave nor do they care whether a trial is fair. So, a mafia, basically. And our hero is tasked with collecting new additions to the unhappy family on top of that. He doesn't much care for it and seems to do the bare minimum only.

The other has been sent to the young planet to guard the indigenous humans and told something vague about an Ineffable Plan that will all work out when there's a War in a few thousand years, which 'our, the Good, side' will win and everyone will be happy. Just tell the humans to behave and if they don't kick up a fuss, we will welcome them Here.

And Here is a vast, empty place, well lit, with busy, lonely bees working and filing, and checking, making sure rules are in place and are followed as written and everything is ticking over; the higher ranks' punishments rare but swift. Everyone has learnt a lesson when half of them were unceremoniously fired when someone said some nasty things about the CEO. So things might not be perfect but at least if you stick to your tasks you will be left alone.

So, we meet demon Crowley, whose family threw him out as mentioned above and his job sucks and he hates it but it's not hard and his placement is rather a nice place so he does his best to not to lose the position. Sometimes he wonders what is the point of it all and that's when he runs into his adorable archenemy, the angel Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was sent to Earth and given a job, one that doesn't seem to quite work out (or does it?) as he follows his heart instead of the rules almost immediately but surprisingly is not punished for it by the CEO. So he spends his time helping the natives, following orders he receives as best as he can and when he runs into his archenemy the demon, he feels a certain strange tingle and flutter in his heart at the sight of the rulebreaker.

They have done a fair job of it for 6 millennia. They avoid getting fired and even manage to take on each other's tasks to lighten up the load and the (pointlessly) random business trips (does anyone Up or Down there ever heard of geography?)

When we meet our heroes in present day-ish, they've been told the End of the World sequence has been triggered and life as they know it is about to end.

How do they feel about this? Well. Our demon is appalled. He knew this was coming. But not really. It's just something to sort of work towards right? After all, the Earth has been developing rather nicely. The alcohol got better, the food for his Angel, the music got interesting, the clothes tighter... He's having a good time. Yes, he pushes his luck sometimes. Sleeps too long, gives in and saves someone instead of ruining them. He gets into all kinds of tangles to spend time with his crush. He is rash but he's not stupid. He knows what's at stake. But he's angry. And sometimes that's hard to contain. He does go too fast. But Aziraphale is always there to catch him. And if he can't, he waits and worries and is there when Crowley returns.

So about the angel? He knows he should dislike the demon. He knows he should follow his directives. He knows he should not meet or talk to Crowley. And what does he do? Gets himself arrested in his fanciest silks so they can have crepes when the world and humanity is bringing them down with their relentless hate towards each other. He puts on a magical performance when the demon fails to deliver some contraband liquor in the midst of the Blitz bombing.

And, now. Here's the funny bit. Angel has gotten himself a part time job in the past few centuries. He's had a few before, but not quite like this. He has a place he loves now. A safe, cluttered place where a demon is welcome. It's not much like his original home. You could say... it's rather quite the opposite of it. In any case, he never really got on with his managers but tbf he likes his job. It makes the humans happy and he loves the humans and loves making them happy.

He also does not want the world to end. But his fam has always told him that once this bit is over, an even better one will come along. What that bit is was never quite explained but then, asking questions was always frowned upon and rather vehemently so. He's noticed this from the get go... unlike a red headed angel he once knew...

What is my point?

That neither Crowley or Aziraphale are wrong. Or right. Doing the correct thing. Or not. Me. You. We come from broken families, we have been friends and lovers with bad people, we have escaped religions, cults, home countries. Lies. Rules. Hate. We have fought for our love to be recognised as love.

Crowley and Aziraphale live in a world where Heaven and Hell is real. Where Satan rules over a smelly place with mould on the walls and God is engrossed in her sci fi novels and seems to have forgotten about Her Earth project.

You can't call Aziraphale stupid for believing in God. She exists. Whether She has a plan is open to debate, sure. She seems to have claimed so at some point, but then, we all change don't we. Maybe She changed Her mind and forgot to tell the upper management. Maybe She thought She didn't need to spell out all the details to them so they kill Job's kids. Maybe She was vague on purpose much in the style of King Henry II and Thomas Beckett.. Anyway. Back to Aziraphale, our angel on Earth. He is kind, has hope, wants to believe after thousands, millions of years. And this is not stupid. Aziraphale does and is brave, courageous things. And he's slowly learning to trust himself more too. To know the difference. It started with the sword and his overthinking on the giving away of it. He made a decision to protect Job's children. Risked Falling for it. Trusted the demon over his bosses. Not because Heaven is WRONG. Yes, they are. But the thing is they don't care. And Aziraphale does. He cares about humanity. And he cares about Crowley.

Nobody noticed (or did they) how our two field agents fell in love (neither did they tbf) and how fiercely they guard the little secret they share. The smiles and the glances, the small flowers of hope that things can change one day.

And they did change. Plan A, War and Destruction, did not work out. The youngster they sent from Below decided he likes the new place and refused to ruin it. They both learned things. They are still learning. The demon how to trust again. The angel how to question things.

So what's next? The place Above is going to send their trusted agent. He followed the rules last time seamlessly. It did not quite work out but no problem, they'll send Him out again. With a rather more final arrangement.

In the meantime, the disgraced and rather troubling Earth agents have been lying low. Unsure of their places and overall safety, they went on with their lives as best as they could until the angel happened to help his former boss run away with his paramour from the other side and is visited by the Big Boss.

Big Boss wastes no time and suggests to our angel he should come back Upstairs and take the place of his disgraced superior. To use his skills. To be better looked after I suppose. New opportunities. To be close to the big upcoming decisions or - under a close watchful eye.

Aziraphale, not surprisingly, refuses. He does not want to put any of his 'skills' to any good causes but his own. But then. THEN. He is not so subtly made aware that his dangerous liaisons with the other side have been noted and his help in the latest Complication might not go unpunished if he's not careful.

And this job offer suddenly seems FAR more sinister than it did 15 minutes ago. Especially when it is handed over with a coffee (that he does not much like) from a place called Give Me Coffee Or Give me Death.

Our angel goes home to cautiously tell his demon about the trouble they are in and his world comes crashing down around him.

This post turned out to be completely different to what I originally wanted to write. Is there a point? You decide.

Aziraphale's decision makes complete sense, he loves the Earth, his home and Crowley over and above everything else. And he WILL fight for their safety. AND the humans in the process if he can.

This is my very first Tumblr post. Way to go me etc. Please be kind.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #neil gaiman #season 2 #ineffable husbands #ineffable divorce #armageddon #shower thoughts #kaypost

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ddejavvu · 1 year

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Thick Thighs Save Lives - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader x Jake 'Hangman' Seresin

Summary: Being the only aviator with meat on your bones is tough. It's even more tough when you're stuck showering with two of your teammates.

Contents/Warnings: smut (minors dni), double penetration, fingering (vaginal and anal, f receiving), oral (m receiving), dirty talk, shower sex, protected sex, spit kink, body insecurities, mid/plus!sized reader, self-deprecation, arguing, angst with a fluffy/smutty ending

WC: 5.5K / navi

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

If there’s anything you don’t want to hear during a not-so-friendly game of beach football, it’s ‘shit!’. The exclamation comes from Coyote who’s branched off to your towels on the sand, fingers curled around his watch, “We’re late.”

“How late?” Phoenix is already adjusting her ponytail, as it’s frazzled from the action. She’s squinting in the sun and remedies it by knocking her sunglasses down off of her head and onto her nose. It’s smooth, and she knows it by the soft smirk that curls at her lips.

“We have twenty minutes to get on the road.”

“Shit,” Rooster parrots, dropping the ball where he stands, which is how you know he’s panicked too, “We all need showers. Penny’s gonna kill us if we stink up the restaurant.”

“We can go in teams,” Fanboy decides, already sprinting over to his towel, “We don’t have time for individual ones.”

Before you can get a word in edgewise Coyote and Phoenix are rushing to join him, Bob hot on their trail. The showers are spacious, sure, but you wouldn’t exactly volunteer to share them with anyone.

With a terrible sinking feeling in your stomach you realize that the only three left are you, Rooster, and Hangman. That means the only way you’ll get to Penny and Maverick’s engagement party is if you shower together.

They’re already at their towels, scrubbing sand out of their hair and strapping their watches back on. Hangman’s is a thick, black leather band, and you can see flecks of sand marring the sleek strap from where it laid on the towel. Rooster’s is thinner, brown in color and gold around the rim. His is clean, but he puts it on his sweaty, sandy wrist. It won’t be for long.

Both men are shirtless, too-tight jean shorts squeezing their waists. You make a point not to stare as you trek back to your towel, already picking up on their competitive banter before you’ve even stood beside them.

“-probably use all my shampoo,” Hangman scoffs, clenching his towel tight in his fist, “You always steal my shit, Bradshaw.”

“I think it’s only fair seeing as you steal my gel!” Rooster quips back, gesturing to Hangman’s stiff, shiny hair, untouched even after your game, “Isn’t it fucking weird, Y/L/N? How much he uses?”

Rooster looks back at you for confirmation, someone on his side. But you’re too disheartened to respond, dreading your impending doom. All you offer is a meager, “Yeah.”, that curls a frown under Rooster’s mustache.

“You hurt yourself or something?” Hangman raises an eyebrow, stunned by your lack of teasing, “I think we need to call the doctor, you didn’t just insult me.”

“I’m fine.” You grumble, towel held around your waist despite the presence of your rash guard, “Just tired from football.”

“Well get ready,” Rooster warns you, “Mav’s gonna have to tell us all about how he and Penny met, and I’m really hoping he withholds the details on the little rendezvous that got him in trouble with her dad, but I know he won’t.”

You shudder for a moment, if only to please him, to throw him off your scent. You’re tired, there’s not any other reason you’re in a funk. You’re tired.

You are tired. You’re tired of caring, of constantly thinking about it. You’re tired of wearing a rash guard to the beach instead of a swimsuit, because everyone else is smaller than you. You’re tired of watching people’s eyes, tracking them to make sure that if they ever dip below your chest there’s something in front of your stomach to block it from their view. You’re tired of adjusting your uniform to make it looser, you’re tired of leaning against the bar instead of sitting at it, you’re just tired.

“Hey,” Hangman’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, admittedly less grating and irritating than it normally is “You sure you’re okay?”

You blink and they’re staring at you, brows furrowed and limbs frozen in place. You wish that the waves lapping gently at the sand would crash onto shore and swallow you whole, sweep you up in a tidal wave of salt water and seaweed so that you wouldn’t have to answer.

“I’m fine,” You grit, slipping your feet into your shoes and rushing to stand outside the showers, “C’mon, we’ll be late.”

You had hoped that they’d get too busy bickering with each other to ever find you. But here they come, not five minutes later, just as Phoenix steps out of the steamy bathroom. A towel is wrapped around her torso and Hangman exaggerates his ogling of her, only turning your stomach further.

“Perfect timing,” He drawls, and she rolls her eyes.

Bob steps out next, taking one look at her face and stepping in front of her, “Your turn, Bagman. Try not to use all the gel.”

“See?” Rooster nudges you, his elbow against your arm as Bob and Phoenix walk away, “I told you! It’s absurd, he slathers it on like cement.”

“He’s gotta,” Coyote drawls, reaching over to knock on Jake’s head, “Otherwise his head’d sound as empty as it is.”

The two engage in a good-natured shoving match, but it’s one that nearly sends Coyote’s towel cascading to the ground, and you keep your eyes firmly on the tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner that you’d brought. You read over the ingredients, as if sodium laureth sulfate and glycol distearate will keep your mind off of your humiliation.

“You said you’re fine,” Bradley murmurs from beside you, “But if it’s something you just don’t wanna say around Hangman, he’s not listening.”

Part of you is less embarrassed to be honest and exposed to Rooster than Hangman. But he’s still a man, an incredibly fit one at that, and you’re not sure you’d ever want to reveal it to either of them.

“I’m just nervous,” You tell him the only part of the truth you’re willing to admit. I’ve never... showered with a- a boy before. A man.”

You cringe at your misstep, but if Bradley’s amused by it, he doesn’t show it. Instead he hums, sympathetically so, “We’ll turn around, honey. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“You’ll turn around,” You mutter, “I think it’ll just egg Jake on further.”

“What’s this I hear about eggin’ me on?” A familiar southern twang makes you tense as the man it’s coming from appears by your side, bumping his hip into yours, “You ready for our steam session, sweets?”

“Leave her alone, Hangman,” Rooster groans, feet slapping against the tiles as he goes to adjust the water. He shoves at Hangman’s back as he passes, and you stifle a giggle as the man nearly falls over.

“Hey, she’s the one that chose to shower with us,” Jake insists, and Bradley’s scoff is enough for you not to fight back, “And I would, too, if I were you, darlin’. Do you know how many ladies are lined up to see how hung Hangman is?”

You force a gag, “The only lady I see here is myself, and I’d rather smear wet sand in my eyes.”

“That’s what I’m gonna do to you if you don’t turn around and shut up,” Bradley speaks through the roar of the shower water, steam already rising from its fall, “Just drop your pants and wash your ass, so Y/L/N can shower to herself.”

“Well, well, well,” Jake smirks, towel cinched around his waist in only one hand as he stalks for the showers, “Looks like one of the ladies lined up is Bradshaw himself. Wanna see it, Rooster? Here it is.”

Jake drops his towel ceremoniously, and Bradley’s face morphs into a grimace as he turns away hastily.

“My fucking eyes,” He laments, and you pause in gathering your toilettries to laugh, while also trying very hard not to stare at Jake, “Oh my god, Y/N, you won’t have to worry about me seeing you. I’m going to pour shampoo into my eyes until I go blind.”

Jake realizes you’re taking a little too long getting ready, cocking a hip as he leans his head back to stare down his nose at you, “So what, you gonna ditch dinner, Y/L/N? Whatcha waitin’ for?”

“She’s waiting for you to stop being a perv and turn around,” Bradley comes to your rescue once again, and thankfully, Jake seems to realize it’s a real issue, pivoting until he’s facing the shower wall.

“I think she just wants a nice view of our asses,” Jake theorizes, standing with his clear on display, “Which is better, Y/N? Mine or Chicken’s?”

“Chicken,” Rooster grumbles under his breath, and if you were brave enough to actually declare a winner, you’d give it to him just for that. But, Hangman’s form is rather impressive, all tight curves and tan skin and-

And you shouldn’t be looking. You clear your throat awkwardly, peeling off your rash guard as Jake sponges his side down. There’s sand running thick down the drain and you hope it doesn’t back up, something you’d feel terrible for Penny to have to clean up.

