#werewolf f/o

[nerdwhoauthorinserts]

More soulmate AU nonsense!

Possible Trigger Warnings?: -Murder, violence, death -Alcohol mention -War mention -Major? Spoilers for Skyrim

Soulmate AU Mechanics:    Soulmates will hear their other half when they sing, no matter how far apart they are. If they’re close, they’ll hear it delayed, like an echo.

Important Notes: -   Brynjar is, functionally, just a Khajiit. His Argonian bits are basically just aesthetic, as is typical for ‘hybrid’ children in The Elder Scrolls. (He’s a Khajiit, like his mother, with lesser traits carried from his Argonian father.) So, no, he doesn’t have Argonian abilities on top of his Khajiit abilities. -   Brynjar is a Tojay-Raht Khajiit, mainly because I decided to look up what, based on my irl birthday, I might’ve been if I were in Skyrim. ...Tojay-Raht is what I got, so my S/I is just that. -   In the story, it’s implied that Brynjar isn’t from Tamriel. This is true. He’s from an island some ways away from Tamriel’s coast. -   The first two songs are sea shanties, the third is a Skyrim-based song, and... I mean, you probably know what the last song is.

  "My mother told me someday I would buy, galley with good oars, sail to distant shores!” That song had been playing in Vilkas’ mind for a while.

   Old tales told of the random appearance of ‘soulmates’, people who could hear their ‘other half’ singing in their head. Nowadays, however, though it was still a phenomenon going strong, many in Tamriel had simply waved it off. The war and constant tension killed many while they were still young, many before they could even meet their supposed ‘soulmate’. 

   So, many simply acted as if it didn’t exist. They made families with non-soulmates. Sadly, they simply could take less and less time toward the prospect of relationships and potential soulmates in Skyrim’s current climate. At the very least, they would meet their soulmates in the afterlife...at least, if they made it to the same afterlife.

   “Stand up on the Prow, noble barque, I steer! Steady course to the haven. Hew many foe-man, hew many foe-man.” Vilkas had never been the ‘casually singing’ type. He indulged occasionally in the songs and stories in the companion’s halls, but rarely, if ever, sang outside of that.

   His soulmate, whoever they were, though? They seemed to sing at any opportunity that presented itself. It was slightly annoying at first, especially on the battlefield, but Vilkas learned to tune it out when he needed to.

   But times like this? Vilkas simply listened, laying in his bed and staring at nothing. This song seemed to be a favorite of his, as he sang it fairly often. So often, in fact, that Vilkas could recite it from memory.

   Brynjar was far from the shores of Skyrim, sitting at the bow of his ship and singing loudly to the beat of the waves. In the background, his friends, his crew, sang along with him. One last song before going to sleep.

   Brynjar made it a habit of singing before going to bed. Partially a cultural thing, as where he came from, it was customary to sing for your soulmate every morning. Though, of course, Brynjar was never a morning person, so it more became a type of ‘lullaby’.

   Brynjar then lept from his perch as the song concluded, passing his friends and bidding each one he passed a ‘goodnight’.

   That morning, they arrived at the docks. They were less than welcome, as many could recognize Brynjar and his ship from the warnings sent out. Pirates. Who, in their right mind, could forget the face of a Tojay-Raht, clearly born of a Khajiit mother and Argonian father? If the small spikes on his jaw weren’t enough, the curled horns, belly scales, and eyebrow ridges would certainly remind them.

   Brynjar got attacked by a drunkard; Getting the attention of the nearby guard, one thing surely led to another. Soon, Brynjar found himself arrested alongside a few Stormcloaks. Though he managed away thanks to the dragon attack and found himself on his own, soon seeing the dragon flying off.

   “Soon may the Wellerman come, to bring us sugar and tea and rum. One day, when the toungin’ is done, we’ll take our leave and go.” The singing started up again, as Vilkas trained his blade. Brynjar made his own beat, tapping his foot on the wooden floors of the burned building he searched. Perhaps it was in poor taste to search the remains of that town, but he felt no sympathy for the people who tried to behead him.

   He journeyed to Whiterun, lying low at first, in hopes of simply passing everyone by and locating his ship with the guard’s resources. However, Irileth noticed him sneaking around. Thinking quickly, Brynjar recounted the tale of the dragon in hopes of slipping away in some kind of panic.

   Obviously, this didn’t work, and it roped him into the nonsensical matters of the court wizard and his silly ruins. Brynjar only agreed to the quest because it kept him out of the prisons, and also on the off-chance there were some treasures in that ruin he could pluck along the way.

