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Three Drow Ante

Forgotten Realms | E | Fel'rekt Lafeen/Krebbyg Masq'il'yr/Zeth'rinn Baenre | Wordcount: 5244

Tags: Trans male character, Porn and some feelings, Friends With Benefits, Pining, Oral Sex, T-dick referred to as clit, Threesome - M/M/M, Double Penetration, Frotting via penetration, Strap-Ons, Banter

Summary:

Fel’rekt has a Thing for Krebbyg. Krebbyg has a Thing for Fel’rekt. Apparently, they’re the only two people in Bregan D’aerthe who haven’t realised the Thing goes both ways. Fortunately for everyone, Zeth’rinn has a plan to fix this.

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Technically, the vacant house on Saerdoun Street was an observational outpost. Technically, Fel’rekt was posted there to oversee the intelligence-gathering operation on the Gralhunds. And, technically, Zeth’rinn wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near a Bregan D’aerthe operative with actual rank because Jarlaxle was still sore about the thing with the dragon, as if he had any right to be sore about anything involving dragons, given his history.

All the technicalities in the world couldn’t erase the fact that Zeth’rinn had needs, as did Fel’rekt, and finding someone who could take care of those needs without getting unpleasant about either their drow heritage or the particular shape of their gender was not as easy as either of their libidos might have hoped.

Keep Reading: AO3 / Neocities / Dreamwidth

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Behold! the threesome fic! with a very short excerpt because it immediately opens onto tasty tasty smut~ go enjoy my horny menace of an OC getting dicked down in the name of matchmaking 💜

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find the word

tagged by @zmwrites, thank you! my words are curl, water, false, and far. an assorted grab-bag of stuff from various fics today~

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curl

from To Know One’s Limits

He knew how to ask for what he wanted with Rizeth. He could tell his Master to stop when he needed it; had learned how to fail without wanting to curl up and die from it. Rizeth always gave him clear expectations, honest answers—never ridiculed him, or dismissed his feelings, or treated him like an object instead of a person.

water

from drink me dry

In the moment before his heart stopped, it was a calm like nothing else; body full of still dark water, empty as the void between the stars and as quiet, so instead of telling Astarion to fuck off and never do that again, he just says, “Ask next time.” And walks away.

false

from to the point

Intricate wall carvings shift in the glow of enchanted sconces, whose flames lend false life to the faces of well-chosen sculptures. Every door he pokes his head into reveals another exactingly tidy room, yet though elegance and expense are evident in abundance, it’s nothing he couldn’t see at any other estate. Nothing heretical. Nothing scandalous. Nothing interesting.

far

from kiss in the sand

Jarlaxle let his gaze trail up Artemis’ body, slow and hungry. “I killed a dragon,” he said. “You helped kill a dragon,” Entreri corrected. He very studiously ignored Jarlaxle’s attentions, as if doing so would make him stop. “I’ve heard them tell it—you did very little.” “They would have done far worse without my considerable moral support. And financial assistance.”

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no-pressure tagging @viscerawrites @charlesjosephwrites @oh-no-another-idea and @tabswrites with the words deft, exit, scrape, and jagged

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everyone deserves, at least once in their life, to read a book that feels like it was written exactly, specifically for you

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heads up seven up

tagged by @cheerfulmelancholies, thank you! my wheel of wips chose Valloroth, so here’s Quest getting way too excited about the idea of going on a dragon hunt.

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“Only five?” Quest’s eyebrows went up. “We’ve got loads in Infernus! My clan killed one yonks ago—we’ve still got the skull kicking around somewhere. Comes out for special occasions.” They drummed a quick beat with their palms on the bench. “Oh! We should go find that one and kill it, too! We can mount the skull on the wagon!” A tangle of sour notes jangled from the roof. “Bodyguard, don’t suggest things that will get me killed.” “You’re the one writing a song about your brave and mighty encounter with a dragon,” Aliyne said. “Which I cannot sing if I am dead. Dead bards make little coin, I’ve found.” “Also, I’m not your bodyguard,” Quest said. “You fired me.” “And I re-hired you, if I recall correctly, but if you get me eaten by a dragon, so help me you can consider yourself once more unemployed.”