“Uh,” Bradley stills in his place, “Shit, I think I left my shampoo over there. Y/N, could you…?”

“I got it,” You hum, reaching over for the blue bottle and tucking it in his carefully, blindly outstretched hand, “Thanks for, um- here.”

“Yep,” He nods, smearing a dot of the substance on his palm and lathering it through his hair.

“Oh no,” Jake mimics Bradley’s previous predicament, dropping the bottle in his hand so that it rests between his legs, “Y/N, could you-”

“Ass,” You drawl, reaching forwards to butt your palm against his back. He stumbles forward with a laugh, catching himself on the railing. He bends down to reach for it and you’re nervous he’ll peek at your body from between his legs, but he stays respectful, something you know he is at his core even if he pretends differently.

You find yourself relaxing against the tiled floor of the shower, feet firmly planted instead of poised to run. As much as you know neither of the men in front of you would make any rude comments about your body or your weight, there’s still the nauseating fear that they might think differently of you having seen you completely unobscured. So you’re thankful for the privacy, that lasts… well, until it doesn’t.

The snap of your conditioner cap catches the skin of your pointed finger in its jaws and a gasp clutches tight at your lungs.

“Son of a bitch!” You cry, waves of pain flowing through your finger and out towards the rest of them. On cue each man turns, eyes wide and fear-stricken, without thinking.

You know they didn’t do it on purpose. You know they instinctively thought you were hurt, and wanted to help. You know they didn’t mean to look at you. But the withering feeling in your guts knows no logic, only fear.

They’re looking, it hisses, They’re looking at everything. The way your stomach pudges into a roll at the base. The way your breasts sag. The way your thighs stretch, marks littering their stems, and present no gap.

“You’re bleeding.” Bradley observes, eyes trained faithfully on your finger, “I’ll get a bandaid.”

He rushes for the cabinets outside the shower, dripping water over the floor. Jake stands, staring, but you’re too humiliated to glance at his face and notice the soft pinky blush on his cheeks that’s spreading to his ears.

“Here,” Bradley speaks from behind you, though he molds himself to your side when you’re still frozen in fear. He brushes a towel over your cut, the turquoise material staining red. He then undoes the waxy paper wrapping from the bandaid, sticking it tight to your skin.

“It’ll get wet,” He reminds you, “But it’ll stop soap from stinging it.”

You don’t even thank him. At your prolonged silence he glances up at Hangman, intent on giving him a concerned glance, but he sees the man’s eyes rove over your form and snaps.

“Dude,” Bradley utters gruffly, “Don’t be a perv. Come on, turn around.”

When Jake stays just as still as you, he reaches for him, shoving hard, “I said turn around!:

“Please, Jake,” You whimper, tears brimming in your eyes, “Turn around.”

“You’re crying.” Jake snaps out of his trance to frown up at you, and Bradley keeps pushing, an insistent thorn in his side, “Why are you crying?”

“Because you’re-!” You gush, lip wobbling, “You’re looking at me, and- and judging me, and-”

“Judging you,” He scoffs, eyes nearly bugging out of his head, “Best body I’ve ever seen. Case closed. Court dismissed.”

“Shut up,” You seethe, tears finally dripping down your cheeks, “Just shut up! You think this is fucking funny? You don’t think there’s a reason I didn’t want to shower with you?”

“You’re private, I get that.” He scoffs. “But if you think I’m judgin’ any part’a that, then you’re stupid, too.”

“Not the compliment you think it is,” Bradley mutters, hands still prying at Jake’s shoulder, “She told you to turn around, just do it.”

“No,” Jake doubles down, pushing Bradley away and stalking towards you, “I wanna know why you think so goddamn low of me. You really think I’d rope a woman into a shower and then pick apart what she looks like? You think that low of me?”

“It’s not about you,” You gush, hands at your sides in frustration, “It's about me! And my fucking body, okay? I’m not calling you a dick for judging me, I’m calling myself-”

“What?” Jake’s head tilts to the side, eyes glinting dangerously, “What are you calling yourself?”

“....Gross.” You finish lamely, the fire in your chest extinguishing with the poof of a sigh that escapes your lips.

He’s grabbing your hand without thinking about it, gentle but firm. You stare at him, anxiety-riddled.

“Listen here, girly. I’ve let you get away with sayin’ a lotta things about yourself. Dumbass I agree with, especially considering these circumstances. I’ve heard clumsy and stubborn, those I don’t have an issue with either. But don’t look me in my fuckin’ face and tell me you’re gross, ‘cause it’s an insult to me and my tastes.”

He squeezes your hand once before releasing it, and it feels more now like a heartfelt gesture than a threatening one. You’re breathing heavy, lungs cut short from the adrenaline of the moment, Even though Bradley isn’t pushing him anymore, standing on the sidelines waiting, watching, Hangman turns around without another word. He scrubs aggressively through his scalp and you’re almost surprised nothing bleeds, your mouth hung slightly open and your tongue leaden over your teeth.

“I’m not your type.” You finally manage to mutter, voice taut.

“Yes you are,” Jake scoffs, “How would you know?”

“I saw you eyeing up Phoenix earlier.” You roll your eyes, and if Bradley hadn’t turned around again you’d have flashed him an exasperated look.

“So? A man can like several shapes,” Jake boasts, voice losing venom, “Plus I ogle Phoenix just to piss her off.”

“It works.” Bradley cuts in, and you snort.

“Point is,” Jake drawls, and you’re sure if Bradley was in his line of sight he’d have been the victim of a very withering stare, “Don’t discredit yourself. You’ve got sexy ass thighs, woman.”

“Jesus, Jake,” Bradley sighs, “Can you just hurry up, already? I’m sure there’s nothing more Y/L/N wants than to get rid of you.”

“Oh, shut up, lapdog,” Jake deadpans, “You can’t tell me you don’t agree.”

Bradley’s silent for a moment, and your gut churns.

“Whether I do or don’t is irrelevant,” He chooses his words carefully, “Let’s just leave Y/N alone.”

“He totally does,” Jake snickers, “Hear that, Y/L/N? It’s his blush.”

“Like you weren’t blushing!” Bradley scoffs, “I looked up at you and thought you’d been temporarily replaced with a baboon’s ass.”

“Oh, that’s funny,” Jake drawls, “That’s what I think every time I see you, porn stache. Then I remember it’s just your natural charm.”

The crisis has been averted enough for you to let out a shaky laugh at their insults, and the sound catches both men’s attention.

“Listen, Y/L/N,” Jake starts, voice much kinder and softer now, “The point of this isn’t me telling Bradshaw he’s got the face of an ass. The point is to get it through your thick fuckin’ skull; you’re pretty damn sexy, y’hear?”

You snort at his callous nature, “No one’s ever told me anything like that before.”

“Yeah?’ He pauses,towel in hand that he nimbly swings over his shoulder, “Well, pardon me for lookin’, and even more for touchin’, but everyone else is fuckin’ insane.”

Before you can process his words he reaches down to palm at your thigh, a hefty squeeze that sends your flesh spilling against his palm. You stiffen, even though he stays politely away from your ass, encroaching only on territory he could also grab while you’re clothed. The feeling of his touch, no matter how chaste, elicits a noise from your throat that you wish you could pass off for a scream.

It’s not.

It’s a moan.

He stops where he’d begun pulling away, eyes sharpening slightly. You don’t dare look at Bradley, but if you did, you’d see his cock twitch.

“Did I hurt you?” Jake asks, voice low.

All you can do is shake your head, teeth digging into your lower lip helplessly.

“Did you like it?” He tries again, but this time he doesn’t accept body language as an answer/ Still hunched, he ignores your nodding and reaches up with his free hand to tug your bottom lip out from under your teeth.

“I asked you a question,” Jake croons, voice smooth and soft, “Did you like it?”

All you can whimper is a meager ‘Yes’.

Do you want me to do it again?”

“Yes.” Stronger, this time.

His hand plants itself firmly back over your thigh, thumb stretching towards the curve of your ass this time. It’s a little more suggestive, and a lot more alluring.

“Jesus,” Jake groans, kneading the soft flesh of your doughy thigh between his fingers, “Bradshaw, c’mere for a second.”

He hesitates, “Do you want me there, Y/N?”

“Yes,” You nod once more, legs stiffening and thigh tensing against Jake’s palm, “I- I do.”

“You take front,” Jake instructs, falling into place behind you with his hands now greedily prying at your ass, “And I’ll take back.”

The smile that Bradley offers you when he steps in front of you is nothing short of dreamy. It’s enough to make you blush, and he lets out a soft, breathy laugh at how forward Hangman is being while he stands giddily in front of you.

“If you say hi,” Jake drawls, hooking his chin over your shoulder and reaching around your front to grip at the seams of your inner thighs while glaring at Bradley suspiciously, “I’m going to slap you.”

“I wasn’t going to say hi,” Bradley scoffs, and you can tell by his blush that he totally was.

“Jesus, enough yammering,” Jake scoffs, turning his head to press his dewy lips into your neck, “We’re gonna be late for dinner.”

You worry, for a moment, that he’ll let go. That he’ll walk away, get dressed for the restaurant, and pretend nothing ever happened. But that’s not what he does, of course. Instead, you feel the hard press of his cock against your ass.

“I’ll be gentle,” Jake croons, feeling you tense as his hands smooth over the dip of your ass, “We’ll go slow, okay?”

“Real slow,” Bradley murmurs, and it catches your attention, reeling it back to him. You realize he’s standing much closer to you now than he had been before, lips nearly brushing yours.

The second your lips meet his in a kiss, Hangman smooths his hand between the globes of your ass. You squirm at the sensitive feeling, foreign as his fingertip brushes against your hole. But he doesn’t let up, and neither does Bradley.

Rooster’s tongue slides against your bottom lip, warm and wet. At the same time Hangman’s hands squeeze your ass, pulling apart each side and smoothing down the skin between. It sends a shiver up your spine that escapes in a puff of air between your lips, one that Bradley eagerly swallows.

Bradley’s hands grab your cheeks, thumbs brushing near your eyes and yanking you closer. You can feel Jake’s fingers carefully prodding and pressing at the tight ring of your asshole, a hitch in your breath causing you to bite down on Bradley’s lip.

“Fuck,” He hisses, coming away with a red lip and a guttural groan, “Jake, just- let up. Me first, she’s obviously sensitive.”

“She’s just tight,” Jake murmurs, lips pressing to the expanse of your shoulder, “Nothin’ I can’t fix.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to fix it,” Bradley grumbles, tearing a condom open with his teeth that he’d snagged from his wallet, “‘Cause I’m going in first, and you- shit!”

His fingers, slippery from the water and probably excess soap, drop the condom. The way that you’re arched into Hangman’s touch means that your thighs are squeezed together and bent slightly, and there’s no better way to catch a condom than between your thighs.

The foil wrapper sticks between your legs, making it easy for Bradley to pluck it out and toss the wrapper aside. Penny will find it tomorrow, because you’re sure as hell not gonna remember to get it.

“Well, whaddya know,” Jake drawls, grinning against the skin of your neck so hard you can feel it, “What they say is true. Thick thighs save lives.”

You face-plant into the water-dropped skin of Bradley’s neck, ignoring the way Hangman snickers.

“Actually, I think they just stopped a life from being conceived,” Bradley reasons, only a few sloppy strokes of his cock needed to easily slip the condom on, “But that probably saved my life, ‘cause if I got you pregnant in Penny’s bathroom, she’d slit my throat.”

The tip of Bradley’s hardened dick presses to your inner thigh, skin seldom touched and sensitive. You lean into it, but Hangman’s fingers follow, gently stroking over the rim of your ass. It’s starting to feel less foreign and more pleasurable, a twinge of something sweet licking at the underside of your belly like a rogue flame.

Bradley gently presses two fingers against your slit, ever-considerate in making sure you’re sufficiently prepped, but his eyes widen at how much slick he’s greeted with just past your folds.

“Holy shit,” He breathes, nose nudging yours as his lips brush with your own, “You’re wet.”

“Duh,” Hangman scoffs, and one of his hands abandons your ass to slip between your folds, collecting slick on their tips and dragging it back to your ass, “I’ve been touchin’ up on her for a while now.”

“Pardon me for thinking that’d work like an umbrella on a rainy day,” Bradley bitches, but you cut him off with a kiss before he can spout any other mildly insulting metaphors for how bad he thinks Hangman is in bed. You’ll vouch if you have to, he knows what he’s doing.

With each slow circle that his fingers trace around your rim, you bend back into him. Until you can feel his cock pressed stiff to your backside,just as Bradley presses his tip flush with your clit.

“Oh-,” You gasp, clit sending a shockwave of electric lust reverberating throughout your body, “Bradley, I- Inside, please, now!”

“I’m coming, sweetheart,” He croons, speaking in a velvety soft hum against your lips, “Don’t worry.”

He holds to his promise, sliding his dick down from where it’s pressed to your clit and easing it between your folds. You heave a blissful sigh at the feeling of being full, and it makes you rock backwards into Hangman’s fingers.

One breaches your hole, slipping inside with an agonizingly pleasurable burn. The stretch feels heavenly, especially because your cunt is already stretched to accommodate Bradley’s cock that slowly bottoms out inside of you.

“Good,” Jake praises, kissing beneath your ear, “I knew you could do it.”

Rooster lets out a groan at the feeling of your involuntary clench around him, eyes screwed shut. His forehead is braced against yours and you take the liberty of engaging him in another kiss, letting the pleasure of Jake’s fingers at your hole compel you to lick into Bradley’s mouth.

Being pleasured from both sides is too overwhelming. You feel yourself already rising to a climax, pressed on by both Bradley’s thick cock grating against your insides and Jake’s fingers.

You smooth your tongue over Bradley’s, gripping his shoulder when he increases his pace to be steadily fast. He’s not speeding through anything, but he’s not slow either, and it makes your insides burn.

The feeling of his cock ramming over and over and over against that spongy spot deep within you is too much, especially when Hangman slides a single, thick finger into your ass. You can’t help it, your orgasm hits you like a freight train (or perhaps a fighter jet), and you clench sporadically around Bradley’s thick, hard cock.

You whine relentlessly into his mouth, fingers clawing and prying at his damp skin as your knees go weak. You’re surprised you stay standing at all, but you funnel all of your orgasmic vigor into the kiss that Bradley eagerly licks out of you, and clutching his shoulders is enough.