   “The wolf bore its fangs and spread its claws, and tore at its own hide; Drink the blood, and become my sons, or you’ll never survive.” With little else to do, he sang as he walked to this ruin. It wasn’t anything special, just some random song he heard a bard singing once. At least, it wasn’t anything to Brynjar, anyway. Vilkas, though? He chose to focus on what he was doing, tuning out the song entirely.

   All was fine for Brynjar until he went into the ruin, accosted by Draugr and giant spiders. He almost threw his arms up and walked away, but decided he’d come too far to turn back. By the time he came back, be practically threw the piece at the wizard, covered in injuries and barely even caring about the strange glowing runes he discovered at the end of the damn cave.

   Before he could storm out, he was dragged into yet another ‘quest’. Though this time, he was very interested. The dragon that attacked was seen some ways away from Whiterun. Brynjar wasn’t really the warrior type, preferring magic and stealth, so he didn’t do much in the way of a direct confrontation. Instead, shooting arrows tipped with the venom from the giant spiders he killed, as well as using his magic when necessary.

   The ‘Dragonborn’ nonsense gave him a headache. He had the bones and hide, that’s all he wanted, but he ended up also gaining a dragon soul. He would admit, it was cool that he apparently had some kind of ‘magical destiny’, but meeting the greybeards wasn’t a priority. All of this happened in three days. He needed a break.

   Having seen a pair of companions in Whiterun when he first arrived, he thought that seeing the companions was a good idea for something to get his mind off of everything.

   Vilkas was having a talk with Kodlak. Only for their conversation to be interrupted by... him. Vilkas didn’t recognize him at first, shrugging off his offer to join the companions, while Kodlak took an interest. The newcomer did not impress Vilkas, but a few errands allowed Vilkas some time to warm up to the idea.

   The initiation ceremony was small, of course, while that night, they celebrated. Drinking, eating, and songs, as usual, filled the mouths of the surrounding people. But it was only when Brynjar began singing that Vilkas suddenly sat up straight.

   “Are you going to Scarborough fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and tyme! Remember me to one who lives there, she once was a true love of mine.” Vilkas recognized his voice now, though it was hard to accept it.

   Finding your soulmate, the person who was apparently your perfect match? It was something that many in those days would kill for. It was strange, of everyone, why him? He would’ve been perfectly content had the divines had him lead a life without his soulmate, as so many had before, and yet... here he was.

   Vilkas was hesitant to say anything about it. Why would he? No amulet of Mara. So, for all he knew, his soulmate could already have a spouse. After a few quests, though, Brynjar found himself in Riften, and when he returned, an Amulet of Mara was around his neck.

   Brynjar was soon pulled away though, given the ‘blessing’, and went on a rampage, as expected. Vilkas had to wait, but couldn’t help being worried about Brynjar dealing with ‘The Silver Hand’. Brynjar dying to those werewolf hunters right after Vilkas had finally found him was a genuine risk, and one that Vilkas didn’t want to take. Of course, he didn’t have a choice in the matter, seeing as they already brought Brynjar to the hunters’ doorstep.

   Vilkas felt more relief than he ever thought possible when he saw Brynjar appear again in the Jorrvaskr, to find that he had bought a house on his way back, even!

   Vilkas noticed that Brynjar was shaken, though. No doubt a result of the events in the silver hand raid. Not only the death of someone Brynjar had gotten to know, and being attacked by another werewolf, but also, if Aela’s accounts were anything to go off of, apparently a couple of brushes with death. Now was certainly not a good time.

   Vilkas would give him time to relax first, since adding anything else would likely make it worse for him. That morning, Brynjar wasn’t in Whiterun. He’d gone to the greybeards.

   Still, every night, Vilkas heard him sing. A truly comforting thing for when he was away. Though he was gone for only three days, it felt like longer. When he returned, he seemed better. Vilkas finally brought up the amulet, only to find that Brynjar didn’t actually know what it was. Apparently, he only took it because it had a magic enchantment on it. But he clarified off-handedly that now knowing what it meant didn’t change much, seeing as he was, in fact, single.

   Vilkas tried, but Brynjar... rejected him? Brynjar, prefacing with a ‘sorry’, explained that he wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with anyone that wasn’t his soulmate. 

   Long story short, it didn’t take much for Vilkas to prove that he was Brynjar’s soulmate.

   Brynjar was more than overjoyed to meet his soulmate, and it thrilled Vilkas to finally express his joy as well.