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no-pressure tagging @reininginthefirewriting @tabswrites @rhikasa and @chauceryfairytales

Valloroth taglist: @cherrybombfangirlwrites @reininginthefirewriting @memento-morri-writes @foxboyclit @lawful-evil-novelist

@at-thezenith @morganwriteblr @fayeiswriting @serenanymph @sam-glade

@viscerawrites @thegreatobsesso @flower-reads @the-inkwell-variable @firesidefantasy (ask to be +/-)

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when I comment on a fellow writer's fic and they, in turn, comment on one of mine

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AMBROSE BURRITO TIME

THIS IS NOT A DRILL

“Are you all right?” Ambrose asked. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Eli said too quickly. “Just thought we’d be back in time, you know?” Ambrose tilted his head—he knew Eli had been excited about Spelltide, but not that excited. But before he could open his mouth to ask about it, Eli yawned and pulled him close. “Come on. Time to get you into bed.” Eli’s hands tightened around his waist. Ambrose stiffened. He knew this particular move. “No, Eli, wait—” Too late. Eli picked him up, whirled him around, and tossed him onto the bed—then as if he was subduing a baby griffin, he wrapped the duvet around Ambrose and shoved a pillow under his head. “Okay, good night!” Eli made an exaggerated snuggling motion on the other side of the bed. Ambrose’s helpless grin was hidden by the pillow. “Eli!” He tried to move his arms; no use. “Release me at once!” “Excuse you, I’m trying to get some sleep.” “Elias Valenz—” “All right, all right!” Eli unwrapped him until he was under the covers as normal, staring up at the glowing blue stars Banneker had provided. Well—the stars and Eli’s goofy grin. “Goodnight, Ames.” He leaned down and gave him a soft, lingering kiss. A goodnight kiss—perhaps one of Ambrose’s favorite kinds.

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Song Scenelets: puppy – Glass Beach

I recently did another round of scenelets inspired by songs that my friends suggested, so here we go!

OCs: Pat Pastearn & Corcra Revalo

Setting: locality space, specifically Salles City, on the planet Antarac

Words: 820

Content warnings: nongraphic references to past physical and verbal abuse

Context: Pat is Spinder’s older adoptive brother. His first wife was abusive; his second wife, Corcra, is very much not, but the habits and the horrors from his first marriage are tenacious. This scene takes place sometime in the first year of Pat and Corcra’s marriage.

“Where’s the cube that goes here?” Corcra asked, tapping a diamond-shaped slot on the storage hanger labeled Atroides – Macerated.

“I don’t know,” Pat said. He knew he hadn’t listened to it for a while, but if he also hadn’t touched one of his cube decks for a while, he could easily have left it in there. He turned around to get out the most likely culprit and heard the click of his antique deck opening behind him.

Anxiety spiked along his spine. Surely Corcra would only take a cursory glance in the slot, which would be almost too high for her to see into, see that there was no cube in there, and close the lid again. Arms buzzing with fear, he pretended like he hadn’t heard anything and finished easing the deck in his hands off a higher shelf.

“Did you know there was money in here?” Corcra asked.

The anxiety upgraded to a horrible still dread tensing the muscles of his back. He pressed the open button of the deck in his hands and stared into its empty slot, tried to think of something he could say as time stretched around his too-quick heartbeat.

“I must have put that in there years ago,” he said, trying to keep his tone light, not knowing if he’d responded fast enough not to be suspicious. “That deck has never worked very well.”

The empty deck he was holding went back on the shelf, but before he could pick another to check, the quiet behind him gave way to Corcra’s voice: “Is everything okay, Pat?”

Her tone was serious. Concerned. He couldn’t answer that, but she was his wife, so he had no choice. The more he turned to face her, the more he just wanted to walk out the door instead of confronting her big worried eyes.

“Everything’s fine,” he said levelly. True enough.

“Why is there money in here?” Her tone had barely changed, but instantly his lungs were tight. She wouldn’t believe him if he lied, but if he told her the truth, it would be worse, because it always was.

“Just in case,” he managed.

“...In case of what?”

“In case I have to get out again.”

Something flashed across her face and he mentally braced himself. Then she closed the lid of the deck and carefully put it back in its place. In two steps she closed the distance between them, and even though he knew she would never hit him, something in him still flinched when she offered him her hands. But of course when he laid his hands in hers, she just held them softly.