Coming down from your high is jarring, especially when you realize that the steady pressure against your clit had been Bradley’s thumb the entire time. The pleasurable sensation is starting to sour with the unpleasant sting of overstimulation, and you tear his hand away eagerly, “Too much.”

“Sorry,” Bradley grunts into the kiss, the bristles of his mustache grating at your lip.

Bradley pulls out of you, still hard and red-tipped.

Jake takes one look down, his free hand sliding up your back while his other stays firm at your ass, “Those were pretty sounds. Look’t what they did to Bradshaw. See that, honey?”

You nod, breathless as you stare at Bradley’s impressive length.

“I think you should return the favor,” Jake muses, putting pressure against your back so that you bend in half, “Suck him off, darlin’.”

You land at eye-level with Bradley’s covered cock, and you can’t get the condom off fast enough. You drag your tongue along the underside of Bradley’s hard dick, taking the heated length into your hands and squeezing fondly at his balls. He swears low and gruff under his breath, watching your tongue snake against his slit.

Your lips curl around the head of Bradley’s cock, and the way that Jake adds a second finger to your ass makes you suck hard. You feel Bradley’s cock twitch on your tongue, and you scrape your teeth feather-light along him as you take more of him into your mouth.

He tries to keep himself still, tries not to face-fuck you, but he’s hopeless. His hips jolt forwards and you gag at the feeling of his dick hitting the back of your throat. It makes him groan, fists clenched at his side.

You bob and suckle along every inch of Bradley’s dick, licking up the vein that runs along the side and hollowing your cheeks while Jake fingers you open. When there are suddenly no fingers in your ass anymore at all, you whimper, taking Bradley’s cockhead into your fist while you try craning your neck to look back at Hangman.

“Keep going,” Jake directs you, nodding his head towards your fist, “He’s not done, and neither am I.”

You slip the hand that’s curled around Rooster’s dick and slide it up his length, rubbing gently at the base while you kitten lick the head. He pants and groans, bucking into your fist and subsequently your throat. The feeling of Jake’s dick pressed tight to your stretched hole makes you jolt forwards, and you face-fuck yourself on Bradley’s dick.

“Jesus,” He hisses, “You’re- you’re good at this, baby. C’mon, a- a little more, now.”

You let out a scream muffled by Bradley’s cock as Jake slides himself into your ass, dick grating delightfully tight against your rim. Once he bottoms out he sets a merciless pace, giving you no time to adjust before you’re being hammered into like he’s a feral animal.

“See that, Bradshaw?” Jake boasts, sending a hefty slap to your ass, “Told you she could do it. Perfect ass.”

“I see,” Bradley pants, hands tangled in your hair while you bob on his cock, “I- I’m gonna cum, honey.”

There’s barely any warning before the sight of Jake’s cock ramming into your ass gets to be too much for Bradley, but you don’t need it. You’re perfectly content to welcome his warm seed down your throat, letting it paint the inside of your mouth as you tongue him dry.

You don’t realize you’re using Bradley’s cock as a pacifier until he pushes at your forehead, hissing in oversensitivity, “Okay, okay! It’s too much,” He soothes you by sticking two of his slick-stained, thick fingers between your lips instead, “Here, honey. There y’go.”

Drool gathers at the seam of your lips and Bradley smears it away from your mouth, gathering it on his palm and licking it away. He groans at the taste, his own seed permeating your saliva, “Messy girl.”

Jake isn’t satisfied with his lack of action. Apparently, jackhammering into your ass isn’t quite enough for the guy, and he fists a hand in your hair to yank you upright with a grunt.

Bradley’s fingers slip from your lips with a pop and you cry out as Hangman manhandles you, pleasurable pain flooding your senses from the hair-pulling that start waves of a second orgasm swelling below your belly.

“Open,” Jake commands, keeping your neck bent backwards so that his face hovers over yours. You open your mouth without hesitation, and he spits inside.

Warm saliva, cooling quickly the more you stick your tongue out, pools by your throat. You eagerly swallow without being told,drool now seeping backwards down your face and towards your eyes. Jake licks it off with a broad, wet swipe of his tongue, and smears it against your lips.

The kiss is messy, upside-down and drooly, but it’s hot. Jake’s tongue licks against yours and his teeth nip at your bottom lip, a real spider-man style porno.

Your spine aches from being bent like a curly-q, but the ecstasy bleeding into your core is enough to push it to the back of your mind. You reach down to finger your clit, a whimper bleeding into Jake’s mouth at the action.

“Gonna cum, honey?” Jake drawls, “Sweet pussy’a yours gonna clench around nothin’?”

His southern drawl is stronger when he’s fucking, you note. It’s attractive.

“Not nothing,” Bradley volunteers, sticking his spit-soaked fingers up into your gaping cunt, “Cum, baby.”

You’re very good at following orders.

Your second orgasm hurts, in the best way. It tears you apart from the inside out, cunt clenching tight at Bradley’s fingers as he curls them inside of you. Jake bites hard at your lip as you ride out your second orgasm, and his dick twitches inside of you once, twice, three times before he’s letting himself go in tandem.

He fills you with warm cum, the substance gushing out of your gaped hole and oozing out around his own cock.

“Jesus fuck,” He snaps, the words an unintelligible grunt against your lips, “So tight, and so sexy.”

Bradley’s free hand braces itself on your stomach, and the touch doesn’t make you recoil like it normally would. It’s lewd, but being splattered with their cum really makes you believe that they’re not going to judge your body.

Instead you lean into the touch, letting Bradley embrace you as you come down from your high a moaning pile of mush.

“Slow,” You warn Jake, who’s never heard the word a day in his life. He follows directions, though, easing his dick out of you and making sure it doesn’t burn.

“We need another shower,” Bradley pants after a moment of fucked-out silence.

You nod, brain foggy, “Yeah. We- we can’t show up to the restaurant smelling like sex. They’ll know.”

As it turns out, you don’t need to smell like sex for everyone to know you’ve just had it. You show up forty-five minutes late, sweaty-faced and rosy-lipped, all slightly out of breath. Your dress is rumpled, and Bradley’s tie is haphazardly secured.

“Oh,” Phoenix grimaces, nose scrunching in disgust, “Gross, guys.”

“In my bathroom?” Penny looks aghast, “You better not have clogged the shower drain.”

“Easy,” Maverick throws a hand out over her own, “We’ve done it in there one too many times to judge.”

“Gross!” Payback rears away from the older pilot sitting next to him, “Everybody needs to stop getting laid, but if you do, don’t tell me about it!”

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danikamariewrites · 5 months

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Could I request part 2 for Inventor, where reader gets kidnapped by Baron so that they can make things exclusively for him. And the motiv behind this is that the reader refused to share one of there inventions with him because they knew he would use it for himself and not share it with his people 🙄

Hope this isn't too big of an ask, happy writing!!

Myth

Azriel x reader

A/n: you can read Inventor here! Also this is a long one lol

Warnings: kidnapping, mentions of torture, injuries, some violence, and some typos bc I don’t think I got them all sorry

A guard ripped off your blindfold violently, almost taking a fistful of your hair with it. You blinked rapidly adjusting to your surroundings.

You sat tied to an old wooden chair in an ornate office decorated in the colors of autumn.

Well shit. If you knew mouthing off in the last High Lords meeting would land you here you would’ve kept your mouth shut.

No you wouldn’t have.

Beron clearly wanted something from you. And you had a feeling you knew what it was. Azriel’s spies had gathered intel that Beron had been keeping what was found in the mines a secret. The guesses had been anything from rare metals to ancient fae weapons.

Footsteps from the hall grew closer until the door creaked open. You counted eight people, seven guards and Beron. Two guards approach you, lifting your chair to bring you face to face with Autumn’s High Lord.

He was casually leaning against his desk, flipping through a file on his desk you were sure had your name on it. “If it isn’t little miss know-it-all. I’m so glad you could join us.” His tone was sickly sweet and each word dripped with a sick sarcasm. It made your stomach do flips before tying your intestines in a knot.

You didn’t know how long you’d be able to hold out. You’re not trained like Azriel. You can’t fight and you definitely won’t do well under torture. But you’d do your best for him, for your court.

“Let’s see here,” he drawls, flipping open the file. “Multiple awards since the start of your university days, graduated the top of your class, and come highly suggested from three out of seven High Lords. You’ve been around the world and co-discovered countless new technologies.” You knew where this was going.

You had been backed into this corner before by powerful men. They were less powerful than Beron and you had never been tired up before, but that’s beside the point. You wanted to snip back at him but now seemed like a good time to hold your tongue.

When Beron looked at you he had a raised brow and a confused scowl on his lips. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath, pulled your lips super tight, and were holding your eyes open really wide. You’re not the greatest in social situations. Letting out a huff you try to relax into the rickety wood chair. “What do you want from me?”

An evil smirk slowly pulled at his lips. “I need you to…reinvent an old weapon for me.” His spies were right in their guesses. Cauldron, you didn’t even want to think about what this weapon could do. “And if I refuse?” You couldn’t help the tremble in your voice or the slight wobble of your lip. “You have two hours to decide. If you don’t we’ll make sure the shadowsinger gets your body back.” His tone told you it would be in pieces.

Beron adjusted his jacket rousing his desk to sit. Two more guards appeared in front of you as they untied you, switching out the ropes for metal shackles. As the ushered you out into the hall you saw Eris waiting for you. The tall male looked calm and composed. You knew on the inside he was panicking due to the rash decision his father made. Eris roughly grabbed your upper arm dragging you to his side. “I will escort her.”

“We were commanded by the High Lord to take her.” The guard that shackled you said. Eris raised a brow, wearing a similar expression to his father’s. “Then you can accompany us.” You began the long trek down to the dungeons of the Forest House. You kept your head down the whole way knowing that if you looked up at Eris you’d give everything away. All the secrets you’ve kept all the meticulous planning your mate and brother-in-laws have accomplished would be for nothing with a single pleading look.

A guard opened the bared cell door as Eris kept your arm in his firm grip. Shoving you onto the cold stone to keep up the facade Eris slammed the door shut behind you.

You held your hands out to break your fall. As your knees hit the floor your hands skid across the stone floor. You suck in a breath, pushing yourself to sit against a wall to inspect your hands. Your palms are red and fresh cuts litter your skin. You press them against your pants to stop the stinging pain.

Eris scoffs at you. “Pathetic. I’ll be back in an hour to see if you’ve made your decision. Think fast little tinkerer.” He teases, turning away on his heel without giving you a second look he and the guards leave you.

You are not going to cry, you say to yourself. I am going to be smarter than Beron. I’m going to get out of this and Az and the rest of the group will come for me.

——

Rhys, Azriel, Cassian land on the balcony of the House of Wind entry way, returning home from Illyria. All three were hoping to find their mates waiting to embrace them. Instead they were greeted with silence. The brothers look to each other in confusion as Azriel sends out his shadows to search the house.

Taking a few more steps into the house they tensed at the sound of little footsteps rushing toward them. Nyx appeared, launching himself at his father, a little frown on his face. “Daddy!” Rhys scoops the little boy to his chest kissing the top of his head. Rhys could sense his little boy’s distress. “What’s wrong buddy?”

“They’ve been looking all day, but no one can find Auntie y/n.” Azriel’s eyes went wide. His heart stopped for a moment as he pulled on the bond, but nothing. Your side was dark. How could he not have felt that you were gone.

Gwyn and Elain came rushing in next followed by Lucien and two of Azriel’s shadows. “I found something!” The priestess exclaimed, waving a piece of paper in the air. Lucien immediately recognized it as stationary from Eris’s desk. He snatched it from Gwyn’s hand, his eyes moving quickly over the note as he took in each word. His face grew grim.

Finishing the note he looked to Azriel. A frown pulling at the males lips. “What!” The word came out loud and agitated. Lucien hesitantly handed the note to Azriel as he began to explain. “It’s from Eris. Y/n has been taken to Autumn. He’s not sure what Beron wants with her.”

Azriel’s hands were shaking with rage. Gwyn noticed, quickly taking Nyx from his father’s arms and rushing out before something drastic happened. With a look from Lucien Elain nodded her head, turning to follow Gwyn.

Azriel’s shadows began to swarm in a violent pattern. In and out, whispering in his ears as they pass by, threatening to plunge the foyer into darkness. Cassian gripped his shoulders tight. Forcing his brother to look at him. “We will get her Az. But you need a level head.” Azriel’s face was stuck in an angry scowl. His brows pinched and his hazel eyes darkened with rage. Azriel turned his head to look at Rhys. Giving the High Lord a look that said he would go to Autumn without permission if he had to.

Rhys pushed the males apart. “We can’t go in alone. We need more than us.” He looked to Lucien who shook his head. “I’m sorry. But I can’t go back there, not until he’s gone.” Rhys nodded in understanding. “We need the Valkyries with us then.”

“I won’t be subtle.” Azriel gritted out through clenched teeth. “I don’t expect you to be brother. Beron will answer for his crime of taking your mate, I swear it.” Some of the tension let up in Azriel’s body at the promise of Beron suffering. “Let’s get everyone together and head out.”

——

You had been staring at the wall willing yourself to feel nothing for the Mother knows how long. The stinging in your hands had subsided but your knees ached. They were definitely bruised but you couldn’t bring yourself to check. A door at the end of the hall opened, footsteps echoed down the narrow hall as they got closer to your cell. You prayed it was Eris returning alone.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw the lordling staring at you. Eris leaned casually against the bars, like this was a casual meeting between friends. “So, what is it? He won’t tell anyone but the guards.” You blink rapidly to keep your tears away as you spoke. “It’s a weapon. I don’t what kind. He just wants me to rebuild it or fix it or whatever.” Your voice came out monotone. Truthfully you couldn’t be bothered with this conversation. You just want to be out of your cell. Eris let out a huff leaning back from the bars. He paced in a small circle before facing you again.

“I sent word to Lucien who has no doubt told your mate and the other two.” Your heart rate picked up at the mention of Azriel. You had tried to pull on the bond but no luck. When you were taken you were hit with a heavy dose of fae bane. It must still be in your system. Azriel and the others would be on their way soon.

“Tell him yes.” Eris froze, staring at you with wide eyes. “What?” He whisper yelled. You stood, slowly making your way to the cell door. “I’ll work on it. Take me to Beron.” Eris looked like he was torn. If he took you to Beron Azriel would make sure his death was slow and painful. “If you don’t take me I’ll just start yelling for the guards.” An uncomfortable pause fell between the two of you.