#f/o soulmate au #selfship soulmate au #soulmate au #AU #Literaturelove #Blakas #selfship community #selfship au #selfship writing #f/o au #f/o story #mlm selfship #lgbt selfship #male selfshipper #werewolf f/o #nonhuman s/i #fictional other community #fictional other x self insert #Nerdwhoauthorinserts

[corazondebeskar-reads]

of rage and ruin - chapter one

of rage and ruin series

chapter one

series masterlist | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.1k

summary: Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He turns into a much different kind of monster than he expected, though.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, torture, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, gore, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), death, murder of innocent people, typical raider/hunter behavior, mention of cordyceps, angst, no y/n, reader is able-bodied and afab with no specific descriptions, viewer discretion is advised

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

This is a werewolf omegaverse fic that uses traditional and non-traditional elements of the genres. It largely ignores TLOU canon.

DISCLAIMER: A plotline of this story involves unethical medical care and human experimentation re: vaccines. It may give anti-vax vibes. This is NOT an anti-vax story and I do not want any related discourse please and thank you. This is about FEDRA being the absolute worst, not about the real world in any way.

In a rare moment of lucidity, he thinks he used to be human, once. 

He’s partially transformed more often than not. Almost never fully, unless he’s under the sway of the moon. His real keeper. 

These raiders may think they own him, but he knows the truth. 

But lucidity is rare, and most of the time, Joel Miller is more beast than man. 

Most of the time, he doesn’t even know he’s Joel Miller.

No matter what, though, he’s a nearly uncontrollable force of nature. 

That’s why they keep a shock collar around his neck and tasers at their waists. That’s why they never turn their backs or leave him unrestrained. He fought like hell for a long time until he broke. 

No shame in it, he knows. Everyone breaks eventually. 

As the years have gone on, though, he’s been getting restless and snippy, less cooperative. And the pain doesn’t really matter anymore. 

Nothin’ really does when you’ve given up.

On the last new moon, when the wolf was quiet and the man was loud, he’d tried to refuse. He sat, buck-ass naked, on the gritty wood floor of the house they were raiding. 

He did not sniff out treasure like some fucking metal detector. He did not tear the humans limb from limb. He did not feast. 

He paid for that night and had the receipts to prove it, laid into his back from the silver-tipped whip. 

He should have tried harder to die at the start. 

He hadn’t understood right away, when they took him. It, frankly, didn’t even cross his mind that they’d know. Laura, the woman in the woods, had been so sure it was secret. 

He got it when they shot him in the leg with a BB gun, though, and the silver shrapnel burned. They were prepared. Silver-coated chains and cuffs, silver-tipped batons and whips and knives. Cattle prods and electric collars. 

They’d been hunting him. 

They tried to break him easy, first. They were looking for a wolf; didn’t know they’d find Joel Miller. They left him chained in an abandoned suburb, giving him just the minimum food and water to keep him alive. 

It worked to weaken him, but they didn’t want him weak forever. Not a very good guard dog or weapon if he can’t lift his head. So when that didn’t work, when he didn’t beg and plead or bend the knee, they gave up and bulked him back up slowly. 

So they tried pain next. 

He came to know the healing as a curse. They avoided the silver, at least at first, since it’d leave damage. But when they found out they could break his bones over and over and over?

That’s when he started to wish he was dead. What was the point, anyway? He couldn’t go back to Boston. Couldn’t risk himself around Tommy and Tess. 

Couldn’t kill himself if he tried, but they could, with their arsenal. 

Didn’t matter what he wanted in the end; his brain wouldn’t give in. It overrode his silent pleas, and it fought and fought and fought.

So they took him on a raid. Starving, chained under the full moon, and they waited. He couldn’t go far, but he didn’t have to. 

They brought the food to him.

“You’ve no control over it, huh?” Cheryl said after, leering into his “room.” They send her to play nice, but he knows she’s the worst of them all. They just think he’ll smell pussy and roll over. “We didn’t need you to kill them. You just need to scare them and help us find what we’re lookin’ for.”

They had him. He knows, he knows, he knows. He’d have done anything to stop it from happening again. From devouring tied-up families who dared to say “no” to Jim and his crew. From throwing up blood and bones and bows. 

He can’t kill himself. They won’t kill him. He had no choice. 

He broke.

This new moon, they don’t take him out to scavenge. No, instead, they drag him outside and spray him down with the hose. This, in itself, is not unusual. But when they force the muzzle over his snapping teeth to scrub at his skin with precious lye soap and a rag, he starts to get concerned. 

His suspicions are confirmed when they take him back inside. 

The only time he’s left unbound is here, in his room. Well. It meets the vague requirements for a room, but it’s also reinforced with silver-plated steel and concrete. Cheaply so, but enough to mute his senses and hopes. 