“I don’t care if you keep money around, or whatever makes you feel safer,” she said, her thumbs tracing his knuckles. “But you can always leave. If this isn’t right for you, if I’m not right for you—you really will get half of everything if you divorce me. And you can keep the house, it’s basically yours. I just want you to tell me the truth.”

There were so many things that could mean. “Tell you the truth?”

“Don’t try to lie to me about whatever you have stashed away. I’m not going to touch it. That’s not my deck anyhow.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he was, but saying it still felt like a useless charm to ward off consequences.

“It’s okay,” she said like she meant it. “Can I hug you?”

“Yes.”

She instantly had her arms around his chest, her head turned to rest against it because she wasn’t quite tall enough to put her chin on his shoulder. He hugged her back, but she hugged tighter.

“I know you can’t magically just be okay,” she said, “but I don’t want you to hurt. I love you.”

The tears that gathered in his lashes were half because he could hear phantom words between hers—I don’t want you to hurt but when you fuck up there has to be consequences. I want you to be better because I love you—and half because he believed her. And maybe half again because he didn’t really believe her, but he wanted to so badly.

“I love you too,” he murmured past the deluge of feelings in his body. He held her closer, pressing his face to the dark straight hair at her crown. It smelled like chortencias, like the front gardens in the sun. Like her, underneath that, warm and nonspecific, yet so unmistakably his wife. His partner.

When she stepped back, they both wiped their eyes a little. Nothing about her movement was dramatic or pointed, but it was still hard not to feel like her crying was his fault.

“Okay,” she said. “Macerated by Atroides?”

“We might have to check all of these,” he answered with as much of a smile as he could muster.

She smiled back and pulled the next deck off the shelf.

Nicea taglist: @ink-flavored @vacantgodling @writernopal @multi-lefaiye

To join or leave my taglists, fill out this form.

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WIP Acrostic

Thanks for the tag @paintedbutton! My word is PIGEON and I'll see what I can find in Invisible Girl today :)

Rules: given a word, find a sentence in your WIP that starts with each letter

P. “Perhaps [Fynn is] going to ride back to New York,” Velia said, not feeling too well. Maybe if she threw up everything she’d eaten for dinner last night she’d feel better?

I. Instead of filling her with the smell of freedom and the taste of joy, an ocean voyage merely gave Velia the sensation of indigestion.

G. Good thing the New York bid pays twice as much as Finton,” Masters said, cracking his knuckles in a way that could have meant something else but probably only meant business.

E. “Even Crowley has to sleep,” Paris murmured next to her. “As soon as we know where he ends up, we can just meet up with them at dawn.”

O. “Oy,” the driver said, irritated, and open the doors again.

N. Not knowing what to say, Velia remained silent, her thoughts whirring. If she’d been a little less charitable, she might have pointed out that for someone with supposed companionship, Paris seemed to be doing his best at being as unmoored and adrift as the rest of them.

@writingrosesonneptune @charlesjosephwrites @eccaiia @artdecosupernova-writing @indecentpause @winterandwords @thegreatobsesso @tc-doherty and anyone else who sees this, tag, you're it! Your word is: WRIST.

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✍🏼 WIP Acrostic tag (WRIST)

Thanks to @oh-no-another-idea for the tag! This is possibly my favourite writeblr tag game.

📝 Share a sentence from your WIP that starts with each letter in the word given to you by the person who tagged you.

These are from Miles From Morning...

When he realises who I am, the pleading gets louder and more frantic.

Reflection. Repetition. Reaction.

I tried twice so far and it got me nothing by a warning the first time and broken nose the second time.

She’s maybe only up to my chin, but she’s built like a brick shit house and her arms are probably bigger around than my thighs.

There’s a deep level of unsettling I’m going to make this before I fuck him up and finish it.

Tagging @aalinaaaaaa, @ahordeofwasps, @asher-writes and @cheerfulmelancholies if you'd like to do it, with an open tag for anyone else who wants to join in.

The word for your acrostic is SMILE 💜

Reblogs, replies etc on my tag posts are always welcome, but if you're doing this tag yourself, please make your own post instead of using mine to start a reblog chain.