Opening your mouth as if to yell for a guard Eris shushed you. “Fine, fine I’ll take you.” The punishment his father would bestow upon him would be worse than Azriel if Beron found out Eris was with you when you made up your mind. Snapping on his mask of cruel heir Eris called for a guard. You were surrounded by the same group of guards as Eris brought you back up to the main house.

Beron met you at the entrance to the house looking smug. Like he’d already won this little game. “I’m glad you’ve made the right decision.” He leads you past his office to a room with two more guards posted at the door. They stand aside to let you, Beron, and the others through but not Eris. You don’t look at him in case your emotions betray you.

Beron gestured for you to sit at the work bench. He left the cuffs on you as a reminder that you are still a prisoner. Beron carefully removes the cloth hiding the weapon from you. You sucked in a harsh breath at the broken sword in front of you. This thing was supposed to be a myth. But here was the sword of the first High Lord of the Day court sitting in front of you. “The last known name for it was Claíomh Solais.”

You nodded along at Beron’s words. “The myth is that the first High Lord of Day received it as a gift from the Mother herself. He had kept the sun rising and as a thank you the Mother gave him Claíomh Solais so he could protect the day from his enemies who wanted eternal darkness.”

“Correct. My miners found it like this. Cut clean in two. Fix it, but add something more.” What else could Beron possibly want this thing to do? Even if you could fix it, the sword was powerful enough. You nod in agreement and he leaves without a word, keeping two guards inside and the two outside.

——

Azriel was vibrating with anticipation. They were right outside the house. You were in there and Beron was doing Cauldron knows what to you. Rhys laid a reassuring hand on Azriel’s shoulder. He felt Rhys tapping on his mental shields and opened them enough for Rhys to say, “Soon, we are just waiting on Eris.”

The doors to the Forest House swung open and Eris stepped out onto the landing. He strode back and forth until his eyes landed on where Azriel was keeping the six of them hidden with his shadows. Eris whistled as if he were calling his hounds telling Rhys to make his move. He reached out to the minds of the guards at the front of the house. Making sure none of them would be bothered by the presence of the Night Court.

Clearing the front garden and massive stone steps Eris lead them into the house. Azriel let his shadows loose to look for you. They had been restless since Azriel found out you were missing and they were eager to bring you back to their master.

Rhys kept his hold on the guards they passed while making sure the ones ahead stayed where they were as well. “This is over kill you know. I got him go back out to the mines for another look.” Nesta scoffed at him. “You think we’d risk y/n’s life on your word?” Eris rolled his eyes and kept walking fast. Coming up on the room where you were being kept Azriel threw out his arm, hitting Eris square in the chest and bringing the group to a halt. Shadows come flying back down the hall whispering their findings to Azriel about the guards and your wellbeing.

“Two in, two out. I’ll go, the rest of you guard Rhys.” Eris tried to get him to wait but Azriel stared running down the hall, a dagger in each hand. Azriel threw the daggers. Each finding their mark flawlessly in the throat a of the guards. Shadows caught the bodies from thudding to the floor, keeping them pressed against the wall as they continued to struggle for air. Azriel quickly rapped his knuckles on the door and stood to the side.

The door opened a crack for the guard to see. He squinted, cautiously opening the door he looked to one side. Before he was able to find Azriel he grabbed the guard by the back of his neck and twisted until he was lifeless in his arms. Azriel threw the male down on the floor entering the room. When his eyes landed on you the bond hummed to life in his chest. His protective instincts to get you to safety practically blinding him with rage. The last guard would be the one to unfortunately take the brunt of that anger.

Azriel punched, and punched, and punched until the sound of you crying out his name brought him back to his conscious self. Unable to hold your tears back you broke down. Azriel made his way over to you, picking you up bridal style. “It’s ok. It’s ok baby, I got you. We’re gunna get these off you when we get home, ok.” You nod vigorously against his chest as you were unable to get a word out thanks to your hysterical tears.

Before he could leave you pulled on his leathers for him to wait. With renewed adrenaline rushing through your body you fumbled your way around the work table. Your hands messily picking up a leather strap, the cloth, and stacked the two pieces of the sword on the cloth. You wrapped them up tight and clutched it to your chest. You turn to Azriel waiting for him to pick you up again.

Grabbing you he hurries back down the hall. You toss the wrapped up sword to Cassian for safe keeping as you all fled from the Forest House. Eris was no where in sight. You assumed he went to stall his father before he noticed you were missing.

Sunlight blinded you. Before your eyes could adjust darkness surrounded you and the world fell away. The salty air blowing off the Sidra pierced your nostrils, the sound of wings flapping calmed you as they slowly brought you to the house of wind.

Azriel fell to his knees on the marble floor. His warm scarred hands cradling your face as he rested his forehead against yours. He apologized over and over for not knowing you were gone. For leaving you as Beron’s prisoner for so long.

Rhys gently removed the cuffs from your wrist. You flung your arms around Azriel, telling him it was ok. That you’re safe with him now. Pulling away from him slightly you looked into his tear filled eyes. “I’m ok Az. You got me.” Your mate gives you a tight lipped smile, closing his eyes to force the last of his tears out. “I got you.” He whispered back.

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ktwritesstuff · 1 year

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Into the Fire (a Game of Thrones fanfic, sort of...)

Title: Into the Fire Fandom: Game of Thrones, with all due disrespect :D Rating: Explicit Characters & Pairings: Oberyn Martel x Targaryen!reader (with a side of Ellaria) Word Count: ~4,000 Summary: Prince Oberyn saves your life and eventually does what Oberyn does with you. Beta-read by the illustrious @bs-fangirl. Additional content notes below the cut.

Content Notes: I don't know that much about Game of Thrones and most of what I do know I don't care for. But I do like Prince Oberyn. Expect a bit of violence, first time, light breeding kink, oral, poly-dynamics, unprotected p-in-v, probably a bunch of other tropes I've missed. It's Oberyn, "dead dove, do not eat" applies.

Into the Fire

You had escaped the madness at King’s Landing (in part thanks to the belated arrival of Ned Stark’s troops and the ensuing confusion among the enemy’s forces.) You did not make it five miles–on foot at night–before being set upon by slavers, opportunists taking advantage of the chaos. At least they saw more value in you alive than dead.

You were frightened when the soldiers came, thinking they must have been sent by Baratheon the usurper. From the wagon at first all you could see was the flash of a golden spear in the firelight. A whole troop of men fell upon the bandits, but there may as well have only been one. He moved so swiftly and so well, like a tongue of red flame wicking through the forest.

He was the most beautiful creature you had ever seen, even before they pulled you from the wagon and you saw the banner emblazoned with a red sun. These men were of House Martell, not Lannister, and if your luck held you might live to see another day.

“What is this?” asked the man in red.

“A Targaryen bastard by the looks of her,” one of the soldier’s growled, seizing a handful of your corn-silk hair and turning your face toward the fire. Your looks were not so other-worldly as your cousins, but at least you bore a close enough resemblance that he did not mistake you for a Lannister.

“I’m nobody,” you pleaded. “I’m nobody.”

The man in red drew close enough that you could make out the features of his face. You had seen Prince Oberyn only once before, at Rhaegar and Elia’s wedding feast, but his looks were unforgettable. You were surprised it had taken you so long to recognize him and even more surprised that he seemed to recognize you.

“I know your face,” he said. “You were a maid to Princess Elia; you were at King’s Landing. Tell me what you saw.”

“I hid–” you whimpered as the soldier pulled your hair.

“You abandoned your lady,” he said.

“No,” you cried. “When Lannister turned on us, the guards took her. I hid in the servant’s passages. I heard Tywin Lannister give the order to the one they call the Mountain to murder Elia’s children. I went to the nursery, but the children were gone. I searched for them–”

You admitted to all that you had seen. The gore, the horror. Elia cleaved in two from root to navel and her children smashed. The anguish that would never leave you. All the while Prince Oberyn’s face remained still as a stone, but you could see the sorrow and rage behind his dark eyes.

“You lie!” The soldier accused. “How could a mere girl escape such chaos unspoiled?”

“The same way anyone does,” you said. “Blind luck.”

The prince paced alongside the wagon, assessing you, sizing you up.

“And you’re sure it was Tywin who gave the order?” he asked.

“I swear,” you nodded. “On my life.”

The prince wanted to ride for King’s Landing immediately and dispatch Tywin himself, but ultimately his generals dissuaded him from such rash action. In the meantime, they gave you bread and wine and allowed you to rest in the first safety you had known in days. It was dawn before you saw the prince again. Even with a frown and deep lines etching his forehead, he was still the loveliest man you had ever seen.

“I can leave you a mount and a bit of gold for your journey,” he said. “But I cannot spare any of my men to return you to your people.”

Over time the sacred words of your house had become twisted. The life-giving warmth of fire and the sacred blood of kinship and covenant had turned to violence and ambition. Was it any wonder that Aerys’s reign had festered? But sweet Elia, a gentle princess and devoted mother, you would have followed her anywhere.

“I loved your sister,” you said. “Her people are my people.”

“Very well,” Prince Oberyn said, and for a moment a look crossed his face. You would have sworn he was pleased. “We sail for Dorne first thing tomorrow.”

You had passed six long years in Prince Oberyn’s harem, wanting for almost nothing. The court at Dorne was filled with carnal delights you have never before experienced: music and dancing, glittering jewels, perfumed baths, and the finest food. All of it available to you.

And the prince’s other concubines doted on you. When you first arrived in Dorne at 19 they considered you a baby. Meanwhile gossip at court held that your young cousin had been married off to a Dothraki warlord across the sea. Not that you would have traded places with young Daenerys, but in six years Oberyn had not once invited you to his bed. Besides the occasional chaste kiss on the hand or cheek he had not laid a finger on you.

Ellaria counseled you to be patient, that your time would come. But after so much time you were beginning to think Prince Oberyn had only taken you in as a matter of duty–that he had no desire for you at all. Like all the prince’s lovers, you were free to have any man or woman you desired, but you didn’t want another lover. You wanted the prince.

For your twenty-fifth nameday, the prince’s concubines plaited your hair, painted your face, and dressed you in fine silks. You felt lovely and terribly grownup, despite your lack of experience.

“Come,” Ellaria said with a conspiratorial grin. “Let’s go bathe in the southern garden, where the prince will see you from his window.”

The southern garden was a lush oasis tucked inside the palace walls. There was a clear saltwater pond surrounded by dry grasses and desert flowers. You disrobed in the shade of the palm fronds and slid into the water.

The lack of modesty among the prince’s inner circle had of course taken some getting used to after the formalities of King’s Landing. But ultimately you came to realize, there were many worthy admirers of your particular pale softness among the hard and tanned bodies of Dorne. Why should you deny them their pleasure, when those who didn’t appreciate your form were free to look away.

“Aren’t you coming?” you called to Ellaria, who was sunning herself in a chaise.

“I’m quite happy to enjoy the view,” Ellaria said as you swam. You chuckled at her playful flirting. You could understand, despite her low birth, how she could command so much of the prince’s affection. In all of Dorne, her beauty knew no equal and her charm was irresistible.

You loved to swim–floating, mostly–especially when the water was so cool and inviting. It was still early, the sun had not yet reached its apex, but the air was already hot and dry. You could see the prince’s window, watched his curtains moving in the warm breeze. You saw the prince come to the window, looking as if he had just roused from sleep. He leaned on the sill, watching as you stroked your way lazily across the pool.

When the sun had warmed your belly, you turned over to paddle your way back into the shade. You lost sight of Prince Oberyn, only for him to reappear on the steps down to the garden in his splendid red robe with a sheet of fine linen draped over one arm.

“You should keep this one out of the sun, Ellaria,” he warned. “She wasn’t made for it.”

You frowned as Prince Oberyn beckoned you to him. You rose from the pool reluctantly and he wrapped you in the sheet.

“I’m not afraid of being burnt, my Prince,” you protested as he draped the fabric over your shoulders and rubbed your arms to dry them.

“I’m well aware, my little dragon,” he said, touching your chin gently. “But how would it look for my prize to wander through Sunspear as red as a berry.”

You tucked the sheet under your arms and tied it off to secure it.

“Isn’t she beautiful, my love,” Ellaria said, rising from her chaise to join you in the shade.

“Very beautiful,” Oberyn agreed. He rested his hands on your shoulders, looking past you to gaze at Ellaria. “All the more reason to keep her from burning to a crisp.”

“Hair like spun gold,” Ellaria noted, gathering your damp braids in her hands, wrapping them back into your gold hairpin. “Skin so smooth, just like fresh cream. And so soft.”

The prince hummed to himself, watching her work.

Ellaria pressed her front against your back, she was almost a head taller than you, and you could feel the warmth of her sex against the small of your back. Her hands moved down your neck, her fingertips brushing the tops of your breasts.

“You like her soft, don’t you, lover? I’ve seen how you enjoy a bedfellow who gives.”

“I do,” said the prince, dipping his mouth toward Ellaria’s lips, perched beside your ear. “Why do you think I keep her so well?”

A jolt of excitement raced up your spine from your core as they kissed. You realized you enjoyed hearing them talk about you, around you, like this.

Ellaria slid her hands around your waist to the prince’s hips, pulling him into your body. You could feel the hardness of his cock pressing into your belly.

Ellaria moved one hand to the side of your head, turning away from the prince to catch your mouth in a kiss. Her lips were impossibly soft against yours and she tasted like honeyed wine. Then Prince Oberyn bowed his face toward yours and you didn’t know whose tongue was in your mouth. You felt dizzy with pleasure.

Ellaria pulled away and you moaned for the loss, but Prince Oberyn was holding your face in his large hands and his tongue was moving past your teeth, delving toward your throat. Your body felt like soft clay, molding into them. Ellaria kissed your neck, taking your hands in hers, moving them into Prince Oberyn’s robe.

“Like this,” she whispered, guiding your hands over his chest, fingernails scraping against his nipples, palming the hard muscles traversing his abdomen.

The prince’s skin was nearly as smooth as yours, until your hands reached the wiry hair trailing down to his swollen cock. The prince moaned into your mouth as Ellaria positioned your hands around him.

“Gently,” she instructed. “You’re doing so well.”

As you carefully stroked the prince’s shaft, Ellaria’s hands moved across your body, kneading your breasts, traveling down the soft curves of your belly to grope at your mons, assessing the wetness of your inner folds.

“She’s ready,” Ellaria said. “Take her.”

Prince Oberyn pulled away from you panting. Your own chest heaved with exertion and your head swam.