Usually, they wait until the grate is shut to unclip the lead. They wait until he kneels and offers his hands to unlock the shackles. When he’s been good, of course. 

But not today. Today, they chain him tight to the wall at the far end of the room. 

They’ve had this theory that he hates to admit is not without merit. Looking for another way to control him, they’ve tried to find him an omega. 

The first few times, they just forced him on them out wherever they’ve raided. Usually, he’s too out of control, and they don’t survive the encounter. 

The most recent time, they dumped one in his cell. But the poor thing still smelled of his alpha, having only lost them hours earlier. 

Joel didn’t react well. 

They’re trying something new, now. 

That he’s here while they clean his room is deliberate. He knows this. They’re purging all his scent from it, and they want him to watch, want him unsettled.

He growls when they remove his mattress completely. It’s a pathetically small, thin, hole-ridden thing, but it’s his. 

Before they drag in a new one, a flat pack of grated metal is tossed in the corner. Two of his captors go to work on assembling the contraption, and another leaves for a while, only to return with a sawed-off portion of his mattress. 

It fits neatly inside the cage. For that’s what they’ve constructed. It’s silver-coated, of course, but pathetically weak otherwise. If he truly desired, he could snap the bars as easily as bone. 

He’s not keen on having burnt hands, though. 

Just inside the front of the cage, they clip up a bit of cloth. He doesn’t need to be told what it is, knowing immediately after it’s extracted from the airtight glass Tupperware. 

They tell him anyway. “Got a new toy for you to try, if you’re good. For now, this is all you get.”

The heady scent of omega soaked into the panties permeates his room. 

He’s salivating a little by the time they finally release him, but he waits until the heavy footfalls echo from down the hall to give in. 

They smell divine. He can’t resist tasting, lapping at the tiniest hint of musk and omega under his elongated tongue. 

“Told ya he would have shredded her,” Jim says to Cheryl when they come in the morning with his breakfast. Joel’s in his mind enough to feel a little shame, back of his neck burning, when they see the tattered fabric. 

It’s clear they anticipated it because, along with his tray, he’s given a new pair. 

They’re not so appealing this time. The sweet scent is cut by acidic fear like vinegar through molasses. He ignores them in favor of his meal. 

He eats better here than he ever did out there. He’s worth more rations to the raiders than to FEDRA. Robust meals full of meat and eggs and potatoes. 

They need him strong, after all. 

It’s not until a few hours later that he’s drawn back in by the underwear. It’s not so acrid anymore. Or maybe it is, and he’s just in the mood. Either way, he buries his face in them while he strokes his cock and uses them to catch his cum when he finishes. 

There. That’s better. The mix of him with… whoever you are. 

When they bring him lunch, they make him put the panties on his old tray before pushing it out to them. He doesn’t burn with shame this time; no, he almost feels proud. Like a peacock fluffing out its feathers. They know now. They must. 

Whoever you are, you’re his. 

The next day, they bring back the same pair. He wolfs out a little at the fresh layer of you over his cum. It’s all fear and tears and disgust, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all, not to him, not to the wolf. 

All that matters is how his head fills with static when he licks across the gusset and howls. 

Cheryl’s looking pretty smug on the other side of the door, but for all that she’s pleased with the results; they still threaten to turn on the collar if he doesn’t eat quickly.  

He’s nearly fully wolf, gobbling down the food and returning to his treasure. He snarls as he strokes his cock, the head angry and purple as he tugs. He doesn’t spill onto the panties this time, not wanting to cover up the perfect combination of your scents. In the end, they’re shredded anyway, as his fingers stretch and break into claws. 

In his full glory, his senses are even sharper. Sharp enough that he can hear a faint sobbing across the building and Cheryl’s sharp laughter. 

“I don’t know,” she’s drawling when he tunes in. “He sounds pretty excited to meet you.”

The soft sobbing turns raw and cracked. He can smell the salt and phlegm, can practically taste it in the air. He’s aware of Cheryl, but nothing is louder than the way your heart is tripping over itself.

When Cheryl’s words sink in, when he realizes he might actually get to have whatever delicious creature they’ve gotten him, he howls again, a long, aching sound that creeps down your bones like frost.

Later, when he’s a little more present, he realizes they didn’t shock him either time he howled. It’s usually a guarantee. 

Whatever game they’re playing, it doesn’t bode well for you.

Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He wasn’t even worried when it happened. They’d been heading back to the QZ, him and Tommy and Tess, when a wild dog attacked them. 

Or, well. A wolf. 