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i love assigning headcanons to NPCs it is. my FAVE. (Amrik Vanthampur is a hasn't-entirely-worked-it-out bisexual with internalised 'only bottoms are gay' homophobia TO ME. oddly specific i know but this is my toybox)

im so glad i got to do my homebrew Underdark adventure, it was such a lot of fun. something about the environment, even outside of playing in the Menzo sandbox, is so compelling to me. perhaps because it puts so many characters wildly out of their depth/comfort zone, leaving nearly any PC on uneven, uncertain footing. maybe it's just that Caves And Cave Monsters are cool. maybe it's the combo of ethereal beauty and The Descent level horror that can be combined when you put a bunch of adventurers in an endless cave system

anyway i deeply love what you've done with Shoor (said in tones of entering a well-restored vintage home. love what you've done with the place). his belief that he did gender hard enough is so so compelling. get that drow on tradhusband menzo tiktok IMMEDIATELY

re: Menzo Escapee Vizaeth - i have a handful of thoughts; most of which currently chew around the vague concepts @lawful-evil-novelist and I were slinging around ages ago about Nalfein getting him out of there around the time War of the Spider Queen and the siege of Menzoberranzan is going on. which is just: Drizzt Do'Urden and his messy siblings trying to socialise this absolutely vicious little Lolthite who keeps hiding in cupboards because the surface space terrifies him so much

my other non-Do'Urden thoughts are just that it would be a years (decades) long series of looping recovery, with Rhylfein or whoever he ends up with trying to help him, and him constantly falling back into old patterns of self-harm, violence towards others, and Lolthite doctrine. because recovery is non-linear, and it's especially non-linear when you're Vizaeth Thaezyr, and Lolth is one of a grand total of four people you've ever felt any kind of love four. one of those people being the brother whose body you're walking around in.

...god he's so fucked up <3

for the folder wip tag you KNOW i must ask about 'is this drow tr*dwifery' (--@space-writes)

["Ask me questions about my WIPs" tag game.]

Unfortunately, me and @yaezgalvus are always getting attached to minor characters and developing them out until they’re basically our OCs. It’s a curse. You triggered my trap card, though, and now I get to talk about Shoor!

More below the cut.

Shoor Vandree is a horrible menace. I love him. For anyone who might not familiar with Out of the Abyss, that module begins with the player characters as prisoners in a drow garrison, waiting to be transported back to Menzoberranzan. Shoor is the current lover and second-in-command of the priestess who’s actually in charge of the outpost, Ilvara Mizzrym, a position he was only handed because Ilvara’s previous favourite, Jorlan Duskryn, was attacked by an ooze and disabled slash disfigured by severe acid burns.

(I could talk about Ilvara and Jorlan for hours, too, but because they’re not gonna show up in the fic much outside of one or two guest appearances, that might be a post for later.)

We only get a paragraph or two about Shoor in the module, but what we do get paints a pretty clear picture! He’s arrogant and still riding the high of his promotion, “which shows in his swagger and the way he lords it over every other male in Velkynvelve.” At the same time, he’s deeply insecure in his position and constantly striving to prove himself to his mistress. The module spells it out pretty clearly that Ilvara “cares no more about him than she did about Jorlan,” so as soon as she loses interest in him, he’s back where he started, and he knows it.

Shoor slots into this fic really well, because he’s obsessively performing gender at all times. He’s an elite warrior who charmed his way into the bed of a priestess, he's "winning the game," but at the same time, he does understand on some level that his success is entirely conditional on women finding him fuckable, useful, and non-threatening. He’s intensely competitive with other men, constantly putting them down to make himself look better by comparison, but with Ilvara he’s so desperate for validation that he’ll shrink himself into her perfect lackey and plaything, never challenge her at all, never make demands or complain when he’s being mistreated.

As a fun little side tangent, the module also tells us that Shoor takes special pleasure in harassing and flaunting his new position over Jorlan, in particular, which is… odd? Jorlan was Ilvara’s old favourite, sure, but since the acid bath, he’s been dropped to the lowest rung of the social ladder and he really shouldn’t register to an arrogant bastard like Shoor as a threat. Jorlan’s injuries are so profound that he has a permanent disadvantage on attack rolls written into his stat block. Ilvara wants nothing to do with him physically, and Jorlan’s description implies that his initial heartbreak over Ilvara is mostly just resentment now, so why is Shoor still so fixated on him?