“Are you coming?” he asked.

“Not today, lover,” Ellaria said, running a perfectly shaped fingernail down your nose affectionately. “Today is for our little dragon.”

“Come,” Oberyn instructed, leading you by the hand up the steps to his bedchamber. “There’s another nameday gift waiting for you yet.”

You hesitated, turning back toward Ellaria, looking for assurance or permission.

“Go,” she said, shooing you along with a friendly smile. “Go! Enjoy yourself.”

You followed Prince Oberyn up the stairs, full of uncertainty and excitement. His bedchamber was the finest you had ever seen: the heavy wooden furniture was ornately carved and polished to a mirror-like shine, hand-woven rugs stretched nearly from wall-to-wall. At the very center of the room was an exquisite canopy bed with silken drapes of red and gold.

“Sit,” the prince urged, motioning to the bed.

You took a seat at the end of the bed, leaning back on your forearms, anticipating your long-awaited ravishing with something akin to glee. Instead, the prince retrieved a lidded basket from the table and brought it over to the bed.

“For you,” he said. “A gift; be gentle with it.”

Your lips parted in surprise. You lifted the lid of the basket, gazing down into its contents: armor-like scales, writhing, and hissing softly. You counted three pointed, perfect heads with shining black eyes.

“Oh,” you sighed, reaching into the basket, allowing one of the serpents to coil around your fingers. “They are beautiful, my prince.”

You lifted the first creature out of the basket; its scales shining copper in the sunlight as its forked tongue darted out to catch your scent.

“Are they dangerous?”

“Only if they bite,” Oberyn said, reaching into the basket to retrieve another snake for you to examine.

“Are they likely to bite?” you asked, the snake in your hand coiled its tail around your wrist. You marveled at it, reaching for its final companion, a tiny, emerald-green thing which wove its head in and out from between your fingers.

“Not these hand-raised babies,” Oberyn said, pressing his face toward the snake’s in a show of faith. “All they want is to be kept warm and safe and fed on the finest rats Dorne has to offer.”

“Like me,” you laughed.

“Are you partial to rat, little dragon?” Oberyn smiled, returning the snakes to their basket. “I will have to inform Cook!”

You laughed, leaning back in Oberyn’s bed as he set the basket aside.

“Thank you, my Prince,” you said. “I adore them.”

“I am glad,” Oberyn said, returning to the bed. “Rumor has it your cousin has added three dragons to her command, but this is the best I could do.”

“They’re splendid, my Prince,” you said.

Oberyn leaned over you, placing a hand on the base of your throat as he kissed you.

“I can’t wait to show the others.”

“Catalina is afraid of snakes,” he warned, his mouth trailing down your neck. You cradled his head in your hands, tilting your chin back to expose your throat.

“Then Catalina will learn to stay out of my room,” you chuckled.

Oberyn paused as his mouth reached the space between your breasts, curling his fingers under the sheet that still covered you. His eyes darted to your face.

“May I?”

“Please,” you gasped, arching into him.

Oberyn opened the sheet, taking each of your breasts in his hand, pressing the flat of his tongue against each nipple one after the other, nipping and sucking until they were swollen and sensitive. You could feel your arousal coiling like a snake at the base of your spine.

“So beautiful,” he breathed against your skin. “So sweet.”

“Now you,” you pleaded, touch the collar of his robe. “Please, my Prince.”

Oberyn grinned, rising from the bed to undo his robe. His body perfectly lean and hard and golden stood in stark contrast to yours. His cock thick and long, sprouting from a nest of dark hair fully erect; you thought he must be large, though you didn’t have much to compare him to.

You turned over on the bed, crawling to him on hands and knees.

“Can I taste you, my Prince,” you asked.

Oberyn took your face in his hand, playfully squeezing your cheeks until your lips pursed.

“How could I deny this face,” he said, settling onto the bed.

Oberyn turned onto his back, supporting himself on his forearms so he could watch as you moved over him. You took his shaft in one hand, lapping at the tip. It was different than you expected, a heady, earthy musk, salty and sour on your tongue. Oberyn made a soft, satisfied sound from deep in his throat.

“More,” Oberyn instructed, placing a hand on the back of your head.

You opened your mouth wide, wrapping your lips around him. Oberyn sighed, letting his head fall back against the cushions. Try as you might, you could not reach to his root, surfacing for air only to gag yourself in the next attempt. As you moved up and down Oberyn’s length, the sounds of pleasure turned to something more like discomfort.

“Stop,” he ordered through gritted teeth, silk sheets bunched in one hand. “Stop.”

You sat back on your heels with a frown as Oberyn sighed with relief to have his cock freed from your toothsome maw.

“I’ve displeased you, my Prince,” you said, horrified that the unbreakable prince of House Martell would lay down his weapon rather than suffer your untutored enthusiasm.

“No,” Oberyn beckoned you to him. “Never. You need more practice, that’s all.”

You stretched out on the bed beside Oberyn and his hands explored the curves of your body.

“You shall have your pick of my men as a bedfellow,” he assured you, interlacing his fingers with yours, lifting your hand to his lips. “And once you’ve had sufficient preparation, we can try again. You’ll have many more opportunities to amuse me, little dragon.”

Oberyn’s fingers wandered, tracing each of the pale lines adorning your breasts and belly. If one didn’t know better, they might have assumed you had already had a baby.

“I’m going to put my fingers inside you,” Oberyn explained.

“On my honor, I am a maid, my lord,” you said as his fingers circled the sensitive jewel at the peak of your folds. The serpent in your belly that had lain dormant for so long coiled tighter.

“On my honor, I care not,” Oberyn teased. “Though it is a special pleasure to be the first to delve into this cave. I don’t know what tales are circulated by Targaryen oldwives, but in Dorne our women are taught never to suffer inattentive lovers. Maid or not this should be quite pleasurable for you.”

You bit your lip as Oberyn probed one finger past your entrance, then a second. A little tight, a little stretched, but not uncomfortable.

“More?” he asked, probing deeper. You gripped his shoulders and shook your head.

“Not yet,” you said.

Oberyn waited, pressing his thumb into the peak of the wishbone between your legs. The serpent writhed.

“What are you doing to me,” you moaned, clutching the silk sheets.

“You’ll know soon enough,” Oberyn said, his fingers curling inside you. You shrieked as he touched a place inside you that sent a lightning bolt of pleasure racing up your spine.

“There,” Oberyn chuckled, withdrawing his hand to hold your face as he kissed you. “I’m sorry to report you are too small to take all of me. There are, of course, other avenues we can explore.”

Oberyn reached around you to squeeze the globe of your ass and you gasped in excitement.

“But that is for another time,” he said, moving over you. “Today is yours to enjoy. When I press into you I want you to close your legs so I can fuck your thighs while I fuck your cunt.”

You nodded, spreading your knees so that Oberyn could settle between them, aligning his cock at your entrance, rubbing against you spreading the slickness of your arousal over himself. You felt a sharp tug as you closed your knees around him.

“Pain?” Oberyn asked, slowly pressing his hips into you.

You shook your head. “It’s not bad.”

“Breathe, little dragon,” he said, bowing his head to kiss your breasts.

Oberyn’s movements put pressure against that sensitive spot and as he flicked his hips into you, you could feel the serpent in your core coiling tighter and tighter. You moaned with abandon, letting your head fall back against the cushions.

“Good?”

“Yes,” you panted, clawing at his arms, his back, scrambling for purchase.

“My little dragon has a fire in her belly,” Oberyn teased. “So hot for me, strong and eager.”

You moaned, arching into him.

“Tell me,” you pleaded, reaching to pull him into another kiss, hot, wet, and hungry. “Tell me more about what you want to do to me.”

“Such a needy little girl,” Oberyn panted, gripping your thigh. “Already drunk off my cock.”

You purred in agreement, biting down on Oberyn’s lower lip, your pupils blown so wide your pale eyes were nearly as dark as his.

“I’ll make you mine,” he said. “A finer mount than any dragon. My love, my plaything.”

“Please,” you mewled. “Anything…anything you desire.”

Oberyn ran a hand down your body, arching his back like a cat, his gaze settling on the space below your naval.

“I’m going to fuck a baby into you,” he said. “I want your breasts to swell and your belly to stretch with my child.”

You moaned, dragging your hands down his sweat damp back to grip the hard muscles of his ass. The snake coiling in your belly finally struck, every fiber in your body crackled like hot coals. You gasped as Oberyn fucked you through your climax.

As his thrusts slowed to a desperate grind, he withdrew from you and spent his seed on your belly and chest. He rolled off of you, onto his pillows, dragging one hand through the mess he had made of you.

He pressed two fingers to your lips and you took them into your mouth, suckling his spend from them like a newborn kitten after cream.

“You’ve done me wrong, Oberyn,” you sighed, turning onto your side to meet his gaze.

Oberyn reached over you to strike your ass with the flat of his hand once, hard, and you yelped. Another thrill of pleasure raced through you.

“You forget yourself,” he warned. “I am still your prince.”

He grabbed your face and kissed you, claiming your mouth with his own. You panted as he finally released you, resting your hands on his chest.

“You promised me a baby,” you said. “And all you’ve made me is a mess.”

“In time, my sweet,” he said, gathering your body into his. “I’d like to have you to myself a while longer.”

Oberyn brushed your sweat-damp hair from your face and kissed your brow.

“You need another bath,” he warned. “To freshen up for the feast.”

“What feast, my prince,” you asked, tracing the neat line of his beard with your fingers.

“We could not let a 25th nameday go unmarked,” he said with a wry smile. “Just a small celebration, little dragon. My brother has graciously allowed us use of the great hall to mark the occasion, or at least he will.”

“You spoil me, my lord,” you sighed.

Prince Oberyn escorted you to the great hall himself; there was already a fire raging in the very center of the room filled with wine and laughter and gaiety. You didn’t even notice Ellaria until she managed to slink up behind you to whisper in your ear.

“You are glowing,” she said and you laughed as her arms trailed around your waist. "I take it you enjoyed your time together."

“Very much,” you said. “Truthfully I’m surprised I’m still standing.”

“Then sit,” she said. “Lover, we’re going to sit.”

She leaned over to kiss Prince Oberyn on the mouth–the same mouth that just hours before had transversed every unspeakable place on your body. You took a seat on a cushion at one of the low tables surrounding the fire and Oberyn summoned a page to bring you wine and sweet date cakes, before running off to make merry with a handsome young courtier.

“Did you put him up to this?” you asked as Ellaria draped one arm around you.

Ellaria scoffed.

“Hardly,” she said, twisting her fingers through your hair. “A nudge, that’s all. Just a little reassurance. Even princes know to fear dragons.”

You took Ellaria’s hand in yours and placed a kiss on her palm.

“Thank you.”

End Notes: Ta da! Thanks to all who voted and all who've read this far. What do you think? Are you interested in more?

#oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell smut #oberyn x reader #game of thrones fanfic

921 notes · View notes

sailor-aviator · 6 months

Note

I’m sure it’s already been requested but IF it hasn’t I’ll be needing the jail scene from Jake’s POV ASAP 👀

You know, surprisingly enough, you're the only one crazy enough to ask for a different point of view for all the angst lmaooooo

The tapping of Ice's fingers against the desk was going to drive him insane. Jake knew the older man was livid with him, why wouldn't he be? He had done a stupid thing like going and getting caught by the U.S. Marshal of all people.

It was no secret that the marshal was sent in to Maverick with the express purpose of catching the Dagger Posse. They had made quite the name for themselves after the rash of stagecoach robberies they had committed last summer. Times had been hard, and Jake would be damned if the people of Maverick didn't eat.

It was also no secret that Tom "Iceman" Kazansky had a soft spot for the posse, namely Jake. Where Bradley had had Maverick to take over as his father after the epidemic, it had been Ice who had taken the young Jake under his wing - had shown him what it means to be a man.

He knew this was the end of the line for him, there was no doubt about it. Mav and Ice had warned them all over and over again to keep their heads down and to lay low. One more slip up, one more law broken, and they'd be hanged should the Marshal catch them. And it had been quiet, unsuspecting Bob Floyd who had taken the bait.

Jake couldn't fault him for that, of course. He doubted he'd have faired much better if it had been you who the men at the saloon had been speaking ill of. Rage coated his tongue at the very thought, quickly replaced by anguish.

You, his Scout. His spitfire of a woman who never took any of his shit. Who cooked for him and made sure he was taking care of himself, even if he was being a jackass. His beautiful, brave girl who loved him.

Jake was so lost in thought that he barely caught Tom turning to the marshal.

"You look tired, Beau," he drawled, his tapping ceasing. "Why don't you go and have a drink down at the saloon?"

"I wouldn't want to leave you alone..."

"Nonsense! Go on and get something. You have a long day ahead of you come sunrise."

Jake heard a chair scrape against the wood floor followed by some shuffling around the room.

"I shouldn't be too long," Beau said, voice sounding farther away.

"Take your time!" Tom called back, his chair creaking as he leaned back. The door to the jail opened and then closed with a slam, leaving the room in silence.

Jake rested his head against the wall of his cell, eyes close and waiting for Tom to get up and begin lecturing him like he always does. But it doesn't come.

Instead, the door opened once more, creaking slowly.

"You shouldn't be here, darlin'," Tom says after a moment, an underlying sense of mirth in his tone. One that Jake knew he only had when he was caught off guard.

"Where is he?"

Jake's eyes shot open as he lurched forward.

"Scout?" He called tentatively. He could see your figure peer around where Tom now stood.

"Are you sure you're ready to see him like this?" He asked quietly. You drew your shoulders back in an attempt at defiance, but Jake saw you. He always saw you. He saw how scared you were, how desperate.

What were you thinking coming here? This was no place for you, and he'd be damned if you ever set foot in this place again.

"Please." Jake's heart nearly broke right then and there at the sound of the small tremble in your voice. "Please let me see him."

Tom watched you for a second before gesturing for you to go forward. "You have five minutes, Scout."

Jake scrambled to his feet as you entered the back room, the chains around his wrists and ankles hindering some of his movements.

Jake's heart truly broke when he saw the tears begin to slide down your face. Once again they were because of him, and he hated himself like never before in that moment. You should never have to cry. You should only ever smile, he thought.

A sob tore through you as you stumbled forward, and Jake reached out to catch you as best he could. He eased the both of you down onto the ground as sob after sob racked your body, tears staining his shirt with guilt.

“Please don’t cry, Scout,” he soothed, pressing firm kisses to the top of your head. He wished he had more time. “Everything is okay.”

