Season 3 is going to be so Good
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Season 3 is going to be so Good
asoiaf sigils â dorne | Only a Dornishman can ever truly know Dorne, it is said. The southernmost of the Seven Kingdoms is also the most inhospitableâŠand the strangest, to the eyes of any man raised in the Reach or the westerlands or King's Landing. For Dorne is different, in more ways than can be told.
âHow cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, when memory plays an old tune on the heart.â (based on a post by @reesa0221)
hi there id love to request a fic! reader notices joel taking off his watch before going to shower and starts to hold/wear it. She notices that the watch is broken and offers joel to fix it but gets really mad/aggressive and makes it awkward between them
let alone the one you love
pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
summary: insecurities flood your mind when Joel raises his voice at you for the first time.
contents/warnings: Mature - established relationship, fluff, loss of a child, insecurities, regrets, terms of endearment, protective!Joel, no description of reader (just hair and female anatomy), no uses of y/n. Apologies if I missed anything.
wc: 2300+
song: let alone the one you love by olivia dean (trust me.)
A/N: ahhh my first request! this took me longer than i thought bc i wanted to get it right, but i hope i did it justice (i need to stop writing so late at night but yolo)
gif by @/azertyrobaz | read on ao3
18+ nsfw drabble â steve harrington x you.
steve harrington is traditional when he falls in love.
he opens doors for you, picks you up exactly on time. he brings you roses then your favorite flowers once he learns what they are. he kisses your cheek in passing and makes sure you walk along the inside of the sidewalk, away from traffic. he gives you his sweaters when it gets late.
he fucks you like a gentleman, too. he kisses you nice and slow, makes sure he works you up to where he wants you: dripping wet and needy. when he slides into your cunt, he's above you, deep and slow thrusts while he whispers sweet nothings.
even after months dating, steve treats you like royalty outside of the sheets. but something shifts in the bedroom when he gets comfortableâ no, familiarâ with you.
he gets needier and rougher when he sees you're into it, slamming deep that you can feel his balls smack against your ass. his praise becomes taunting, teasing you until you're screaming for more. his kisses are sloppy, leaving behind a myriad of lovebites along your neck and inner thighs. he fucks you so good, your thighs are quivering by the end of it.
steve harrington is a freak (in bed), despite his acts of chivalry.
January Recommendations
Welcome to the first recommendation list of 2026! I'm excited for what the rest of the year will bring. Here's a list of all the amazing fics I've read in January, made by these amazingly talented writers below. Enjoy!
Little warning, a lot of the fics under the cut are smut. There are some that I wanted to include, but I haven't gotten around to reading, so they'll be included on February's list đ
A stormy london night. Perfect for a loverâs spat to happen. You loathe him for his indifference, his carefully crafted superiority. It is fine if he does not care about you, but unacceptable for John and Sherlock.
Caring is an absolute advantage. You know that if Sherlock is gone, your boss, handler, enemy, something Mycroft will also be gone, and he does not understand that at all.
You fight at him, seeth at him in the london rain. You are soaked beneath it all, and you can barely see his face, hidden under the cover of his umbrella, remaining holy and dry. He knows where it hurts, especially when it comes to you, and the words kill you and you run inside.
âDonât you dare run away. Thatâs an order. 008!â You hear him until he is muffled from the door you shut on him. He then follows after you.
You are cornered in the foyer, and he stalks towards you like something awfully akin to a predator. Your eyes dart to the lonely lamp throwing a pool of gold that made the walls loom over you. Water drips down you in a maddening rhythm, puddling to the carpet, and steams rises against your chilled skin. Everything is here.
The words donât register, neither yours nor his. The final words you and him desperately swing at eachother for feeling semblance of control.
But then you know It is a kiss. His hand at your jaw. Bruising to the core. His mouth crashing down at yours before you can draw your furious words and sword.
Your head hits the wall. The wallpaper is cool and damp beneath your soaked hair.
You meant to shove him off. Meant to slap him, scream at him. But your body betrays you, melting before your mind could catch up. Your mouth opens under his, and then there was tongue, teeth, a clash more than a kiss, all anger and desperation.
The heat of him is overwhelming. Heâs dry, warm, pressed against your drenched self, and every nerve in you screams at the difference, the electric shock of his mouth moving against yours while water drips down your collarbones. His hand braces against the wall beside your head, caging you in, and you let yourself fall into it, into him, because fighting him suddenly feels impossible.
You clutch at his lapels, dragging him closer, tasting the heat of his breath, the sting of teeth as he bites against your lower lip. You moan against him, hating yourself for it, hating him for pulling it from you. The kiss is war, but itâs also near unconditional surrender.
Your soaked clothes cling between you, but he is all tailored lines and heat, every inch of him pressed against you. You arch into him, into him, devouring his mouth as though you havenât just been screaming at each other. His tongue sweeps against yours and you meet it, furious, hungry, until the foyer echoes with the wet sounds of both of you.
Itâs obscene, and you donât care.
You want more.
Want him closer, hotter, want to burn the cold rain out of your bones in his impossible, infuriating warmth. You feel selfish.
The kiss drags on, deepens, turns from an attack into something darker, something that makes your knees weaken even as your fists stay knotted in his coat. He groans low in his throat, a sound heâs never meant anyone to hear, and you swallow it down like victory.
When you finally tear apart, itâs only for breath. Your foreheads almost touch, both panting, his lips red and swollen, your chest heaving. Water still drips from your hair, running down between you, but his body is a furnace against yours, dry and searing and too much.
You stare up at him, lips trembling from the aftershock, eyes blazing. The sight of him flushed to the ears invades you.
He stares right back, and in the stormy, jagged, grey of his gaze, you find absolution.
"Thatâs the problem with you. You care too much." He leans into your mouth, not giving you the satisfaction of touch, "And for all your fire, youâll burn for me first."
fin.