Listen, he could just be gloating. He could have singled Jorlan out as an easy target for harassment because of his disability. Still, there’s something suspicious about constantly trying to emasculate, humiliate or otherwise assert dominance over a romantic rival months (maybe years?) after the matter’s been settled. I honestly do think it's at least partially a sex thing. Shoor does read to me as a bisexual man who still hasn’t figured it out, so he made it everyone else’s problem. Met a hot guy at the Melee-Magthere, became his rival, got with his girlfriend to piss him off, and made a nuisance of himself at every opportunity because beating the shit out of each other got weirdly erotically charged at some point.

I don’t think a threesome would have saved them, but it would have been entertaining, at least.

Basically, me and Nickie got so attached to this little shit that we extracted him from the module and dropped him in the lap of one of his homebrew NPCs, Ssapiira Myrhael, Matron Mother and local GILF, so she could rehab him like a badly trained shelter dog. He's already learned a lot of bad habits by the time he comes to stay in the Myrhael family compound, and his understanding of limits and boundaries is completely nonexistent, but she sees potential in him. He just needs a bit of Discipline and Structure in his life. Still feels compelled to piss off every other male drow he comes into contact with (including Ssapiira’s other consorts) because he needs to be the best, most handsomest boy in the House, though.

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A Carrion Comfort

Fandom: Baldur's Gate III

Character(s): The Dark Urge: Drakka Ulfgar

Word Count: 730

Warnings: Descriptions of death, violence, blood, murder, and a body. Typical Durge fare.

The sun rises and the girl is still dead. Or rather, Alfira's body is not left as a spectacle in the middle of camp. Drakka grieves what is not his to grieve.

The sun rises and the girl is still dead. She is not some figment of the night, terror summoned only by his worst dreams. Drakka had half-hoped, childishly and foolishly, that he would wake with dawn's first light. That Alfira the Bard would once more open her sightless eyes and smile at him with all of her teeth, with all her insides where they should be again. She would laugh at his silly dream, say he should leave those morbid wonderings behind and ask where they were headed next on their venture.

So eager, so young, so kind. So terribly dead. And Drakka is ever more the monster for wanting comfort from his unwitting victim.

The eyes of his companions follow Drakka the entire way to the stream. Accusations linger in the air that he could not deny. Questions that he had no satisfactory answer to. He does not blame them for the fear or the sickness he sees in their eyes. He feels the same roiling in his belly, though he has no right to it.

A horrifying layer of viscera that is not his own turns Drakka's skin muddy and dulled, turns the water red as he washes. His hands seem to be to him monstrous mockeries of flesh, tipped with nails that are more claw and talon, than anything civilized. The strong muscles of his forearms are merely the weapons he used for the sin, much harder to discard than a mere mallet or hammer might have been.

At the riverbed he scrubs his hands until they are blistering and raw, his own blood mixing with the blood of the tiefling girl that covers him like an accusatory second skin. How he wishes to step out of his own body that would do this horrendous thing! He begrudges the snake the process of ecdysis, left naked and new and unsullied by the end. Do they feel pain when they shed? Is it a relief, to cast off the heavy mantle of history?

History. Of which he has none. Only this terrible curse that pulls him to rend and tear and break a body beyond repair. That still sparks pleasure in his broken brain when he lingers on the thought of the act too long.

Drakka has killed plenty since he has woken upon the Nautiloid with naught but a name. He has not felt the need to wretch like this after every kill, however. At least he is capable of remorse -- a thought that brings him little comfort. Regret will not bring back the light that he has snuffed.

He rises once the only blood that lingers is that which is so crusted beneath the nail that all he can do is stare at the browning half-moons. It is perhaps counterintuitive to cleanse himself when there is still the matter of the body itself to care for, but he cannot bear to do so when still covered so carelessly in her gore. He will wash again once he is done, knowing that no river in this world will truly rid him of this stain.

Shame is his only companion when he returns. He need not even try avoid the gazes of the other members of camp, for they look but do not attempt to meet his eye. Look too long upon a mad dog and they might see it as challenge or threat or both. They must wonder how long before he breaks his leash again, before the thirst swells too greatly within him for him to ignore.

He fears the same.

Drakka does not allow himself to look away from Alfira as he walks past the ghastly scene once more. Let this sear into his mind. Let him remember. Let him never forget it for as long as he lives, though he has forgotten so much else.