“It’s not okay,” you sobbed pitifully. “It’s not, so don’t tell me that it is.”

“These things happen, honey girl,” he sighed, holding you tighter, afraid that this was all just a dream made up to torment him in his final hours. An angel sent down to comfort him before he was sent to hell. “You wanna tell me what you’re doing here?”

You pulled back to look at him, eyes red and puffy from crying. Tears slowly streamed down your face, and still you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen on this earth.

“It was Isaac, Jake. It was all a setup. I saw him in the crowd this morning. He planned the whole thing," you murmured, lips pressing into a thin line to keep from trembling.

Jake felt shame and guilt clench at his heart. None of this would have ever happened if he had just been smarter about what he had done in the past. You wouldn't be clinging to him like the very action of letting him go would kill him on the spot. You wouldn't be shaking with anguish. You wouldn't be utterly destroyed come tomorrow.

"I know."

You balked, staring up at him with unsure eyes, brow furrowing.

“What do you mean?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper. Jake sighed again, resting his forehead against one of the bars, not able to bare looking at your face.

“I saw him too,” he admitted, eyes closing.

“We have to do something, Jake! We have to tell them that this was-” You cried, turning to move away, but he grabbed your hand to stop you. You turned back to him, and Jake felt the sting of tears kiss at his eyes as he looked at you. He pulled you back, his rough hands cradling the soft skin of your cheeks as he stared at you. You were everything he ever wanted in life, and it seemed that the price for that fulfillment was his final breath.

“There’s no time, pretty girl,” he murmured, anguish coating his own words. “There’s just no time left.”

“Don’t say that,” you whispered, tears starting anew. Jake stroked your cheeks, catching the stray tears as they fell. He never wanted things to end like this. He wanted you to know, and now was his only chance to say it.

“Scout, these past few months have been the happiest of my life. I never thought I’d meet a spitfire like you, let alone get someone like you to love me. I have loved every minute spent with you. I love the way you scrunch your nose when you’re mad. I love when you yell at me when I’m being an idiot. I love when you smile at me when you think I’m not lookin’. I love how you feel in my arms and how completely happy you make me feel.”

“Why does this sound like you’re saying goodbye?” You asked him, a sob shaking your entire body. “You’re not dying on me. If you die, I die, you understand me?”

Jake smiled ruefully at you. His smart, strong girl. You'd make a wonderful wife one day. You'd make someone else happy, and maybe one day you'd be happy again too. That's all he ever wanted for you, and if he had any power in the afterlife, he'd see to it that you got the life you deserved. He hoped you'd remember him.

He reached into his pocket, searching for the token that he'd carried around since spotting it in a shop in Baltimore. He pulled it out, presenting it to you.

It wasn't anything in your face like the emerald or other jewels that he had seen. No, it was plain in comparison, but still beautiful. He supposed it reminded him a little of you. You had seemed so unassuming at first glance, beautiful yes, but a quiet thing. Then, the more he looked, the more complex and intricate you became, just like the gold bands of the pendant. You shined in a way that drew people in, making them want to look longer.

“I know that it’s not the emerald,” he started, “but it’s all I could afford with the money I had leftover from working at the ranch.”

You stared at it, eyes darting around as you took it in.

"I don't want it."

Jake's heart clenched at your words. Had you finally come to your senses and realized that you deserved better than him?

“Jake Seresin,” you said firmly, fixing him with a scowl. “You promised to make an honest woman out of me, and I’ll be damned if I let you worm your way out of keeping that promise, do you hear me?”

He couldn't help but to chuckle, resting his head on his forearms. That's what you were thinking about in this moment? Didn't you understand what was happening?

“Honey girl, what on earth am I supposed to do with this necklace now?”

“You can give it to me when you get out of here,” you sniffed, eyes tracing over the lines on his face. “You can give it to me, and then you and I are going to grow old together.”

All humor left him at your words. How could you still think that that future was possible in this moment? Surely you were joking? Surely you knew that this was the end?

Still, Jake couldn't help but imagine what his future with you would look like.

You'd look beautiful in your wedding dress, he was sure of it. White was becoming more popular, but would you choose a different color Blue or green? He kind of liked the idea of you wearing white, and the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that was the color you'd choose.

He thought about what you'd look like round and swollen with him, a baby made up of the two of you resting in your stomach until one day it was resting in your arms. He kind of liked the idea of having a little girl first, but so long as the baby was healthy and strong, he wouldn't complain.

And then you'd have more children, the house echoing with the sounds of laughter and running as he came in from the pastures for the day. Would he build you a new house? Or would he convince Benji to let him have the one you lived in now? No, he'd build you a new one. One fit for a queen.

You'd swat at his hand with that scowl he loved so much every time he'd sneak a bite of dinner before it was ready to be served. He'd kiss your cheek affectionately and tell you that it tasted perfect as always, smoothing a hand down your back.

He'd sleep next to you every night, laying in bed until the last possible second until he inevitably had to get up in the morning. And then he'd stay even longer when you would reach out for him.

He'd reassure you of how beautiful you still were even with those pesky grey hairs that now littered your head. Really, he think you'd look even more beautiful with age, the evidence of your life etched into your skin. He would trace every wrinkle with love and adoration.

The two of you would watch your grandchildren play in the yard, holding hands as you rocked in the chairs Jake would hand carve. His thumb would smooth over the back of your weathered hand, squeezing it as his thoughts drifted towards the life you two had shared.

Jake knew that the two of you would have to leave this world at the same time. You would be wrapped up in each other, breathing your last at the same moment before walking hand in hand through those pearly gates in the sky, young as the day you two had met.

He couldn't bare the thought of living in this world without you.

And yet, here he was about to leave you in a world without him in it.

He looked up when Tom cleared his throat, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Your time is up, Scout,” he said quietly, gently. “The marshal will be back any moment.”

You nodded, looking back at Jake before pulling him into desperate, tender kiss. He kissed you back with just as much fervor and passion, the tears coming back with a vengeance.

It wasn't fair. He didn't want to leave you. He wanted to grow old with you, side by side and facing anything that life threw at the two of you. He wanted to watch you laugh and smile at him every day. He wanted to feel your skin pressed against his. He wanted everything you would give him. He just got you back, and now he had to say goodbye.

Jake didn't want to die. He wanted to live. With you.

Reluctantly, he pulled away, helping you stand from the wooden floor. He felt a tear roll down his cheek, and you raised a hand to brush it away. He caught your hand, holding it to his face and committing the touch to memory. He turned into your palm, placing once last kiss there, promising himself that he would watch over you. He would think about how soft you were, how sweet you smelled when they placed the rope around his neck at the gallows. Every thought would be filled with you.

"See you on the other side, honey girl."

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skinskisurf · 1 month

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runswimsurf · 3 months

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Evan Geiselman

#Evan Geiselman #Surf #Male surfer #Hurley #Hurley rash guard #Men in Hurley #Men in Hurley rash guards #Swimwear #Men in swimwear #Black swimwear #Wetsuit #men in wetsuits #Rash guard #Men in rash guards #black rash guard #Long hair #Beach #male

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theplottdump · 10 days

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By the time the Angels returned to the ranch, dusk had begun to crawl towards the horizon; everyone grateful to have made it back in one piece- with minimal emotional and physical scarring.

Vera: Y'know, I really think you're getting better at this whole horse thing. It only bucked you off twice on the trip back! Poppy: Eugh, I think I'm getting a saddle rash. Vera: Yeah me too. Maybe we wear pants tomorrow? Poppy: Gross.

It had been an interesting day for everyone to say the least.

Poppy had gotten some surprising family time, Vera had developed a very understandable hatred for large quadrupeds, and Kate- well.

After the official sale of the ranch, the last few months hadn't been the easiest on Diego Luis García. The work was difficult and monotonous, and he had lost a lot of the things that were important to him holding on to the only home he'd ever known- it was easy to be bitter.

But he stuck around anyway. And today might have been one of the first days in a long time he didn't stop to regret it.

A weird day for sure, but weird isn't bad- he'd rather weird than boring any day. And some people, especially the weird ones, can leave quite an impact.

Oh and Chavo told me to let you know he found several of his toys he had buried last week out in the pasture.

So! An exciting day all around!

But for Agent Kate Miller, Designation: 008, the day had been a moderate success. No one had died, her mile time improved by 3 seconds, and she got to ride again. After her transfer to the Del Sol UNIT offices she had ended up making the hard decision to sell her own horse back home.

And she'd have to be lying through her teeth to convince you that this wasn't one of the things she had missed the most.

Still- they still had more questions than answers.

And to be brutally honest, a quality 008 was dependable for most days (much to the continued chagrin of her coworkers)- she wasn't completely confident that 009 would be up to the challenges she knew were ahead.

She had spent good years of her lifespan slipping into the good graces of bad men, and that's not a task that everyone is psychologically cut out for.

Did it keep her a little on edge? Sure. Did it make her unlikable? Probably. But that was just something she had come to live with.

A proper guard needs to be maintained with these sorts of jobs- never say exactly what you mean, never make the first move-

And never ever let anyone catch you with it down.

#i am sorry to this man #rip to this man #plott gen 6 #gen6Angels #poppy plott #vera doe #kate miller #diego garcía

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ohforficsakelibrary · 6 months

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The Margay: Chapter 5

'That Your Husband?'

prev / series masterlist / main masterlist

Summary: Santiago recruits Frankie to contract for a covert agency that pairs them with danger in more ways than one. A series of one-shot snippets taking place during and around missions.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Sniper!OFC

Word Count: ~4.9K

Rating: Explicit 18+ / masturbation (f & m), dirty talk, Frankie offers guidance, exchanging of naughty pictures and suggestive texts / tw for physical violence (I may have beat Frankie up a bit) / Minors DNI

A/N: Frankie's grounded with an injury. Audrey's good at care packages. They both need each other more than they realize.

Every time I open this file I keep fucking with this chapter so please take it now. Your effort to overlook anything that seems overworked is much appreciated.

Their third job out, Frankie manages to get himself into a bit of a scrape.

When a hurricane flattened Barbuda’s infrastructure it created opportunity. A perfect little hideaway among the wreckage.

A waypoint for heroin exporters to rest their weary heads.

It’s just a seaplane over to St. Thomas and U.S. territory and a stack of bills pressed into a customs officer’s palm before making the jump to mainland soil.

And in the process of surveilling a safe house, Frankie manages to trip a sensor.

A blow to the back of the head drops him before Audrey or Santi can get to his location.

And so they lie in wait for the right moment to spring him free.

Santi fidgets, buzzing with impatience.

Audrey turns to stone.

Nothing else will contain her rage.

When half the men leave for beers at a local bar, Audrey and Santiago split directions, cutting a quick lap around the house.

“You take the front door, I’ll take the back,” Pope directs their breach in hushed tones. When they’re in position, Audrey counts them down before putting a boot through a rusted lock.

They can hear Frankie scream. And Audrey’s stomach roils.

In pain.

In sympathy.

In possession.

“I got him,” she spits into their comms, prowling through shadows between the bare lightbulbs that hang from the ceiling while the incessant buzz from the generator outside covers her tracks.

They’ve only left two men guarding their catch.

Well, one guard who’s slumped in a chair in the corner fucking around on his phone, and a taller man who has Frankie on his knees by the hair, arms zip-tied behind his back. He asks who sent Frankie and when he’s told to go fuck himself he lands a a kick Frankie’s ribs that has him screaming through gritted teeth before briefly losing consciousness.

The man catches Frankie, holding him up by the roots of his hair, repeating the question with the toe of his boot dangerously close to knocking against Fish’s balls.

“I need those,” Audrey mutters before a bullet finds the taller man between the eyes and the butt of her gun finds the seated man’s temple. “Santi, need you in here,” she fires off into comms before dropping her gun and dropping to her knees to keep a woozy Frankie from slamming teeth-first into the floor.

She cradles his face and surveys it, peeling each eyelid up in turn to check his reaction to light. She's not sure how hard he was knocked in the head.

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna save me,” is the first thing out of his mouth when he sees that it’s her and not Pope who has his face in their hands.

“Yeah, I dunno how to fly a chopper,” she lies with a wink, “so Pope and I are swimming to Antigua without you and I just got my hair done.”

Frankie manages a snort before he spits blood onto tile. His bottom lip is split, left eye swollen shut and blooming a neat shade of purple. Road rash or something akin to it mars one side of his face.

Frankie rests his cheek against her shoulder and she supports his weight as she searches him with her hands, checking for slashed fabric and gaping wounds. For areas of tender heat insulating broken bones.

For bullet wounds.

Frankie yelps when her right hand applies light pressure to his side over his tactical vest.

"Okay, okay, I've got you, Frankie."

"That bit's bad," he groans.

“Can you stand?” She snaps a ceramic knife through the zip ties binding his hands behind his back as they hear two more shots and Santi calling “clear.”

“Yeah. Yeah I think so.”

But he can't right himself from where he's leaned heavy against her.

She shifts to kneel with his arm around her shoulders and her fist gripping his belt, hauling him up with her when she stands.

"Take your time, find your feet," she whispers, a stone under his weight.

“You lovebirds good in here?” Santi pokes his head around the corner.

“Lovebirds is a strong word,” Frankie quips and Pope is glad for his sense of humor, but he can't help the way his mouth presses into a tight line as he winces.

Frankie's so pale.

“Get him to the car,” Audrey pauses to allow Santi to shoulder Frankie’s weight. “Careful of his left side. Find anything other than the stash in the dining room?”

“Nah.”

“Alright get him out of here I’m right behind you.”

She sets charges around the safe house on a delay, pausing when she passes the room Frankie was held in. She grabs his hat off of the floor and slips it on backwards before taking off towards the car.

Santi guns it the moment she slips into the open back of their Range Rover.

“How is he doing?” Pope chances a glance back over his shoulder at where Fish is laid out across the folded back seats.

“Keep driving. Do you know how to fly a chopper?”

“That’s what I have him for.”

“I do,” Frankie whispers.

“You don’t have to do anything but stay awake for me," she demands, sweeping sweat-slick hair off of his forehead.

But it’s becoming increasingly hard, it seems.

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath. “Santi, do you know how to place an IV?’

“No?” He sounds panicked. “Am I supposed to?”

“No, I’ll do it now then. Just…call out before we hit anything rough.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Keep. Driving.” The urgency in her voice has Santiago’s heart in his throat.

He can hear Audrey shuffling around for med supplies.