Tommy had gotten a bullet in its head, but it had Joel’s arm in its jaw at the time. Its teeth had rent through his jacket like a spoon in a banana split. 

FEDRA would shoot him without a second thought, so they doubled back to the little cabin and hunkered down. Figured they’d lay low long enough for it to be hideable before sneaking back in. 

Tommy went out at daybreak for the carcass—it’d be leagues better than what they had in their bags. When he came back, he was faint and empty-handed. 

“...don’t make any sense,” he kept muttering, pacing the tiny kitchenette. 

Joel and Tess exchanged a glance. 

“Probably a bear took it,” she suggested.

Tommy ran his hand through his hair, shook his head, and did it again. When he looked up at them, it was through wild, unpredictable eyes. “Wasn’t a wolf. It was a man.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Joel said.

“C’mon.”

They followed him through the thicket, and sure as shit, in the same place the wolf’s corpse had lain was a man with a bullet through his skull. He was completely nude. 

“Gotta be a coincidence,” Joel muttered.

Tommy turned to him, eyes wide and hands shaking. “What kind of fucking coincidence is this?” 

There was a rustle, and they all turned, guns raised, as a woman peeked from behind a tree. 

She put her hands up and waited. Tess jerked her head to one side, and they lowered but did not stow their weapons. 

The woman was in a ratty cotton dress with no shoes; autumn leaves crunching underfoot. 

“That’s, um. That’s my husband,” she said softly. 

“Apologies, ma’am,” Tommy said, his face soft and sad. “But—I think he attacked us.”

Her green eyes grew wide, pupils dilating and breath catching in her chest. “Did you get bit?” 

Tommy and Tess instinctually looked at Joel. 

“What’s it to ya?” he said.

“Did you get bit?” she repeated.

“Was he Infected?”

“Not with cordyceps, no,” she says. She avoids looking at the body but flinches when she brushes a foot against a blood-soaked leaf. 

“What does that mean?” Tommy said. 

“I think it’s best we go someplace and talk.”

Against better judgment, they follow her through the words to her home. She claims to have two kids alone there, four years and six months. 

It turns out to be true. She gets them both down for a nap and serves hot stew. They try to refuse, but she insists. 

Tommy feels a little sick eating the food of a man he killed. They all listen, rapt, as she begins to speak.

“It happened a year ago. But it wasn’t an accident.”

When the full moon is two days away, Joel is nearing the furthest from himself. Same shit, different month, but his reactions to your scent are getting, well, feral. 

They’re bringing him strips of cloth, now. He gets a new one with each meal. He doesn’t destroy them anymore. Oh, no. When he’s clearer, he wishes he did. 

But no. He smells and licks and then jerks off with them. If only that were the worst of it. He’ll come to be mortified during the waning, but he starts to add them to the cage. It’s fairly saturated with the smell of him from his old mattress, but it pleases the beast within to line it with the sweet mixture soaked into the torn sheets. 

You’ll understand, then, the wolf thinks. You’ll know it’s safe for you. Somewhere he’s made, a den all your own where he can keep you. 

But you won’t know, because what you know is very little. 

When FEDRA started asking for volunteers to test vaccines, you didn’t hesitate. You knew the risks. And the rewards—room and rations for the length of the observation period, anywhere up to a year in length. You knew there would be a catch—probably many, but given that you rarely had a room or rations, it wasn’t a hard choice.

But this was the end of the world, and “informed consent” was not something that survived the outbreak. 

They worked in batches. A truckload of live bodies at a time. Sterilizing showers with the barest trace of privacy, dressed in stiff starchy scrubs, and led into little cubicles where nurses with needles sat in wait. 

A quick jab to the upper arm, and then you were off. The hospital was an old correctional facility, but again, for someone who hadn’t had a bed on a reliable basis, you felt only relief. 

Until the deaths started.

They didn’t even try to hide it. Within 24 hours of arrival, a fourth of your group was gone. Carted out in black bags marked with β and nothing more said. You watched through your window like everyone else. 

Someone came around the next day and drew blood from every remaining subject, and the tagging began after that. You could see the symbols on other’s doors, but not your own. α or Ω. What they meant, you couldn’t begin to guess. 

It started not long after. 

The changes.

At first it was so subtle, you may not have noticed, but a nurse came by each day to ask you a series of increasingly embarrassing questions. 

What do you smell? What do I smell like? What does your sweat smell like? How sensitive are your breasts? Describe your vaginal discharge. How aroused are you on a scale of 1-10? 

They began weekly tests. Blood draws once a week and daily urine samples, of course, but also hearing and vision. They made you run on a treadmill hooked up to wires. 