He grabs his shovel and gives her the dignity of his own cloak to cover her. The flies have already begun to converge, eager for the taste of dead flesh. He does not know the proper burial for one of her people.

But he will bury her deep beneath the ground so that she is not left to the scavengers. She deserves that much, and so much more. A grave is the only comfort he may offer her now. A cold, carrion comfort at most.

He begins to dig.

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find the word

tagged by @oh-no-another-idea, thank you! my words are distract, distance, diamond, and dream. pulling from The Perils of Wanting today because! i love and miss my boys (i say, actively working on the next book)

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distract

“You have made yourself at home, I see,” Rizeth said, not seeming to notice Ashenivir’s sudden inability to speak. He had a collection of bags and packages with him, most of which he left on the table in the main room, apart from one which he placed on Ashenivir’s bed, and another which he put into the bag of holding that contained all of their toys. He didn’t say anything about it though, only set to unpacking his ordinary things, and Ashenivir was then preoccupied with trying not to think about what seeing Rizeth setting clothes into drawers alongside his own did to the warm rope entangling his ribcage. To distract himself, he examined the package on his bed, peeling back the paper to find a folded square of fabric; deep blue wool, of a fine, almost silken weave.

distance

The mark snapped at him, a handful of ice shoved directly into his skull, and Rizeth was on his feet seconds before the thunderclap echoed across the lake. He hadn’t stopped to think, only judged the distance in a split second and hurled himself through the Weave to where the divinations told him Ashenivir was.

diamond

“Volothamp Geddarm is a hack and a charlatan,” Rizeth remarked. He sketched another rune in the air, then blew a handful of diamond dust into an upper corner of the bedroom. It shimmered, sinking into the wall with an azure glimmer. “He wrote an entire guide to the city.” “And I am certain if you follow his every instruction, you shall be indistinguishable from a native in no time.”

dream

He pulled Rizeth forwards, and there was no choice but to go with him. They didn’t head back into the maelstrom of the shrine, though; instead, Ashenivir led him off into the trees, to a more secluded part of the Haven’s gardens. The music was fainter here, a dream that hardly mattered. Ashenivir tugged at his shirt. “You can’t dance clothed, Master.” “Apprentice—” “Please?” Ashenivir plucked at the fastenings, that smile still consuming his face, almost too bright to look at. Rizeth caught his wrists—then let go. How could he say no to him tonight?

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no-pressure tagging @cwritesfiction @vsnotresponding @firesidefantasy and @aalinaaaaaa with the words alarm, outlast, alive, and overcome

Obedience taglist: @foxboyclit @belovedviolence @thegreatobsesso

@notwritinganyflufftoday @exeiguess @firesidefantasy

@reneesbooks (ask to be +/-)

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Yes I do indeed have an ulterior motive for posting my original writing

I need you to be as obsessed with the people living in my head as I am

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out of context tag

tagged by @willtheweaver, thank you! i decided to try an Obsession fic in Pharaun’s POV for this kinktober story I’m working on, and it’s turning out a lot of fun, actually!

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Rancid magic, rotten little claws dug into the muscle of his heart—in the dead of night, staring at the ceiling, he can hear that wretched name echoing inside his heartbeat: Vizaeth, Vizaeth, Vizaeth fucking Thaezyr.

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no-pressure tagging @princessbonecrimes @hagscribes and @vsnotresponding

Obsession taglist: @foxboyclit (ask to be +/-)

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its so awesome that you can straight up write fanfiction in your head to help yourself fall asleep and it doesnt even have to be good or something anyone would ever want to read. even yourself

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insane about them. actually

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing,” Ashenivir said. That look, so physical it made his skin tingle—he had his Master’s attention alright. Rizeth’s grip tightened, sending a light spray of pain over his scalp. “Kissing you, that’s all.”

“Pulling my hair is a form of kiss now, is it?”

“You liked it.” He gasped as Rizeth hauled him closer, their lips an inch apart. “You did, I heard you.”

“Whether or not I liked it is beside the point, you—” he cut himself off, and Ashenivir wanted to bite him, and not just to be a brat. What was wrong with him this morning? The next words should have been didn’t ask permission, but in their place hung this resistant silence.

“Then give me permission,” Ashenivir whispered. “Give me permission, Master, or teach me not to do it.”