He can hear how Frankie whimpers every time they hit a bump.

“I’m fine, babe,” he tries weakly to brush his knuckles against her stomach. She takes his hand and holds his arm out turning on the flashlight on her phone before slipping it into the front pocket of her tac vest. A tourniquet tightens around his arm Frankie hears the squishy crunch of an IV bag being prepped.

Mercifully, the vessels in his arm aren’t shy.

“You’ve got sexy veins, Morales.”

He starts to make an off-color comment but she tells him to keep quiet and hold still. Pope holds the car as even as he can, slowing down just a hair.

Audrey steadies her breathing and lines the needle up like lining up a shot, sinking it perfectly between beats of her own heart.

“We’re good, Santi, step on it,” she hooks the IV bag to the roof and tapes the needle in place on his arm.

Mercifully it’s only five minutes until they hit the helipad.

Audrey grabs Santiago by the shirt before he can get out.

Speaking quickly and quietly so Frankie can’t hear.

“He’s gonna need to be helped into that bird, can you walk him? I’ll hold outside until he’s in the back, just keep the IV bag up, try not to dislodge it.”

“Done.”

They have him loaded into the chopper in two minutes and Audrey has the bird in the air in another sixty seconds.

“Thought you said…couldn’t fly?” Frankie mumbles from the back seat.

“Yeah, you know how parents tell their kids that Santa Claus is real?”

They unplug Frankie’s headset after that.

So that he can't hear the worry in their voices.

“He’s not in a good spot, is he?” Santi glances back at the pained expression on Fish’s face.

“I think his ribs are cracked under there and he’s bleeding from places he shouldn’t be.” Her body is calm but there’s urgency to her words.

And anger.

“Can you get a call through to Davis? We need to change our itinerary.”

Santi’s voice crackles over the communications channel after two minutes. “They’re saying he can’t be reached,.

“Tell them it’s me.”

And he's impressed when it works but he doesn’t question it, plugging her headset into the satellite phone when they’re connected before he slips into the back seat to keep an eye on Fish. He only hears half of the conversation from there on out.

“Davis, change of plans, we’re in the helo now, but I’m going to need a charter waiting, Morales needs medical attention.”

“I’m thinking PR, likely fractured ribs with internal bleeding, he’s in and out. He needs his head scanned to rule that out too.”

“How quick can Gordon get down there?”

“Roger.”

“Beautiful. Tell him I owe him one.”

“Fine, then we’ll call it even.”

“Confirmed. Over and out.”

_____

Frankie remembers only the whirr of seaplane engines and red lights flashing through his eyelids before he wakes with a start the next afternoon.

“Easy, hermano, hey,” Santiago soothes with a smile, sitting up in the chair next to Frankie’s hospital bed.

“Where?”

“A hospital in Puerto Rico, hey, take it easy,” Santi tosses a frayed paperback onto a side table and shifts closer to where Frankie is trying to sit up. “Hey, don’t move too much, here,” Santiago puts a remote in Frankie’s hand for him to adjust the bed rather than himself.

“You took a few nasty hits. Four broken ribs, nicked your liver and caused bleeding. Probably got a bad headache too, but no permanent damage as far as we can tell.”

“I feel like shit,” Frankie croaks.

“I would expect that you do. Had us worried for a second there. You want some water?”

“Us. Where’s?”

“Jane Bond is catching some z’s,” Santi holds a paper cup out to Frankie and nods at the floor on the other side of Frankie’s bed.

He winces when he brings the cup to his split lip, glancing down to where Audrey is curled up on a blanket. He takes a few sips and hands the cup back to Pope.

“You said Puerto Rico?” His voice is thick with disuse.

“Antigua didn’t have the facilities, so she hooked you up,” Santiago continues in hushed tones. “Called in a favor and flew out the best doc that Davis has. Stayed up the whole night until they had you scanned and stabilized. I told her to head out and sleep in a real bed, but she’s fucking stubborn.”

“Mm, thanks, Santi,” Audrey murmurs before she realizes who he’s talking to.

She’s quick to her feet and quicker with a soft smile.

“Francisco.”

“Hi,” he tries to mirror it but his whole face is tight.

“How are you feeling?”

“Pretty fucking sore.”

And Audrey hums a laugh, throaty and warm and not unlike she does when they’re in each other’s arms.

She gently brushes matted hair off of his forehead but stops short of caressing his cheek even though she’s burning with the need to do it.

To touch him.

Feel the warmth of his skin and the beat of his heart and everything that assures her he’s still alive.

To let her skin confirm what her eyes are seeing.

A soft knock sounds on the glass wall of the hospital room and a man motions for Audrey to join him in the hallway. After a few minutes they both step in.

“Frankie, this is Nick Gordon. He’s the best doctor I know, patched me up more times than I can count. We were in the same class and he was gracious enough to fly down. He’s been looking after you.”

“She threatened me,” Gordon quips with a wink and an outstretched palm. “Happy to see you’re awake.”

Frankie manages a shake as best he can with the cannula in his hand.

“I was just telling Aud that we’ll run a few more tests now that you’re up, go through a little bit of basic physical therapy and then have you back in here. We’ll probably keep you another night, possibly two, if that’s okay with you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, whatever you need,” Frankie tries to sit up straighter and winces.

“Yeah alright, at ease Morales, you don’t have to impress me,” Gordon offers a small smile before turning to Santi and Audrey. “It’ll be a few hours, so if you guys want to grab something to eat now’s the time.”

“Yeah,” Santi runs a hand down his face and scratches at stubble. “Could probably use a shower too.”

Audrey swings around the bed and grabs her phone, pausing to gently squeeze Frankie’s foot, silently reassuring him that she’ll be back.

"C'mon," Santiago still has to coax her to leave.

“We’re booked in across the street, text me when you guys are through. Doesn't matter what time it is.” she says to Nick.

“Yes, ma’am.” Gordon catches her arm when he sees the look in her eyes. "Hey, I've got him, Aud."

“Thank you,” she whispers and slips out the door.

_____

Audrey and Santiago stumble into some tourist trap restaurant on the water because it’s the closest thing they can find with cold beer on the menu. They don’t speak again until there are appetizers in front of them.

“He’s got someone at home, right?” Audrey asks, taking a sip of beer. “To keep an eye on him. Help him out? Might be hard getting around the first few weeks, showering, cooking, all that. The less he does the quicker he’ll heal.”

“He uh,” Santiago pauses but her green eyes are filled with concern. “He can stay at mine for a few weeks. He did the same for me when I had a neck operation, it’s the least I can do.”

“Where’s his girl?”

Santi angles heavy-lidded eyes up at her across fried plantain, hesitating before he continues.

But she hasn’t asked it out of a need to move into an empty space in Frankie’s life.

Audrey’s asked it with conviction because she doesn’t want to hear that Frankie’s been abandoned.

And he hates that he has to tell her the truth.

“She’s not…she left a few months ago. Took the baby with her. Moved out to California to be closer to family. They’re not…"

"There’s no one at home, Aud.”

And Audrey lets out the breath she was holding and sits back in her chair and stares out at the ocean.

“Because of this?”

And she means professional pursuits rather than personal ones.

“A few months before this. Probably why he agreed to take that first job in Nicaragua.”

He doesn’t tell her about the coke relapse that drove the final nail in.

“But, is he…does he get to see her?” His daughter. Asked like anything less is an injustice to someone she cares for and therefore an injustice done unto herself.

“He tries to fly out there once a month or so. They Facetime a lot.”

It unsticks a corner of the papier-mâché Frankie’s covered in.

The shell around his heart.

What’s underneath is as battered and bruised the body in that bed.

“Fuck,” she whispers, mouth catching on the “k”.

“Yeah it’s not ideal,” Santi takes a swig of beer.

"My dance card is full over the next few weeks."

“I’ve got him, Aud. You handled the first part. I’ve got the next.”

“You’re a good friend, Santi.”

“How long you think he’ll be down for?” He says around a mouthful of plantain.

“Nick said six to eight weeks, but probably more like ten before Davis un-grounds him," she moves to run a hand through her hair and realizes that she's still wearing Frankie's hat.

“Yeah, he’s gonna fucking hate that.”

“He hasn’t got a choice.”

“He’s gonna hate not seeing you.”

And she looks down at the ice melting in her glass of water.

“I can’t be that for him, Santi.”

“I know. And I didn’t...didn't mean it like that. Didn’t mean to put it on you. Make it heavy, ‘m sorry.”

“Yeah," she looks down at her plate. "I know,” she sticks grilled shrimp with her fork. “I’ll send him a care package.”

_____

And Santi laughed in the moment.

But she does.

Every week, like clockwork, first to Santiago’s house and then to Frankie’s apartment when he’s back on his own.

An infrared heating pad shows up early on and Frankie swears it works better than the one that Santi bought from the drugstore that smells like popcorn and piss after two minutes in the microwave.

Week three she sends the memoirs of famous pilots. Books about Arctic expeditions and alpinists.

You ever climb a mountain, Aud?

He texts her from where he's shirtless on Santiago’s couch after having finished a novel about one of Everest’s most dangerous climbing seasons. He's warm and loose. Soothing heat seeping into his ribs.

Absolutely not, I’m a sea-level girl.

Why not?

Just not my medium, I suppose. Some beautiful things are better admired from afar.

And it’s probably the pain meds contributing to his reply.

You feel like one of those things right now. too beautiful. too far away.

You need to be in good working order to climb mountains, Frankie.

Miss taking you to that peak though.

Corny.

Oh she’s picky.

Discerning.

Where are you?

Uruguay. Me and mini bar gin for the night. Where are you?

Pope’s couch. he made a run to the store before it closes.

Hot. How are you feeling?

Sore. useless. bored. I miss you.

And he takes a calculated risk because he feels sore, useless, and bored.

Miss eating that pretty pussy. just thinking about how wet you get for me.

Are you hard, Frankie?

Getting there.

And he doesn’t expect what she says next.

Show me.

Frankie tongues his bottom lip with a shake of his head. He reaches under his grey sweatpants to take his length in a fist, coaxing it with the memory of her taste on his lips. He palms the base of it over cotton and snaps a picture angled down his stomach where his length rests hard and heavy angled over his left hip bone.

Fuck, you’re so big Frankie.

Miss hearing you say that, baby.

You cleared for this, Morales?

Broke my ribs, not my dick.

That would have been a real shame. Wouldn't be able to enjoy this.

And she sends a photo of her on her stomach, taken just over her left shoulder to shows off her naked back, the exaggerated arch in her spine accentuating the bare curve of her ass.

And he calls her now.

“Hi, Frankie.” She purrs when she picks up.

“I didn’t know nice girls like you sent pictures like that.”

“Who said I’m a nice girl?”

And he hums from low in his chest.

After a moment, “you ever bring toys with you, baby?”

“I was supposed to bring you,” she quips. “Now all I’ve got are my hands.”

“Well then let’s see what I can do.” He puts the phone on speaker and leaves it on his chest, rubbing a palm low over his stomach.

“You gonna listen to me, gatita?”

And she grins on the other end of the line.

“Whatever you say, Frankie.”

“You serious, Aud?”

“Keep talking, Frankie.”

“Still on your stomach over there?”

“Mhmm.”

“Stay there. Go ahead and slip your hand down. Down to that pretty little clit.” His voice is thick with want.

And he can hear the faint slide of skin against the cotton of the duvet.

“Slowly now. Just soft little circles for me, baby.”

Frankie again reaches under his sweatpants, rubbing that sensitive spot just under the head of his cock with his ring finger before working his foreskin over the tip.

“Fuck, I wish I was behind you right now. You wet, baby?” Frankie growls.

“A little,” she whispers.

“Ohh,” he chuckles darkly. “A little’s not enough, baby. You know better than that. Move those fingers a little faster for me.”

And he mirrors the command before shifting to pull his cock out of his sweatpants entirely, wrapping his whole fist around his length. Pumping his cock in time with her moans.

“Oh, yeah baby.” He grunts and squeezes the base of his dick. Frankie's breathing has picked up to something that’s starting to make his ribs smart from the exertion. He swirls his middle finger through the slick dripping from the head of his cock, using it to ease the slide of his foreskin over his shining, reddened tip. “Louder for me, gatita.”

“Need more, Frankie,” she sighs.

“Mmm, my baby needs something inside, doesn’t she?” He teases.

“I’m gettin’ real close to not following orders, Morales,” her voice is husky when she bites back.

“Okay, baby.” he grins. “Okay. Just two fingers, hermosa. Inside.” She moans as she does it. “Yeahhh,” Frankie answers, pumping himself faster.

“Bet you’re so wet for me right now. So warm. Does it feel good, baby?”

“It’s not enough, Frankie,” she whimpers. Her fingers aren’t long enough—not thick enough—to do what Frankie does.

“I know, baby,” he soothes through his own desperate ache. “I know. You’re gonna move those hips for me, okay?” He’s hissing through teeth now, bucking up into his fist. “Go on. Grind down on your hand—for me.”

And she rolls her hips to put pressure on her clit with the heel of her palm, her fingers buried in her cunt, pressing against that spot inside that builds a warm wave of pleasure on the verge of breaking.

And Frankie can tell from five thousand miles away by the way she starts to cry out.

“Feels so good, baby.” She’s breathless.

“Oh yeah,” his pace speeds up, “fuck yeah, baby. Yes. Let me hear you.” He tugs on his balls with his free hand and imagines each thrust of his hips is a thrust up into her hot, tight cunt.

“So close, Frankie,” she gasps, open-mouthed against the bedspread

“Yeah, baby. Come for me. Babyyy. Oh—ff—fuck. Let me hear it." His voice is ragged—wild with need. With desperation. "Let me hear you fucking come. As loud as you want, gatita. Come for me. Come, baby, come.”

And she pants his name until her voice breaks on a moan and a choked screech of the last syllable.

“Baby....baby, my sexy little ba—ooh fff—UCK.”

And Frankie grunts and grits his teeth through growls as his hips snap hard against his fist, spilling thick stripes of semen over his bare stomach.

His breathing is hard and pained as he hears Audrey’s soft, answering moans.

And for a moment they just listen to each other breathe.

“You okay, Frankie?”

“So good,” he murmurs.

After a thick pause, “ribs hurt like a bitch. Possibly…overexerted myself," he pants, lifting his hand up to survey the sticky white that coats his fingers.

“Oh, Frankie,” she sighs.

Sighs like she wishes she was there, fitted against the ache.

Sighs like she wants to kiss it better.

“It was worth it, ba— fuck.” Frankie hears the garage door open.