And then, one day, after six months of intensive observation, they moved you.

Or. They tried to.

You were exhibiting a specific set of side effects, they said. You were to be transferred to another facility for subjects with the same side effects for further observation. 

Raiders took out the truck halfway through the ten-hour journey. It was… it was a bloodbath, actually. For the FEDRA officers, anyway. 

When they had you all lined up, grippy socks soaking in the ankle-deep mud, well, that was when you all learned which symbol was on your door. They couldn’t keep the word out of their mouths. Omega. 

Not that it fucking explained anything.

One by one, a short blonde with a bob went down the line of you and shoved something up to each omega’s face. That’s it. It seemed to have no greater purpose.

But for some reason, when she pressed the cloth against your nose and mouth, she smiled. And they separated you.

Whatever that was had a deep, oaky musk, like the illicit brewery operating out of the warehouse you often slept in before the trials. 

They tell you nothing.

They make you sleep on strips of cloth, so you roll around in the pile as you toss and turn, rubbing your sweat and slick and pheromones all over. 

They don’t bring you anything of his, but you catch faint whiffs of him (him, always him, they never call him by a name), of those aged, liquor-soaked barrels, but all it does is make you nauseous. You don’t understand how you know it’s him; you still don’t understand any of it. 

You learn very quickly not to ask questions. 

They take him out on the night the moon is full and bloated, hanging over him like a searchlight. See, it whispers, I can find you anywhere. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter. If it didn’t, the wolf would find it anyway. 

He is not himself.

He is his truest self.

He is two or one; neither yet both. A monster movie mashup of fur and teeth and roughshod science experiments conducted by a doctor who wasn’t a doctor at all. He’s the monster’s victim. He’s the monsters’ monster. 

He’s the wolf and the wolf is him. 

He’s The Wolf and he’s swallowed Joel down. 

He’s the man, the weak link, buried so deep he can’t see the light of his celestial mistress 

He’s Joel Miller. Sometimes, sometimes. 

Tonight, he is gone. There is only the Wolf. 

And the Wolf knows. As soon as they cross the threshold, he knows. 

Dawn is rising, the hunt is over, but he’ll be the wolf for a while longer. And he knows that fuckin’ smell. 

It’s the saccharine sour mix of you. Heavy on your sweet apple undertones, and oh, he knows. 

You’re in the cage.

next chapter

*title from "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

😬 I've been working on this baby for a long, long time, so I will be drinking your likes and comments desperately. thank you for reading and i love you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #alpha!joel miller x omega!reader #alpha!joel miller #werewolf joel miller #the last of us fic #joel miller fic #dark fic #dead dove fic #a/b/o verse #fic: of rage and ruin #a/b/o au

[not-rab]

fic idea ~

it’s nearing 9 years after the Marauders, a popular boyband consisting of James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, announced they were taking a ‘break’ to pursue solo careers

less than a month before the Grammys, the guest list was released to the public, displaying all four of the boys as nominees for their individual work

this will be the first time in almost a decade that the whole of the band have reunited to the public eye after their ‘divorce’ as it’s known to fans

what’ll the outcome be?

OKAY I DID SOMETHING

#👀 not based of any other popular boybands of 9 year prior… #definitely not #fic ideas #ao3 user: not_rab #marauders #marauders era #the marauders #dead gay wizards #slytherin skittles #jegulus #wolfstar #pansexual james potter #sikh james potter #james potter #james f potter #james fleamont potter #gay sirius black #sirius black #sirius o black #sirius orion black #sirius being sirius #sirius business #werewolf remus lupin #remus loves chocolate #remus loves sirius #remus lupin #remus john lupin #remus j lupin #peter pettigrew #james & peter & remus & sirius

[object-yaoi]

SOME BUTTONS I THINK ARCADE WOULD LIKE

(from my favorite website buttonmuseum.org)

#my beeping #arcade gannon #arcade #arcade fnv #fnv #fallout new vegas #HE WOULD LOVE SPOCK OK??? #the dog is because his bf (my courier) is a werewolf <3 #f/o #selfshipping #the image is from the independent fallout wiki

[demon-whxre]

Imagine your werewolf partner making you bleed and your vampire partner licking it up.