“What…”

“Pope’s back.”

“Tell him he can blame me for his living room smelling like come.”

“Fuck. Yeah, I gotta go.”

“Go Frankie.”

“Good night, pretty baby.”

“Night, Frankie. Good luck.”

He hangs up with a smile and pockets his phone, rushing to crack a window with his clean hand as quickly as he can given the sticking pain in his ribs.

Frankie slips into the bathroom seconds before he hears plastic bags being loaded into the kitchen.

“You good, Fish?” Santiago yells out.

“Yeah,” he answers and starts the shower as his phone buzzes with a text.

You’re stunningly good at that by the way, Francisco.

He sends a winking face.

Can’t wait to do it in person, baby.

In time, Francisco.

_____

The next week she sends both sweet and salty snacks because she doesn’t know which he prefers until he texts her that the sour peach rings she sent were amazing.

The following week a whole case of them arrives at his door.

Around week six Frankie finds that she tucked a tastefully suggestive polaroid into a particularly salacious chapter of The Delta of Venus and between it and the reading material and how long it’s been—

Frankie completely ruins his copy.

His ribs don’t quite hurt as much this time.

He briefly considers shipping it back to her, wrinkled cover, pasted-together pages and all, along with a note that reads “enjoyed this one” but he doesn’t know her address.

Frankie figures you can’t ship biohazards anyway and tosses it instead.

The polaroid though, he keeps.

_____

Week eight her phone lights up with a text from Frankie, right around midnight in his time zone.

I miss the way you smell.

Your hair. your skin.

And Audrey’s heart aches with the intimacy of his confession.

Oh, Frankie. I miss you too.

I've been cheating though. I have your hat.

Keep it for now. send me something in exchange?

A few days later, her favorite hat shows up at his door.

"Crossroads Bar and Grill," he reads out loud with a smile. Sure enough, it smells faintly of her hair and he idly holds it to his nose before he notices something else in the package. He lets the strap out an inch and pops the cap on his own head before pulling out a blue linen pillowcase.

Frankie crushes it to his nose and breathes in the scent of her hair, exhaling with a deep moan.

That night he slips it over one of his extra pillows and sucks in breath with his face buried in it until he comes hard into his fist.

Open-mouthed.

Lungs full of her.

_____

Week nine she’s on a plane back to DC when he texts her a picture with the caption:

PT going well. worked out without pain this afternoon. bruises mostly gone.

The text loads before the picture does, and she smiles because he’s on the mend.

Audrey is not, however, prepared for the image taken in his bathroom mirror.

He’s turned to the side, brushing his teeth with one hand, elbow picked up to display his ribs, phone held in the other hand angled in towards the mirror.

It’s a thought captured in the moment that it happened. Meant only to display the faint yellow that’s left on his ribcage, a scant suggestion of the symphony of purple and blue that marked it weeks before.

But Frankie is fresh out of the shower. Naked as the day he was born.

And the bathroom countertop is only so high.

Frankie, I’m on a plane.

That’s fine.

I just noticed that it looks a lot better. thought I’d share. Where to?

And she realizes it really was a mistake.

I’m happy to hear and happy you shared! Working out without pain is huge progress.

But half your cock is in this shot, Francisco.

Ah fuck.

I sent that to all the boys.

And Audrey has to keep herself from cackling because surely Big Dick Morales’ phone is blowing up with the kind of shit that only good friends can dish out.

Shame, I thought it was just for me.

He sends the wild-faced emoji with its tongue out.

Where you off to?

Back to DC actually.

Nice to be heading home. text me that you got in safe.

And something warm spreads in her chest.

She chances another glance at the photo, zooming in first on his ribs, then the curve of biceps that seem more heavily-muscled than she remembers.

She scrolls down the image to the suggestion of abs where he was softer before. Frankie, it seems, has been taking physical therapy seriously and then some.

And she scrolls down a little further to the brush of curls at the base of—

“That your husband?” The older lady to Audrey’s right asks and she immediately clicks her screen off.

“Yep,” she lies because you can never be too sure and she doesn’t need a lecture on the premarital sending of accidentally nude pictures. “Yeah, he fell off his motorbike a few weeks ago. Bruised his ribs, but they’re looking way better now.”

“He’s handsome.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“He makes you smile. Keep him. For now.”

And Audrey laughs with her head thrown back and buys the woman a glass of wine and they fall into easy conversation and the rest of her flight isn’t as dismal as the first half.

When she steps through the door of her apartment she remembers Frankie's ask.

Made it back home.

Not one minute later, her phone lights up.

A photo from Frankie. Taken just above his hips. The outline of his thick, hard length evident under the rumpled green of his bed sheet, hand closed loosely around the base of it.

There’s precome smeared on his tanned stomach, catching the light from a bedside lamp.

That one’s just for you.

You sure you didn’t send this to all the boys?

Only you, baby.

This right now?

Ten minutes ago, I’m afraid. fading fast.

I miss you.

I miss you too, Francisco.

_____

Week ten there’s a knock on the door of her hotel room in Trinidad.

And she opens it to big brown eyes peering at her from under the brim of a cap from Crossroads Bar and Grill.

“Audrey,” he smiles.

“Frankie,” she sighs and wraps her arms around his neck as he presses her tight against him.

She feels his ribs expand comfortably as his lungs fill with the scent of her hair. His lips are warm against her neck and she tucks her nose into the tender spot behind his ear.

Feeling the warmth of his skin and the beat of his heart and everything that assures her he’s still alive.

And her skin confirms what her eyes are seeing.

And in some small way.

They each feel a little more whole again.

Old chapters are hosted on the OFFS Library page. New chapters will be posted to Ohforficsake - follow me over there for future updates.

Shoot me a message @ohforficsake or comment under this post if you would like to be added to the taglist for updates! Thanks so much for reading.

#frankie morales #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales smut #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal #ohforficsake #The Margay

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beastren · 8 days

Text

∞ Arisen & Pawn Character Introductions

original template by @arisenreborn :D

♛ THE ARISEN:

NAME: Nimh AGE: 23 RACE: Half-elf PRONOUNS: She/her PREFERRED VOCATION: Warfarer FAVORED GIFTS: Gems, things to make food with, particularly (princess) harspuds. FAMILY: Elf father, human mother.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Brave, hard-working, largely unconcerned with things she deems trivial, so it helps her have a good sense of drive/focus, but can also make her some across as uncaring. NEGATIVE TRAITS: Rash, reckless, impulsive, particularly in high-pressure moments, like if Lir gets downed. Easily frustrated. LIKES: Goats, books, small creeks. DISLIKES: The cold. Glyndwr. She doesn't have the best impression of elves in general, but also not the worst. Medusas.

1. What was their life like before becoming Arisen?

She lived on a small farm with her parents until she was about 16, when she decided to start traveling and doing odd jobs around Vermund, which is how she ended up as a sell-sword in Melve when the dragon attacked. Her family lived a decent bit away from any settlement, although they would go into the nearest towns to shop and trade every so often. She didn't have many friends because of this, so she took up reading from a young age, and it was her main hobby, aside from helping on the farm, which she did genuinely love.

2. How do they handle being Arisen, and the responsibilities that come with it?

She handles it pretty well, at the beginning, after she's gotten her memories back. The point where she didn't have them was quite rough though, and of course it gets rough later on when more things start feeling at stake. In the AU where she brings about the Unmoored World it's a bit horrifying, it's the absolute worst thing she could've ever imagined and the only things that get her through are the urge to set thing's right and Lir's determination.

3. What are their thoughts on Pawns in general?

Just fine! Not good or bad, and both before and after becoming an arisen she was inclined to see them as Just People, albeit with a bit more nuance later on.

4. What's their relationship like with their main Pawn?

Complicated and simple at the same time. Due to her love of books as a child, particularly tales of knights and princes, Lir was born from an idealized image of those figures. While he was made for her to fall in love with and be a crutch/wish fulfillment in a way, she also always struggled with attachment and attraction to men. It's not that she wasn't, but it happened very rarely. So between that, and also how convoluted, intense and unique the bond between arisen and main pawn can be, she spends a lot of time figuring out what might be projection or miss-attributed feelings. She does come to very much genuinely love him for him though, throughout their journey. More on this in Lir's paragraph on his feelings for Nimh and how he's changed.

5. Do they have any interest in being Sovran? What are their opinions on the politics of the world in general?

No interest in it at all smh.... She's definitely just handing the responsibility off to Sven lol. She was happy in her late teens/early 20's to be away from home and the farm, but as she goes through her journey as Arisen she finds herself longing for it again more than anything. So she really hopes Sven would also be willing to fund her getting a little farm of her own somewhere.... Maybe she could renovate those couple destroyed buildings overrun by saurians by the fields of Vernworth.... As she'd also hate to be too far from people again.

6. Who are their love interest(s) and/or closest friends?

Wilhelmina is her love interest, aside from Lir.... Wilhelmina kissing her to save her from the guards was her bi awakening lol. As for close friends, she gets along well with Menella and Brant. She likes to visit Waldhar too, as he becomes a great supply of books and is someone she can talk about them to. She likes hanging out with Ulrika and Fyoran when she visits Harve as well. Beren as well, and although she doesn't spend much time with him, he's one of the only people she truly feels she won't be judged for being quiet around.

7. What drew them to their preferred vocation? Do they have history with it?

She hates being limited (read: not being able to reach areas), so always being able to pull out a staff and levitate, or to pull out a magick bow to shoot enemies out of the sky or hit multiple targets is something she quickly finds she can't go back from once she has it. Though she usually equips all 4 of her skill slots with skills from one vocation anyway, mainly mystic spearhand and occasionally thief.

8. Do they have any hobbies? Any way of relaxing between all that monster-slaying and traveling?

Reading!! But also she at least does very much enjoy camping and making good food for everyone, especially finding ways to go above and beyond the default slab of meat. Maybe THIS is her secret to getting Lir to be so strong.... She also likes petting and playing with farm animals. She will often wander out into the fields outside of Vernworth to do this....

♟︎ THE PAWN:

NAME: Lir AGE: 24 RACE: Beastren PRONOUNS: He/him PREFERRED VOCATION: Warrior FAVORED GIFTS: Berries, delicately but pleasantly fragranced soaps. Handmade things and kind gestures in general. INCLINATION: Kindhearted

POSITIVE TRAITS: Kind, strong, loyal and sweet. NEGATIVE TRAITS: Self-sacrificing, can be a bit clueless. Clumsy around deep water. LIKES: Shallow water and baths, hot springs.... He enjoys traveling and seeing interesting sights but there's nothing better than a warm comfortable bed. DISLIKES: Deep water and the brine.... Dragonsplague....

1. What was their life like prior to being summoned by their Arisen?

Nothing much to note here! Just a foggy consciousness in the rift.... Nimh is his first and only arisen!

2. What is their opinion on the Arisen? How do they view their relationship?

He looks up to her a lot, before anything else. At first he's quite compelled by Nimh's will and her projection of it, as his arisen, onto him, and sort of loves her blindly for a while. But even at the start, part of his awe and wonder towards her is certainly genuine. More on this in the "how have they changed" section below.

3. Is there anything about the Arisen they find troublesome? Be it a small quirk or bad habit? (Or are they obviously flawless?)

He holds her in too high of a regard to think of any of her traits as too much of a flaw, but if he had to say some things, it'd be her recklessness when worrying over him, but also her difficulty at times with communication. Although they work together very well in battle, and there is a certain amount Lir can kind of just Sense off of her, there was a period in the middle of their journey (about the time they reached Battahl) where the two grew rather distant. Largely because Nimh was having difficulties sorting through her feelings for both Lir and Wilhelmina, and also just struggling as enemies got harsher in Battahl. This lead her to neglecting him a bit and just not talking to him about anything she was going through, which Lir would've absolutely preferred and believes would've saved them a lot of trouble. They do eventually have a breaking point where they work things out and grow closer than ever before.

4. What is their specialization and is there any story behind how they cultivated that skill set?

Chirurgeon!! He was a Logistician at first, but Nimh wold get frustrated at him crafting salubrious draught all the time before she could wait for fruit to ripen and dry to make roborant.... She decided to channel his affinity for curatives and his kindhearted nature into a specialization where he could look out for their party more directly.

5. Do they have any thoughts on the politics of the world and their place in it as a Pawn - or how Pawns are treated?

Lir can be very sensitive to it, feeling lots of grief at the ways pawns get mistreated in Battahl. It's extra odd for him being a beastren pawn as well.... But part of him does understand why they feel that way considering dragonsplauge, but it hurts nonetheless. He wants to be hopeful since Nadinia seems open-minded, but he wonders how much of what Phaesus does she truly knows about.

6. Does their journey with the Arisen change them in any significant way and how?

During the rough patch between Nimh and Lir, he starts to gain his own will bit by bit. At first this and the general circumstances do draw them apart, but Lir takes the time to ponder and sort out his own genuine, developing feelings. It's hard to sort out and get rid of Nimh's will completely, so things continue to be complicated, but Nimh is very wary of this and that isn't lost on Lir. He doesn't ever bring his feelings up directly for quite a long time because of this, although he does keep up his sweet manner of speech full of admiration as it is kind of second nature by now, albeit with a bit more Meaning. To keep the rest of this short, in one AU Lir, Nimh and Wilhelmina all end up happily together, retired at their farm with Sven as sovran. In another, they decide to bitter-sweetly part ways after everything so Lir can travel and become truly his own self. And there's also the unmoored world AU ofc.

7. Is there a reason they chose their preferred vocation?

In game he comments on this a lot lol, he loves being a warrior. Sometimes he even asks to be a warrior WHILE he's a warrior. Initially he was a fighter, influenced by Nimh's vision of a princely knight. But he felt a little stagnant after reaching max rank so they had him try out warrior and he just instantly thrived, he felt a lot more helpful/capable/powerful too, so it just stuck!!

8. Do they have any hobbies or preferred past-times?

Hmmm, that's hard.... He's rather go with the flow so he can be happy chilling and doing whatever, like watching the clouds or the stars.... But I could see him having a journal/scrapbook or something!! I'm sure he gets into a lot of stuff in the AU where he sets out on his own but i'd have to ponder it more.... Kind of related, but he would help re-braid Nimh's hair often and got quite good at it, on top of it being quite relaxing to him.... Hairstylist....

#clyde.txt #dragon's dogma 2 #dd2 #dd2 spoilers #sorry some of these answers are so brief and like meta and then some are so SO long and lore related....#nimh #lir

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