Like my stuff? I'd appreciate it if you tipped. cash.app/demonwhxre

#q #blood kink #pain kink #monster fucker #monster f/o #werewolf fucker #werewolf nsft #vampire fucker #vampire nsft #vampire kink #werewolf kink #poly nsft #bd/sm pet #bd/sm dom #bd/sm community #bd/sm blog #bd/sm kink #bd/sm relationship

[pinky-in-blankets]

《 THIS is how they started, by the way. "Song" just showed up one day and looked directly at the jackalope and said "yeah okay I'll take that one." 》

----

The Amazing FreakShow Circus belongs to @kookydoodleky

#plushie bunny #the amazing freakshow circus #tadc freakshow au #tadc au #blackshipstorymonth #self ship #self ship art #self ship community #self shipping community #jax x oc #jax tadc #scribbles #werewolf #{ doki doki!; heart throbs } #my art #{ heart harem; f/o } #{ tricky troublemaker; jax } #{ the queen; s/o } #pinky heart #the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc sona #tadc self insert #tadc sidequests

[sarahowritesostucky]

All meta, imagines, character profiles, and excerpts from the upcoming e-book: "Until the Snow Melts"

Quick Character stats: Verne and Lucas

Couple Profile: Verne and Lucas

Quick Character stats: Bo

Excerpt from Ch 1: "Talk Me into It"

Exerpt: "That first, thrilling, arterial spray"

Nobody Cares about your OCs

#until the snow melts #ebook #book writing #aspiring author #romance novels #werewolf au #shifter au #snowed in #cabin fic #pregnant kink #a/b/o #alpha/omega #omegaverse #original female character #original fiction #m/m/f #m/f/m #m/f/m romance

[toasty-self-shipping]

new self shipping challenge make a out of context video with scenes of your f/os

reblogs are really appreciate!

#I couldn’t find a good scene with Roxanne or werewolf cookie but this will do #spooky shitpost #f/o meme #self shipping #self shipping community

[selfship-quotes]

F/O for your consideration:

'Spoon' Witherspoon from Dog Soldiers 2002

#f/o for your consideration #listen I just think he deserves a little love honestly ANY of the characters from dog soldiers deserve love ajsjsjsjsj #this character is so interesting to me bc he's this mixture between pathetic. babygirl. funny. and badass. #he fistfights a werewolf.

[shpiin]

I think you all need to see my precious selfsona💥💥

They don't have a story as such, 99% of it is written from myself, they just little silly (and often horny) teen

Btw I ship them with Sasha💥💥

#digital art #sketch #s/i community #werewolf s/i #f/o community #f/o x s/i #self insert #etc etc

[corazondebeskar-reads]

of rage and ruin masterlist

of rage and ruin - ongoing

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

summary: Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He turns into a much different kind of monster than he expected, though.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

also on ao3

series warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, torture, forced proximity, non-con/dub-con (due to the nature of heats), canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, monster fucking, graphic violence, graphic depictions of injuries, suicidal ideation, gore, unprotected sex, oral, vaginal, heats, knotting, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), death, murder of innocent people, typical raider/hunter behavior, sexual assault/abuse by captors, mention of cordyceps, angst, hurt/comfort, no y/n, reader is able-bodied and afab with no specific descriptions, viewer discretion is advised

reader notes: no y/n, no name, no description. reader is able-bodied and afab, uses she/her. joel can lift reader but he's a werewolf with superstrength so it's not indicative of body type. reader has no living family.

This is an omegaverse au. It contains typical and altered elements of a/b/o tropes.

You are responsible for the media you consume. Read at your own risk.

This story does not have a set publication schedule or a predetermined number of chapters.

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three: tba

chapter four: tba

*title from "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival

As always, if you'd like to read but have concerns about triggers/themes/deaths, my DMs are always open.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #alpha!joel x omega!reader #alpha!joel miller #a/b/o au #alpha!joel miller x omega!reader #werewolf!joel miller #werewolf joel miller #the last of us fic #dead dove fic #fic: of rage and ruin

[ignisknight01]

#f/o #f/o community #romantic f/o #opinion poll #polls #cw: sex mention #werewolf #werewolves #furry #cryptid #self ship

[average-fo-enjoyer-moved]

some self-indulgent werewolf s/i imagines for the soul <3 [part 1]

> your f/o doing whatever they can to make your tail wag

> your f/o petting you when you're feeling down in the dumps

> your f/o giving you tummy rubs/behind-the-ear scritches

> your f/o reassuring you that they still love you, werewolf or not

> playing fetch with your f/o [bonus if they accidentally hit you in the face with the stick/ball/frisby/etc]

> giving your f/o puppy-dog eyes when you want something from them

> your f/o comforting you during your very first transformation

> your f/o making sure there's no silver or mercury about

> your f/o affectionately calling you a good boy/girl/dog

[pr*ship/c*mship fuck off </3]

#f/o community #selfship community #f/o imagines #romantic f/o #platonic f/o #familial f/o #queerplatonic f/o #werewolf s/i

[canineluvz]

i love exploring my nonhuman identity through my self ships

#like yes #i am my f/o’s werewolf partner #yes they do love that about me thank you for noticing #♡ yapping

[sarahowritesostucky]

wud u ever consider showing like a sneak peaks of the ebook? Just thinking since u posted the character info. Thanks! 😽

YES! Oh my god I cannot tell you what a massive smile this put on my face! Yes yes a 1000x yes.

I will totally share sneak peaks. I will go full nerd with my omc's and ofc for this book, I will sing you sweet lullabies of meta, I will tell you tales from the annals of their lives. Let's DO THIS.

Name: Verne Dearbourne - (Neé Thibodeaux)

Age: 42

Birthplace: Dorcheat Bayou, LA

Height: 6' 2"

Weight: 220 lbs

Hair: black

Eyes: yellow-tinged iris, hyper-contracted pupils

Scent: clean sweat, coffee, sawdust

Heritage: Mixed race - 3/4 white, 1/4 black. Louisiana Creole. Both parents shifters in the Dorcheat Bayou Reservation Pack.

Wolf: dark grey and black, lighter muzzle.

Body type: "built like a friggin' bear," sturdy and thick rather than lean, kinda hairy, bronzed skin, "surprisingly elegant feet." A girthy 7" that's "a lot to handle" 😉

Distinguishing marks: prominent facial scarring, shifter registration tattoo, eyes deformed/half-shifted, speaks with a noticeable Louisiana accent.

Interests: living that #hermit life, woodworking, homesteading, reading, chess

Personality: guarded and distrustful, hard working, quiet and introverted, possessive of things he loves, creative, industrious, loyal.

Excerpts:

"Verne was a hulking six-foot-two, two-hundred twenty pound alpha werewolf. He was what Lucas liked to call "stupid big," with some pretty gnarly scars that slashed from cheek to hairline on one side of his face."

"The big lug wouldn’t hesitate to hunt down a deer in the forest and mercilessly rip out its throat, but give him a little barnyard piglet to slaughter and suddenly Verne would start reconsidering the importance of bacon. He was a big old softie inside, covered with an outer shell so thick, he might as well be calcified."

Name: Lucas Dearbourne

Age: 33

Birthplace: Tulsa, OK

Height: 6'

Weight: 185 lbs

Hair: Light brown, wavy, shoulder-length, highlights leftover from the summer.

Eyes: Green and foxlike, slanted with a coy quality

Scent: Juniper, Vanilla, pine tree sap

Heritage: Middle American "white boy." Both parents shifters in the Tulsa Free Pack.

Wolf: Russet-grey, large.

Body type: built like a swimmer, strong and lean, more chiseled and less bulky than Verne. A respectable 6" 😉

Distinguishing marks: bite scar on neck from Verne.

Interests: writing, cheering up grumpy husband, bee keeping, cooking, chess

Personality: Creative, positive, playful, social, adventurous.

Excerpts:

"As an alpha himself, Lucas was supposed to be wired to hate being dominated by anyone. And usually he did. But with Verne it was different. With Verne, his wires were crossed. Always had been, always would be."

"He had wide shoulders and a trim waist. When he pulled his shirt overhead, it made all the muscles in his back ripple and move. And his front side was just as nice. His facial features were rather delicate for a man, with blond lashes framing upturned eyes, nice lips, and an elegantly sloped nose. His body balanced him out some, kept him from looking too boyish, but he was definitely the sort of guy you called 'pretty' before you ever thought to call him 'handsome.'"

#original female character #original character #ofc #omc #m/f/m #m/m/f #werewolf au #werewolf #shifter au #snowed in #cabin fic #my writing #writing #a/b/o #creative writing #ebook #writing books #aspiring author #romance books #book promotion

[un1-c0rn3l1us]

L and O, why are you bullies?

L / Logan, whispering in a tone that sounds serious af; No no no, It's not me, It's just Oscar you need to worry about. Oscar is a huge bitch, we fought over it and even gave me a scratch. He's mean af, I already apologized to R, I, E, N, D, and S. who all seemed to forgive me. But Oscar won't leave F alone and I can't say sorry to him because Oscar is in the damn way. I think something's wrong with him,,

#artists on tumblr #alphabet lore #alphabet lore wereletters!au #alphabet lore l #alphabet Lore o #alphabet lore f #alphabet friends l #alphabet friends o #alphabet friends f #answer!! #answered #stop bullying #green werewolf #blue werewolf #black werewolf #werewolf #Werewolf tf #furry